‘James! It is wonderful to see you, I had been thinking you had found another girl for your pictures.’ She pushed me playfully. ‘Is Francis here? I know the girls will love to see him.’

‘No, Misha,’ I said, holding on to her for perhaps half a second longer than was natural, ‘I’m here alone.’

‘Oh well, no matter. I would want to see you more anyway.’ She sat down on the bed, pulling me down with her. ‘Where is your funny bag? Oh, I’m sorry, your friend’s funny bag?’

This was a private joke, a reference to the crocodile skin holdall in which I had transported my easel, pencils and paper. It was a casual heirloom lent to me by Francis, and I had loved him all the more for seeing nothing exceptional in its appearance. Misha had teased me for it when she had begun to relax, and laughed at my insistence that it wasn’t mine. I ignored the question, quickly asking her one of my own. ‘How are things here?’

Misha pulled a face. ‘Terrible, especially now you don’t come. But I have saved a lot of money. I will be quite rich soon, I think, though nothing like a famous artist! I am thinking next year I may be a student, like you.’

‘What will you study?’ I asked.

She looked down and shook her head.

‘What?’ I said, delighted at her shyness. I put my hand on her bare shoulder. She had put on some kind of body make-up to make her skin glitter in the light.

‘No, you will laugh.’

‘I won’t laugh!’

‘Well . . . I thought I might study Art History.’

I felt so happy at this that I was almost ready to leave. I felt replenished, and knew that there was one good thing I had done for another human being I liked, who liked me. I was about to get up and hug her goodbye when she asked me, ‘So, James, did you ever sell your pictures? Did you sell your pictures of me?’

The question returned me to my purpose.

‘James,’ she said, laughing nervously and ducking away from me, ‘what are you doing?’ I ignored her, willing myself to believe that it was just the first shock that made her resist, and tried to kiss her neck again. She stood up, and instinctively pulled the sheet with her to cover her breasts.

‘Where are your painting things?’ she repeated. ‘You have left them downstairs?’

I did not answer her, but we looked at one another, and came to an understanding.

I think if you killed an animal that would have given its life for you, the look in its eyes would be like that. The comparison with an animal flashed into my mind, creating an impression I am still trying to destroy. After that, all emotion left her face. She told me how much it would cost, and asked me exactly what I wanted, telling me she didn’t do anal. I don’t know if she spoke like this to hurt me, or whether all emotion had simply shut down for her, and she was navigating on automatic. This was not how I had imagined it, how I had pictured it in my dreams.