God. Leonie had been serious in her offer. Vee has wondered about this, sometimes. It’s always been hard to tell when Leonie is joking, or testing you, or testing herself. ‘You say that now,’ Vee says, ‘if she was with me I’d never see her. She’d be raised by nannies. That has to be worse.’

Leonie shrugs, non-committal.

Vee has taken the last shot on the reel; she winds it back, facing away from Leonie, clicks the back open and takes the film out. She puts it safely into its container before sliding a fresh film in to the waiting space. Click, then wind on. Click, wind on. She puts the black cassette into her pocket; that’s not for the lab, she’ll develop it herself. The shots from before Erica came in might be worth using, and if they are, she’ll pass them on. Back to work.

Leonie is looking out on to the rain in the garden.

‘When I’m back in the States, try to keep an eye out for Erica, will you?’

‘Why, aren’t you coming back?’ Vee hears panic in her voice. Her father’s death is a greyscale tint to every thought and sight. She cannot lose the other person she loves most in the world.

There are tears in her eyes and she turns away. But nothing gets past Leonie. Vee hears her exhalation as she gets to her feet, and turns to see her friend waiting, open-armed, to hold her.

When she’s cried, Leonie squeezes her again – her body is soft, hot, sweat-and-lavender like always – and sits back down. ‘Nothing is forever, Vee. Not you. Not me.’

‘I know.’ There’s knowing in your head and knowing in your being, though.

‘So, whatever happens, look out for Erica?’

‘Of course.’

‘Thank you.’

Leonie is watching the sky, it seems.

Vee drops to her knees, her lens on a level with Leonie’s eyeline. The image she captures of her friend is serene: Vee would say statesmanlike, if she dared. She takes another shot, then stands and moves a step away, the viewfinder taking in Leonie’s bulk in its dark navy shirt, her cropped hair showing her high forehead, the way her browbone juts. But Leonie doesn’t look like Leonie unless she’s talking. Unless there’s a conversation, this photograph is never going to be anything special. It’s certainly not going to be worthy of a cover. More importantly, it’s not going to justify the brain in that head, the vision in those eyes. The camera does lie. It’s Vee’s job to make it.

‘My book’s coming out next year.’

‘Your book?’ Leonie’s face is perfect when it turns towards her: curiosity, bright attention, a benign sort of rage. Click.

‘I told you. In a letter.’

‘You didn’t.’

Vee is pretty certain she did. ‘I was asked to. It’s nothing like what you do.’