It was in darkness. No one was in the upstairs room. He sat at his desk and hit the return key to wake up his computer. The password request came up as normal.

He took a sip of his coffee, then in rapid succession checked his emails. There were a couple of virtual cards from friends, announcing they were donating to charities instead of sending Christmas cards out. He’d discussed this with Emily, but they’d decided they still liked sending physical cards – he always designed one each year – and hey, they were good advertising. Then a Jacquie Lawson one. He skipped the video of a dog wandering through snow to the sound of ditzy music and went straight to the details of the sender. It was followed by an email from Susan Burton at the Northcote Gallery, asking how he was getting on with his paintings for the exhibition. He replied that all was going well.

Next, he checked quickly through his social media and when he had finished, he went over to his easel. Removing the portrait of the mystery woman, he placed it face-in against a small stack of his unsold work, then knelt to pick up the portrait of the two dogs from where he had left them, just beneath the window.

As he lifted it up, there was a loud thud on the windowpane.

He dropped the painting. It hit the floor with a jarring bang and fell face down. For some moments, he stared at the window. All he saw was darkness. He ran over and pressed his face against it. Just darkness. The lake somewhere out there and the hill rising beyond. He unlocked and raised the frame. Bitterly cold air blew in. He could see nothing.

Every cell in his body was jangling.

Shit, shit, shit. It must have been a bird – maybe a bat.

He closed the window again, turned away and knelt, dreading what he was going to find. And as he lifted the gesso board up, his worst fears were confirmed. The entire painting was crazed with cracks.

No way could it be fixed. His only option was to start over from scratch. Somehow, he was going to have to find the strength to work all night, if necessary. And he still had the pencil drawing of the spaniel to do tomorrow. Taking several deep breaths, he went over to the window overlooking the street, and looked down at the gaudy lights of the Penze-Weedells’ grotto, suddenly finding himself envious of the simplicity of their banal lives.

Five minutes later, with a fresh board on his easel, he downed the cold coffee and started work on the painting all over again, glancing over his shoulder every few moments at the window, waiting for another thud. He was so distracted it took him a long while before he got back into his stride.

Some while later, Emily came into the room and told him she needed an early night and was going to bed. She stopped and looked at the painting.