‘I write letters,’ Erica says, holding a file to her chest in defence. ‘I go to see my MP and I sign petitions. I do a lot of sharing on Facebook. I’m active.’

‘You haven’t been on a march? Never?’ Vee searches through recent memory. ‘Not even Trump? Stop the War? Me Too?’ Jesus.’

‘Was Jesus a march?’ It’s nice that she and Erica are relaxing around each other a bit, enough to make jokes, but—

‘Do not be flippant about this, Erica.’ Vee is half-here, half in a memory she cannot quite hold on to, Leonie livid about her sister’s way of ignoring anything inconvenient, difficult, not immediately personal or threatening. And if you lived like Ursula did, cushioned and not exactly ignorant, but in a well-ordered, well-off world, nothing felt personal or threatening. Well, nothing except Leonie.

‘You’re making a lot of assumptions about my beliefs and my life.’ Erica’s not making eye contact, and her tone seems too mild for the conversation, as though she’s placating her child, or her child-husband.

‘Maybe,’ Vee says, ‘but you’re clever. And clever people usually care about the world.’

‘You think because I didn’t make a placard I don’t care?’

‘That’s not what I’m saying.’ Well, not exactly. ‘But I can’t imagine living without protesting.’

‘You see? This is what I mean.’ Erica’s hands are on her hips and her voice is still quiet, but it’s angry now, and a little sad, too. ‘I did a PhD and worked part-time through most of my twenties. Then as soon as I got my first university teaching job, my mother became ill. I did what I could for her. She died. I was dealing with her estate and clearing her house while I was planning my wedding. I was pregnant while I was putting the proposal together for this. It seems like a long time since there was one thing that needs my attention. So no, I have never been on a march. Neither has Marcus. But he’s on the PTA and we give money to charity and we are really, really trying to be good people in the world. Doesn’t that matter more?’

‘More than equality for half of the world’s population?’

Erica looks up to the ceiling. ‘Of course we need feminism, I wouldn’t have proposed this exhibition otherwise. We need to look back to look forward. We need to understand. But we need compassion, too. And, if it makes you feel any better, things are hard.’

Vee feels something twist in her. It’s a relief, almost, to feel emotional instead of physical pain. She nods. ‘I’m sorry, Erica. I shouldn’t judge.’ She has patience; she should try for compassion. It’s not as though she’s never been misunderstood.