“Except you weren’t so keen in the end on the struggling,” smiled Sarah.

“I had a few exhibitions early on.”

Veronica watched as Sarah placed her hand on his shoulder. “Really, you should see his stuff.”

“But I lost the juice for it. In the end I was happier exploring other people’s art than creating my own. I do like painting with the kids though. Do you have any hobbies, George?”

“Golf. Had to throw in the rugger after the last surgery but—”

“And that’s enough for you now?” Veronica interrupted. She put her own hand over George’s and smiled at David endearingly. “What a sacrifice.”

“But it’s more than a hobby still, your painting, really, isn’t it David?” rushed Sarah. “Hobby suggests it’s only for leisure, that it couldn’t be your profession. But of course, it was your profession so now it’s just more of a freelance, private thing, right? He’s hugely talented. And so valued at the museum. Really, David’s far cleverer than I am.”

David frowned, at both of the women. “I’ve never been much of a golfer.”

An uncomfortable pause followed, during which Sarah smiled at David, and David avoided the smile, nodding amiably at George, who in turn looked bemusedly to Veronica. Now it was Veronica who took a slow, deliberate sip of elderflower-wine. But her mind raced. What on earth was she doing? George must have thought she’d gone mad; she, usually so adept at putting people at ease, suddenly a saboteur? It was childish. Undignified. And unplanned. Yet it was irresistible. And now that she’d begun, she remembered the rhythm as though she’d never stopped swaying to it; the careful dance of concealed slurs, the compliment turned insult, the craft of condescension. For the first time in many months, she felt in control, and powerful. Besides, they were tiny, tiny manipulations. Trifling. She was only experimenting, not doing harm.

“Well,” laughed Veronica warmly, pulling herself back. “Amelia seems very well adjusted on it, so you must be doing something right.”

Yes, good. She mustn’t go too far. She was no longer an insecure child; she didn’t have the excuse of that. Besides, despite the jealousies that were clearly re-emerging, she liked Sarah, genuinely, she always had. It had been an actual joy to see her so unexpectedly, nostalgia wrapped neatly in a power suit and bob. Even now, in the discomfort of awkward pause, titbits of tenderness crept to the fore – secrets they’d told, the summer smell of Sarah’s house, a nonsense language they’d invented. Warm, comforting memories, the flavour of Bolognese. Having said that, other memories were resurfacing too, like how intoxicating it felt when the power was tipping her way.

“Didn’t your parents do something similar, Sarah?” spoke Veronica carefully. “That wonderful summer I spent at yours, I seem to remember your father being there constantly.”

“Dad was a barrister, same as me, so unlikely,” Sarah replied, buoyed it seemed by safer territory. “Though he brought his work home a lot. And there were lulls between cases, so maybe that summer–”