‘Wow,’ I said. ‘I can’t imagine how that must feel. All my work does is decorate the houses of rich people.’

Grace gave a little laugh. ‘Well, I don’t really think about it. It’s not something I focus on. I’m always just dealing with the next thing that comes along, and doing my best to treat that, or solve it. Anyway, I like this job because I think they’re quite flexible on hours – at least that’s what they told me – I think I’m allowed to work up to ten sessions a week, but there’s a possibility I could do it part-time, which would be brilliant because there are other things I want to do too. Volunteer work.’

‘Oh really?’ For a moment I had the crazy idea she might join me at the hospice. I saw the two of us going in together, working together as a team, taking care of the patients – but Grace was a doctor: why would she be making cups of tea and changing the water glasses with me?

‘I’m looking at a volunteer post in which I’m trying to connect underprivileged communities with the right healthcare. You know, acting as a sort of go-between.’

‘That sounds right up your street.’

‘Well, I’ve a lot to learn having been away so long, but I’ll get there. I feel so strongly about people being able to access healthcare.’

‘You always have,’ I said. ‘It’s so worthy.’

She smiled. ‘You shouldn’t take it so personally when people say art is… “self-indulgent”, or just for the rich. Art is for everyone. Plenty of people get enjoyment from it.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘We can’t all be doctors!’

I flinched and took a deep swig of my wine. ‘I work at the hospice as well…’

‘Well then,’ said Grace. ‘You’re doing your bit. Hopefully it makes you feel less guilty about spending your days farting about with a paintbrush.’ Another little laugh.

I opened my mouth to remind her about Mr Keyson, about how I’d gone out of my way to paint his dog for him before he died, and how happy that had made both Mrs K and me but I knew she’d patronize me with another of those empty smiles, and that would take away from the beauty, the altruism, of the gesture. Thankfully my phone rang and I pounced on it: as I’d hoped, it was Rohan.

‘Sorry,’ I said to Grace, and connected the call. ‘Hey,’ I said, and Rohan’s voice came on the line as clear as if he were in the next room.

‘Hey, how are you?’

‘Good, thanks. How about you? How’s New York?’