Diana gulps the last of her schnapps, tops up both their glasses, and returns to the window. Stella watches her face in reflection. The older woman’s eyes are hidden inside shadows and the tumbler obscures her mouth, and Stella can’t help thinking that this would be an interesting setup for a portrait; better than any of Cory’s humdrum ideas. Shoulders straight, Stella . . . Keep your hands folded on your lap, Stella . . . Pull the dressing gown open, Stella . . . Don’t wriggle . . . Don’t smirk . . . Stop staring at me like that, you smug bitch.

“Cory thinks he’s God’s gift to art,” observes Stella. “He thinks he’s really something, doesn’t he?”

It may be unwise to let rip in front of his mother, but having started it’s difficult to stop. Anyway, one of them needs to mention what’s happened, and Diana shows no sign of wanting to talk.

“He goes on about capturing my soul like he’s some kind of satanic priest,” Stella continues, “and then you look at what he’s done, and it’s flat and dead and mediocre. It’s not even bad. It’s not even strong enough to be bad.”

Stella pauses for breath; Diana’s reflection sips and stares. There’s one similarity between Diana and Cory: both of them can do powerful things to silences. They make you feel as if your own thoughts are cavorting naked in the street, while theirs are safely hidden behind a veil.

“I’m sorry. I know he’s your son and everything.” Stella stops, annoyed with herself for saying sorry—how very British; how very Freya-like, in the circumstances—and takes a defiant swig of schnapps. She’s almost enjoying the taste now; it hardly makes her squint at all.

“Don’t apologise,” Diana says. “You’re wasting your breath. You forget that I know him better than anyone.”

“Of course you do. Sorry.” She means the apology this time; she feels faintly ashamed. Who knows what horrors Diana has had to put up with from her son, over the years?

Stella knocks the schnapps back in one gulp. It’s really tasty, she’s decided; better than a cup of tea. There’s a fire blazing in her belly now, spreading its flames to the tips of her fingers and toes, and she pours herself another inch, just to keep it stoked. She offers Diana a top-up, but Diana shakes her head and covers the glass with her hand.

Stella hiccups.

“Between you and me,” she confides, “I’ve given up on men. I mean, when I think about it, Cory’s a monster in human form and Tom . . . well, the less said about Tom the better. But you don’t know him, do you? Tom Gardiner.”

Just as Stella is starting to laugh, her face falls. She sways and catches at the bed’s frame.