If she points out that it’s not the work that makes her life hard, but the way their home life is organised, he’ll be wounded, and then she’ll definitely have to give him a lift. She doesn’t have time for that. And anyway, she doesn’t know if he will understand how, some days, she can feel her brain starting to atrophy. She has nothing in common with the women she is meeting at coffee mornings. They’re not stupid, by any means, it’s just that they are absorbed into motherhood as though they have worked for it, are entitled to it. Or as though it is their new job. Erica cannot find that in herself. Somewhere else she is failing. When she’s at work she’s tired. And at home, reviewing the exhibition, she’s afraid that she’s making mistakes, or missing her chances to make Vee’s work shine, and to shine too. Motherhood has made her mediocre. And it shouldn’t have to be that way

‘You need to go,’ she says, ‘we can talk later.’ And when he bends to kiss her she moves her head, just a fraction, so that he kisses the side of her cheek rather than her mouth. It’s petty, but she doesn’t care.

*

‘Erica?’ Vee frames it as a question, but the woman walking towards her could be no one else.

‘Ms Moon? Veronica? It’s an honour to meet you at last.’

Vee debates whether to stand, but it was work enough for her knees to get her to a sitting position on this bench.

‘It’s Vee, please. Good to meet you, Erica.’

Erica’s hair is the colour of a milky morning coffee, and it hangs straight and fine. Her eyes are big, warm and wide, a dark complement to her hair. A narrow mouth, smiling, small teeth, white. High cheekbones, narrow chin, pink lipstick. Imagine her face rounder, without the makeup . . . Only the nose is wrong. Vee hears herself inhale, a sharp shocked sound. She should have been prepared for the resemblance.

‘It’s an honour,’ Erica says, again, ‘and such a privilege to be trusted with this retrospective.’

Vee has never known what to do with compliments, so she just nods at them, as she does to dogs and children. She moves her bag to the floor by her feet, so that Erica can sit if she wants to. She does. No wonder, wearing ridiculous heels like that. ‘Have you had a nose job?’ she asks. She realises, as soon as she has said the words, that she shouldn’t have; but she is truly out of practice at conversation, forgets that you don’t just say what’s come to mind.