There is a tiny shake of the head in response, as though Vee’s skull is balanced on her neck, rather than attached to it. Erica notices the blister pack of tablets, the glass of water, on the table.

‘Would you like to take some of these tablets now?’

A tiny nod. She pushes two pills from the pack, puts them in Vee’s palm, and passes her the glass. Vee swallows the medication with the practised gulp of the long-term patient; Erica takes the glass from her shaking hand, returns it to the table, sits in a chair next to her, and waits. How much did it cost Vee to say those words? How right she is. Whatever Erica does now, about Marcus, the baby, everything, will be different because she met Veronica Moon.

Ten minutes pass, and then Vee opens her eyes, nods to Erica: permission to speak, an acknowledgement that things are better, for the moment.

‘You’ve given me much more than you needed to,’ Erica says, as softly as she can to still be heard above the noise and chatter from the party beyond the door. ‘And I can see what it’s cost you. Why?’

‘Because . . .’ but there’s a pause, and it gets longer, and it’s as though Vee isn’t even in the room anymore.

Vee

‘Because . . .’ Because what, though? Because the new tumour was already back? Because her thoughts weren’t trustworthy? Because she still thinks she owes Leonie something? Owes this child a mother? (Strange thought.) When she first went to meet Erica, in January, it was only going to be a courtesy: she was going to let her get on with it. She had no intention of getting involved. Something changed.

‘You should be proud,’ Erica says.

‘Everything comes around.’

‘But you know you were good?’ Erica has the same obstinate tone as Leonie when she’s making a point. Vee smiles and it feels as though it comes from somewhere, is a real smile, a feeling that has never changed; she could be sixteen, in the darkroom her dad made for her, watching an image swim to the surface of the paper as it develops.

‘I know I was good.’

‘Good.’

Vee closes her eyes and then she is aware of Erica leaning towards her, hovering a hand over her arm, not touching it, ‘You’re shaking, Veronica.’

‘I’m tired.’

‘Is that all?’

In her head, Vee says: yes, Erica, that’s all. Don’t fuss. What comes out of her mouth is different, ‘I think so. I don’t know.’

‘You’re not usually uncertain.’ There’s no malice in Erica’s tone; it’s observation, and it’s fair enough. Well, there it is. You reap as you sow. ‘You should have seen the way people were looking at your work. Before you came out.’