“Let me think. Wandering round the house, maybe. Or lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling.”

A faint flush appeared on his cheeks. “Why would I waste my time in that fashion?”

I gave the suggestion of a shrug only. Kept my eyes trained on his, which were wide, shining, affronted.

“I have no idea. But you wouldn’t tell me anyway. So there’s no point speculating.”

—

Bridie used to come home from the market half an hour before I was due to leave. So we all viewed the painting together and watched me take on form and depth, seat myself in the folds of the rug on the armchair, begin smiling with my eyes, let the smile spread to my mouth. Offer the viewer a crust of bread on which I was pouring olive oil. The entirety of my body framed by the flank of a mountain, dappled by the shade from olive branches, under the volumes of sunshine. Because Bridie was with us, Philip and I could delude ourselves into thinking we were safe, that we had not created a private world where we alone existed.

No, that’s not right. I knew all too well what we were doing.

—

On the last day we finished early. All he needed to do now was work on the background, he said. I unwound from my pose, stretched one leg out. “My foot’s cramping.”

Philip, who had dismounted from his wooden donkey, knelt in front of me. “Thank you for being a good model, Yvette.” He took hold of my extended foot and began to stroke the sole. “A model model, in fact.”

“Thank you for my Mediterranean.”

His thumb pressed into my arch, working its way along my instep. “I thought you said it wasn’t yours.”

“It is, now. I take ownership.”

He let go of my foot and knelt up so that he was between my knees. I closed my eyes. He kissed me. This time his lips were parted, rubbing over mine.

I slid down off the chair so that I was kneeling in front of him. I put my hand at the back of his head, laced my fingers in his curls. His fingers grazed my breast, he gasped into my mouth. We pulled each other close. He was breathing nearly as fast as his heart was beating. A sudden, golden, streaming silence.

Can you do it, Yvette?

That was Célia’s voice. Asking me if I was strong enough for James. Imagine if she and Peter could see me now. Darling Peter, watching me betray his friend and comrade. God, the hope I’d had, watching the parachutes plump open, taking James in my arms after everything he’d gone through. Oh, Célia, my sister, help me. I’ve tried and tried. I’m sorry.

—

Philip was stroking my back, his cheek against mine.

“Kiss me,” I said. “Kiss me again, and I’ll stop crying.”