Cory leaned closer to the canvas and shook his head.

“Maybe I could write about you and your mother—”

“I don’t think so.”

I didn’t think so either. Not really. Every now and then I would deliberately mention Diana, just to make sure we both still acknowledged her existence. I used to do the same thing to Dad, with Stella’s name.

Cory’s phone pinged and he wiped his fingers on a turps-soaked rag. I stretched my arms and yawned.

“Oh, great,” he murmured, once he’d swiped the message open. “The paint’s arrived.”

“What paint? By the way, I’ve gone and lost my phone. I think I dropped it on the beach yesterday morning.”

“The emulsion paint for smartening up the downstairs rooms. Galleries, I should say.” He looked up, pleased. “Your phone? Oh no. I’ll pop down later on and see if I can spot it.”

“Thanks.”

It’s easier to talk about pragmatic things—emulsion paints, missing phones—than interesting things, like would-be novels, missing mothers. I made this observation—not because I wanted to but because I couldn’t help it—and filed it at the back of my mind.

“Do you actually need your phone?” Cory said, squeezing a coil of flesh-coloured paint onto his palette.

“Yes, Cory. I need my phone.”

I watched the paint wind from its tube like a pale worm. I need it as a mooring rope to secure me to the real world. I need it in case Tom has texted, even though I know, in my gut, he hasn’t.

“I need it to keep in touch with Dad,” I said, which was also true.

Cory disappeared behind the easel, so that all I could see were trouser legs and bare feet.

“You worry about him too much. I’m sure he’s fine.”

“I’m sure he is.”

“After all, he’s a grown man. No doubt he can remember to brush his own teeth without regular reminders from you.”

I spread my hands in indignation. The giant canvas jiggled as Cory jabbed at it with the brush.

“I wish you’d come out from there,” I said, “and make your snide comments to my face.”

Cory carried on working as if he hadn’t heard, and the sight of his naked feet and the rolled-up ends of his trousers was unbearable. I scraped my chair back and went to stand at the window, watching the view come and go through the steamy circle of my breath: a blanched lawn; a forest of falling leaves; a colourless sea reflecting a colourless sky. I had to clasp my hands together to stop them from shaking, and even then they weren’t properly still. I folded my arms and gripped my elbows instead.

“You wouldn’t think like that,” I said, once I could trust my voice, “if you knew the first thing about Stella.”