At the beginning Jessica made a show of asking me questions about the painting; then, as time went on, she became content just to sit and listen. Certain moments drew smiles from her, and once or twice she sighed or nodded, gently encouraging me to go on like a shy lover. We never forgot the picture, it provided a centre point around which a pattern of reminiscence could be arranged, but I moved into all the corners of those days, rediscovering old treasures, brushing away cobwebs and burnishing dusty scenes until they gleamed like gold. I went and retrieved the Scotch from the kitchen, and spontaneous toasts began to burst from the memories, to Michael, rest in peace, to Francis, to us; they punctuated my monologue with the jolly barrage of tumblers on tabletops. There was, however, something in the memories that I was sure was never present in the original experience, the imposition of my adult eyes on the past. I found myself mentioning money, heard the distant rustle of folded notes in the midnight cloisters. Each recollection seemed to come with a price discreetly attached, like the tags in expensive antique shops, handwritten and stuck to the underside, or hanging out of sight, only visible when you lift an object up or turn it around to inspect it close up. I wanted to purge these fiscal details from my talk, but each time I would catch myself just too late. Jessica did not seem to notice, but the problem began to gnaw at me.

Neither of us had eaten, and I went briefly to the phone to order Chinese takeaway from Deliverance. Jessica had always liked Chinese food. Both of us were wearing our work clothes, with the sleeves rolled up on our shirts and the jackets off. I loosened my yellow silk tie and undid my collar button. The costumes reminded me of a late-night scene at the office, the mixture of coffee and booze and adrenalin in my system, the heightened sense of importance that came with working on the deal after hours, rubbing computer-red eyes with thumb and forefinger.

When the doorbell rang, I thought it must be our takeaway, though they were quicker than the half-hour I had been quoted over the phone. Then there came the sullen clunk of the intercom, and a woman’s voice said, ‘Hello?’ It was a voice I recognized, and it made me wince. Clearly the message of cancellation I had left before leaving the office had not made it through. Jessica looked at me questioningly, and there was a brief and unwelcome bump of reality, like the lights coming on in a darkened cinema halfway through the film. I knew that I had only a few seconds in which to avert disaster. I could not leave the woman in the rain: she would continue to ring the bell. The lights in my living room were visible from the street. I could not dismiss her over the intercom: Jessica would hear everything at normal volume, and nothing would inflame her curiosity like an attempted whisper. The only option would be to go down into the street, to hope Jessica did not look out of the window, and on the way back up to invent some plausible explanation. With this in mind I started for the door, ignoring her quizzical look. I arrived and threw it open, only to find Alysha standing directly behind it, clearly surprised in the act of checking her make-up in a small handheld mirror.