‘By recognising, remembering and re-centring the women who showed their faces and raised their voices, in the 1960s, 1970s, and 1980s, we can be part of the change the world still needs. Veronica Moon is an example to us all of how to see women in the world: strong, capable, powerful, and equal.’

The applause surprises her; she looks around, smiles, waits for it to stop.

She finds Vee’s face at the back of the crowd. ‘It’s been a pleasure and an honour to curate this exhibition and, in doing so, to spend time with the incomparable, unforgettable Veronica Moon. Thank you.’

Marcus catches her eye across the room, smiles. He looks proud of her. For now, that’s enough.

And then she sees Veronica approaching through the crowd. Others notice, and the applause starts up again, warmer than politeness. Vee is wearing a long T-shirt over leggings, both a dark denim-ish grey, and shoes that Erica hasn’t seen her in before, a kind of clog, thick-soled, in mustard-coloured leather. No makeup, of course; short hair brushed back as usual, curling behind her ears. Erica has not been able to spot where the scar from Vee’s previous surgery is, but she knows it must be at the place where her hair kinks, above her left ear, because that’s where her hand goes, when she’s anxious, when she’s talking about being ill.

Vee makes her way to Erica’s side without smiling, without looking left or right. She steps forward, holding the podium with both hands, leaning forward. Erica raises her mobile, takes a photograph of Vee, and then a few of the people watching her. The images won’t be anything special, but suddenly she feels the need for her own record, just for her, that she is here, that she is watching this woman at what is almost certain to be her last public appearance. She feels a grim sort of protectiveness; wonders if anyone else in the room sees how frail Vee is, how unwell. It feels that the room holds its breath. Not just the people here, but those in the photographs too.

Vee seems small. She breathes in, out, and then she looks forward and starts to speak.

*

Vee hasn’t really much of an idea of what she wants to say. She wasn’t going to say anything at all. Was going to slip away.

But then, listening to Erica, she was hit with the knowledge that this is, without any doubt – she will not think of the shadow of doubt, of the shadow of anything, for fear of inviting darkness behind her eyes – this is her last chance to be heard. She used to think that her photographs were her voice. She used to think it didn’t matter if she was misunderstood. And then came Erica.