Cory stooped over his palette and twisted the lid off a tube of paint. “You don’t mind if I carry on, do you?” he said. “I’ll be very quiet.” He didn’t appear to notice that I made no reply. Once he’d mixed the paint, he dipped his brush and began making dribbly yellow slashes to the left of my—her—head.

I turned to face the wall when my father picked up.

“Dad? It’s me.”

“Hello? Who’s there?”

“It’s me.”

“Freya! Hello, love!”

Dad took a bite of something crisp, which he chewed and swallowed at the same time as saying, “How are things?” A voice murmured in the background, and I heard the careful closing of a door.

“Is this a good time?” I wasn’t anxious for a lengthy conversation as long as I knew he was all right. “Have you got someone round?”

“Not at all, don’t worry. Lovely to hear you.”

“You too.”

We fell silent and I heard a gush as he filled the kettle. There was somebody else there, because that was way too much water for a single mug of tea, and Dad was economical about things like that. It was probably Tom, in which case I wished Dad would just say so. All he needed to do was reassure me that he was fine, and that Tom sent his love. Or whatever.

“So, what have you been up to?” we asked simultaneously.

“Nothing much.” I darted a glance over my shoulder. Cory was still absorbed with his yellow slashes, although he had obviously decided against letting them dribble, because he was tidying them up with a bottle of white spirit and a rag. “Cory’s been doing lots of painting.”

“And what about you? Still going for your daily swim?”

“It’s getting chilly for that now.”

I twisted the cord round my finger until the engagement ring was entirely concealed. No, not quite concealed; I could still make out a hard-edged glitter through the gaps. At the other end of the line, Dad prised the lid off the tea caddy and spooned loose leaves into the pot. Cups chinked and the cutlery drawer chimed.

“Are you still there, Freya?”

“I’m here.” I drew myself up.

“I was just saying, what shall I do with your post? There are a few letters here, bank statements and so on—should I be forwarding them on to Byrne Hall?”

“I don’t know. Yes, I suppose so, if you don’t mind.”

I told him about losing my phone, and mentioned my writing.

“How’s the novel?”

“Oh . . . it wasn’t really working. I’m thinking I might try short stories instead.”

I asked what he’d eaten for dinner, and how things were at work, and whether he was sleeping well. All his answers were brief and breezy. “Fine! Absolutely fine! Sleeping like a baby!”

“And how is everyone?” I asked.