Erica looks away and Vee wonders, for the first time in years, who got out from under and who didn’t. She remembers Kiki didn’t go back; she got a divorce, started over. Most women didn’t.

‘We should include some of these in the exhibition. Do you have any at all?’

‘I might,’ Vee says, ‘but they would need to be ones where people couldn’t be identified.’

‘Of course.’ Erica nods. ‘So, would you look for them?’

‘I’ll see.’ There are some boxes that she really needs to go through: the private photographs, the family and the moments she doesn’t want to share with the world. She’s left them because she doesn’t want to look at them again.

‘Thank you,’ Erica says, and then, after the smallest hesitation, adds, ‘I know you don’t want to talk about when Leonie died—’

‘There’s nothing to say.’ Vee makes a point of not knocking determined women but oh, this is hard.

Erica nods. ‘I’m not asking anything. Except – if you’re looking for photographs, would you see if you have the contact sheet for the first film you took that day?’

‘What?’ Vee has given her the contact sheet and film of the final photographs. She hasn’t even mentioned that there was a first film.

‘Your contact sheets. I’ve studied them. You usually take a few shots while the subject settles in, from a few angles, then you stick with one place or one pose. The contact sheet of – of my aunt’s death – it doesn’t feel like that. It looks as though there was a film before that one.’

Vee shrugs. It hurts her head. Which serves her right. ‘I don’t know,’ she says. It’s an outright lie. She does know.

Erica’s expression flickers, just for a second, something like pain; she can recognise a lie. She looks back at the Miss World photograph. ‘You were close, around that time? When you shared a flat?’