I’ve got to go home. That’s what I was thinking now. I’ve got to go home and invent a new life for myself, just like I said I would in that letter. I tried to imagine the revolution, but my mind snagged on a thousand and one details: the sun-bleached wallpaper that Mum had hung in the hall a few months before she died; the teddy bears lining the end of Stella’s bed; the penguin alarm clock that woke me every weekday morning at six. I’d never changed a single one of those things; wouldn’t be able to; couldn’t ask it of Dad.

“What am I thinking?” I echoed, playing for time.

I was thinking I had lost my inspiration, having only just found it. I was thinking I would like to cry until I felt hollowed out and cleansed—but there was no point telling him that if the tears weren’t going to come. Crying has to speak for itself.

“I was just wishing I’d put some better shoes on.”

I made him stop, and he held my arm as I took the flip-flops off and brushed grit from the soles of my feet.

The garden was empty as far as we could see—no sign of Dad or Cory anywhere—but Tom’s note had gone from underneath the windscreen wiper and the front door was wide open. I avoided looking up at the third-floor windows.

“I’d better go and grab my things,” I said. “I’ll be quick.”

“OK.”

I made myself look up at the house. There was only one room with its blinds open, and I was pretty sure it was mine. The rest were blank and white, and they reminded me of my grandmother’s eyes when her cataracts got bad. Occasionally one of the blinds would sway slightly, as if someone inside were touching it.

“If we’re going, we should go,” I said, but I lingered. I wished I’d grabbed my bags this morning and brought them to the car, instead of dashing downstairs empty-handed. I could have waited here with Tom until the other two showed up, and run through the civilities with Cory, and it would have been over quite quickly and painlessly. Thank you so much, I’d have said, and goodbye, and all the very best with your paintings, and I hope your mother feels better soon. I might have shaken his hand; he might have kissed me on the cheek. And the three of us would have left, because it’s a five-hour drive back to London.

“Do you want me to come with you?” asked Tom.

“It’s all right. You wait here, in case Dad shows up. I’ll be two minutes.”

He didn’t argue or try to follow. I stopped at the door and looked back.

“Tom?”

“Mm?”

“I really loved your Raphael exhibition the other week.”