I dialled the first few numbers and Cory sat up, wide-eyed. He looked like a little boy on Christmas morning as he bounced forward onto his knees and waded through the duvet to the end of the mattress. If he came any closer he might see my nonsmile for what it was, so I turned to face the wall while I finished dialling.

“What date are we going for, then?” I said, as it began to ring. “The fifteenth?”

“Saturday the fifteenth of November. But listen, listen—we can alter it to suit him. Whatever’s best for him, Freya, I don’t mind—”

“OK.” I held up my hand for silence. “Let’s see what he says.”

Cory hauled me back to bed as soon as I put the phone down. I turned my head aside on the pillow and closed my eyes—because closed eyes might imply pleasure, mightn’t they?—and his wet lips planted thank-yous in my ear. I should have anticipated this; should have picked my moment more wisely.

Respond to me. His kneading hands demanded it; as did the rough suck of his kisses; as did the sheer weight of him, thumping the breath from my chest. Pretending to be the same old Freya had been easy until now, because all we’d done in bed for the last few nights was sleep. My duties had been limited to helpfulness, and telling him how great his pictures were. Respond, I told myself—but how do you make believe you’re warm when you’re bristling with cold?

I braced my chin against his shoulder and bit down on the bedsheet until it was over. Even then he stayed on top, as heavy as a corpse, and my breath came in stutters as if I were crying. I wasn’t crying. Up and down ran Cory’s hands, lazy and quiet, and wherever he touched me, my skin broke out in goose bumps.

One and a half weeks to go.

“November the fifteenth?” Dad had said doubtfully. “I suppose I could make it . . .”

I’d given Cory a quick “thumbs up,” and he’d flopped onto his back with his arms outstretched.

“. . . if only to catch up with my long-lost daughter. But a piece in the Globe?”

“Please, Dad. Please. A great big review with photos and everything.”

“It’s a heck of a lot to ask for a little, local exhibition.”

“I know it is.”

“And I can’t . . .” He lowered his voice. “Well, you know how it works. No favours.”

“I know, and that’s not what I’m asking.”

My father was silent for a moment. The house—my old home—was silent at the other end of the line.

“Freya . . . ?”

I tensed—what was coming? what had he sensed?—but all he said was, “Would you mind if I brought someone with me?”

I gave a little shrug. “No, of course not. Who?”

“Would you mind . . . if . . .”