‘Hey,’ I reply. It’s all I can manage as he moves forward to kiss me on one cheek and then the other. He smells like he always did: like peppermint shampoo and the air after it rains. ‘I’m so fucking glad you came. I was worried you wouldn’t.’

I feel my forehead move into a frown as realisation hits: Camilla organised this with him. I look over to her and she’s watching us, grinning.

‘So,’ I say, looking at the painting closest to us. ‘New model?’

He grins. ‘Do you mind?’

‘No, it’s a shit likeness anyway,’ I say.

‘Yes, and you’re wearing your clothes.’

‘So a strong fail on all counts,’ I say, sipping my champagne.

And I want to say so many things, though I’m not sure what they are. I want to be witty and brilliant and all the things all at once. But for me, when there are things I can’t say, or I won’t say, it’s almost like they clog my throat. And then I can’t say anything at all. And so I just stand there, staring at the painting, waiting for him to say something first.

‘I should probably go and talk to some people,’ he says, watching me.

And I smile and nod and wait for him to go, like I don’t care either way, when really my marrow is aching. This is why I never would have come here if I’d known. This exact feeling.

‘But I’ll be done in twenty minutes,’ he says, interrupting my thoughts. ‘Can you stick around?’

Chapitre Quarante-quatre

Chapitre quarante-quatre

Reader, I stuck around. And now I’m waking up slowly, his arms around me, memories from last night flickering through my mind. The gallery. His paintings. I turn to look at him: he’s still asleep. I reach for my phone beside the bed. There are two missed calls from Mum. I slowly wriggle out of his grasp and into the cold morning air, pulling my dressing gown around me as I close the door and head through to the kitchen with my phone.

It’s still dark outside as I dial.

She picks up on the first ring. She sniffs. She’s crying.

Shit.

‘He’s gone, Harper. Marc’s gone.’ Her voice so small, just like a child. I’ve heard this voice so many times.

‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ I say, my voice flat.

She starts sobbing again. ‘I thought it was going to work this time.’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘I can come and see you tomorrow?’ I suggest. Tomorrow is Sunday.

‘That would be so great,’ she replies. And I imagine her there in the same house I grew up in, wearing the same sort of clothes, removing all traces of Marc from her eyeline.

‘Okay, see you then.’