A loud thud on the roof makes me jump. A bird? It scratches. My peace shattered, I stifle the urge to climb down to the comfort and familiarity of downstairs as I hear indistinguishable, muffled noises from the house below. I reassure myself that everything sounds different when it’s approached from a fresh angle.

The boxes containing photos—temporarily freezing time—and paintings are naturally the hardest to deal with. Young versions of Nina, pictures I’ve never seen, fill albums and shoeboxes. There must be other copies. I’m sure Deborah would want these. It annoys me that they aren’t being properly looked after, the thoughtless stuffing away of all these memories. I vow to sort them myself at some point as I select five to add to my own collection. They all include me, along with Nina, at various stages of our childhood: I’m closely at her side while she’s blowing out nine candles; I’m sitting next to her at a pantomime—Aladdin; we’re side by side at the beach, both holding matching chocolate ice creams.

There are ones from Ibiza, too, which is a surprise. I didn’t know she’d had this many printed. I’d asked her for access to her photos sometime during the months after Charlie died. I wanted some good memories as a memento. She’d been reluctant at the time, however much I tried to reassure her that it wouldn’t upset me, quite the opposite. I understood that she was trying to protect me, but it wasn’t helping. So, I insisted.

There is one of Charlie that I love (even though Nina and Camilla are on either side of him), smiling, looking happy and carefree. It’s how I remember him when we first met. I don’t recall taking it. I asked Nina for this particular picture, but she’d insisted that I crop her out because she didn’t “look good.” It’s true to be fair, it’s not the best one of her. But still, memories are memories. I smile. She is wearing sneakers. I remember how cross she was when she had to take them out of her backpack and wear them while we were still partying because she’d snapped the kitten heel of one of her new leopard print shoes. (Camilla and I had both told her that she shouldn’t wear heels, but she wouldn’t listen.) One of Nina’s things was that she was proud of the fact that could walk in heels anywhere. She was stubborn.

I help myself to a few more pictures. I want Nina’s memory album to be rich in memories from all periods of her life.

Nina’s paintings are disordered. When Emily mentioned that Nina had a secret place where she kept things, I imagined that Nina would’ve earmarked certain prints for her children. It seems I’m wrong, given the level of disorganization contained within all the boxes. I don’t have time to go through them all, but I come across two that are undeniably representations of me. I can interpret Nina’s style, probably even better than my own. In the image, my fringe drapes in front of my face, it’s solid, looks greasy and is hiding my right eye. But the exposed eye is creepy, watching, painted shades of green.