“Bloody hell.” I wasn’t sure if she was swearing or describing, but either way I knew what she meant. Last week, when Cory had prised the lid off the first tub, I’d swallowed a similar reaction. “Very art gallery,” I’d enthused, as he wiped his fingers across the inside of the lid and dabbed them on the wall. “Very Louvre.” If there was a trace of irony in my tone, he didn’t seem to notice.

“Have a seat,” I urged Maggie, righting the room’s single item of furniture—the plastic garden chair, which was lying on its side on the floor. She ignored me. She was too busy turning slowly on the spot, while Cory topped up the roller tray and towelled his hands on the front of his T-shirt. I wished he’d say something, even if it were something boring. They were mistaken about one another, and it was up to me to explain away the mistake, but I couldn’t work out where to begin.

“The red . . .” I paused to clear my throat. “I suppose it’s quite intense, isn’t it, on its own?”

I followed Maggie’s gaze from wall to wall and picked at my lips. “It’ll look fine though, once it’s covered with pictures. It’ll look good.”

Maggie removed her coat and lowered herself into the chair, still staring round at the walls.

“Could I bother you for a drink?” she said eventually. “It’s quite a trek up that driveway.”

I gave Cory a couple of seconds to answer, but he remained silent. He was halfway up the stepladder now, reaching for the cornice.

“Of course,” I said. “I’ll make a pot of tea. Do you want one, Cory?”

He peered down vaguely, as if he’d caught the sound of his name from a long way away. Maggie got up, slinging her coat over her arm.

“I’ll come with you,” she said, without waiting for him to reply. “We can have a catch-up while the kettle boils.”

“I wanted to make sure you were all right,” she said, locating a clutch of mugs in a cupboard and removing two. “It’s been ages since I saw you out and about.”

“That was kind of you.”

It was kind of her—I didn’t mean to come over all crisp and thin-lipped—but why wouldn’t I be all right? I flicked the kettle on and stood over it, my hands flat on the counter, as if it needed watching. I was tensed for an inquisition, so her next question almost made me laugh.

“Sorry, Freya, but where’s the toilet?”

“The nearest functioning one . . .” I steered her back into the hallway “. . . is at the top of the stairs, first door on the left.”

“Thanks.”

She took hold of my wrist and fingered the pearl button on my cuff with a critical air.

“Are you all right?” she whispered. “Really?”