The year after Leonie died is still the most terrible of her life. Not even dying, so far, is as bad – not so long as she can see. Many of Vee’s memories from the years before that period are lost, her first brain tumour twined around them, it seems, plucking them from her mind when it was removed. The life of the Veronica Moon of the early 1980s exists in photographs only; parts of the 1970s are barely there, either. She’ll never know whether her last photograph of her father – sleeves rolled up, checking the oil on her car before she set off to drive home, no doubt – was the last time she saw him. She imagines she would have told him that she knew how to check her oil. And he would have said, ‘Just humour your old dad, treasure.’ And she would have driven away. She has his death certificate, the paperwork from the sale of the house; she knows all that happened, can read her notes from her diaries, her own handwriting telling her she was there, she experienced it all. But there’s no memory of it. No memory of those last years of Leonie, either. Or of that last day. A therapist she saw, later, suggested that Vee might be blocking painful memories, and the brain was using the surgery as a convenient way to hide what she didn’t want to confront. She supposes that’s possible. But she cannot believe that any memories, however difficult, however painful, can be as enduringly aching as the absence of them. Plus, her recollections crash back in the immediate aftermath of Leonie’s death, during the worst time in her life she can remember. If she could block anything, it would be that.

‘Obviously we can discuss anything you want to add to this section,’ Erica adds. Vee refocuses on what Erica is saying. She cannot read anything into her expression. ‘And we are going to have to talk about my aunt’s death at some point. Not today.’

‘No.’ The word is sudden and loud. Even Vee is surprised. ‘I believe I was clear,’ Vee continues, and her voice is still loud but it’s steady. No sign of the shaking she feels. ‘Wasn’t I?’

‘Well, yes,’ Erica says. Her eyes have become brighter – oh, that stubborn expression is so familiar to Vee, in the same way Erica’s voice is Leonie refracted – ‘but the exhibition visitor will need the facts—’

‘I’ve given you access to private material. I said I wouldn’t discuss anything related to your – to Leonie.’ Vee needs to get used to hearing her name again. ‘And there’s nothing I could add to . . . to what happened to Leonie, if you have the articles. Visitors will have the photograph. They can make up their minds from that. They always have.’