Leonie sits forward, eyes a little narrower, but brighter too, bird-of-prey readiness. Click.

‘Are you saying my work means nothing? Because it will do nothing? In your terms, anyway, which seem to be how famous they make you—’

Vee ignores the last bit. She’s not going to get sidelined into a debate about whether she should be photographing people who aren’t out-and-out sisters: they’ve done that one to death. ‘I didn’t say either of those things. But—’ she hears herself sigh. This isn’t what she’s here to do, today. And Leonie’s book is what it was always going to be: clever, correct, and sometimes hard to stomach. Just like Leonie.

‘But what?’

Vee puts the camera down, and it lies against her body, weight held by the strap. ‘I don’t see the point of giving people things they can’t relate to. It’s just a waste—’

‘Not all of us sold out.’

Vee holds up a hand. She would never usually dare to stop Leonie: maybe that’s why Leonie stops. ‘I mean,’ she says, and she didn’t realise that her voice was going to sound so soft, that there might even be tears in it, somewhere deep, ‘it’s a waste of you.’

Leonie glances away. ‘Like I said. It’s a polemic. I’m ahead of my time. That’s my job. I’m in front. I don’t see that as a waste.’

The light from the window against Leonie’s face is sharp, suddenly; a cloud has shifted on this blowy September day. The side of her forehead, the bridge of that mighty nose, the top of her cheek are warmed by the light. Click. It’s time to make her subject laugh. ‘I’m not sure that you’re going to have much of a choir for this. I can’t think of a single person you think is doing it right.’

‘Well.’ There’s something borderline flirtatious in Leonie’s look, and Vee thinks she’s caught it: the cupid’s bow, the fuck-me eyes. ‘I’m pretty cool.’