‘It’s a good picture. I like it a lot. Congratulations on the sale,’ he said, the smile becoming more natural. Then he kissed her neck. ‘Stay the night?’

Relieved that the uncomfortable moment had passed. Laurel was unable to resist.

Mounting her stock on the wall would usually be fun, but Laurel found herself not to be in the mood on Tuesday. Though a dealer would understand it was her workplace, it would look better to have a display area rather than canvasses stacked against the wall, so she soldiered on. Then she fetched milk in case Selina wanted coffee, leaving it in the snow outside to keep fresh. She didn’t think the weather would put Selina off. She’d sounded far too purposeful to let several inches of snow disrupt her day.

Bang on noon, she spied a tall woman with short nut-brown hair striding up the garden path towards the studio and opened the door to welcome her.

‘Selina Sullivan,’ the woman said, shaking hands before unbuttoning her tailored wool coat and hanging it up next to Laurel’s parka. Underneath she wore an olive-green trouser suit with black boots. She glanced around. ‘Great set-up.’

Laurel had placed the picture of the boys on an easel where it would catch the light coming in the window. Blues, greys and greens were the dominating colours but hints of purples and oranges lit the work up.

‘Nice.’ Selina moved closer, stepping this way and that so that the light caught the canvas at different angles. ‘How did you build up texture?’

Laurel indicated the boys’ denim dungarees. ‘Threads of cotton and some tissue in the acrylic. The tiny stencilled wheels that swirl around them were chosen because both boys love cars. It was a commission that was never picked up.’

‘Their loss.’ Selina gave a decisive nod. ‘Can I look around?’

‘Help yourself.’ Laurel made coffee while Selina took her time, gazing at paintings of running men and twirling women, children on a beach fascinated by the contents of their bucket. Laurel sat quietly watching, sipping coffee. To her, staring at a picture was exactly the right way to absorb it, not asking for constant commentary or the story behind every brushstroke and mark of the knife.

The work in progress, Everyday Woman, Selina left till last. Then she pulled up the other chair and sat beside Laurel, just gazing at the woman dancing in the snow. Finally, she said, ‘Self-portrait? Or not? Can’t make up my mind.’

Laurel laughed into her coffee cup, making the steam puff against her face. ‘Me, neither.’ She tilted her head to regard the canvas, which was nearing completion, now. ‘A lot of my female subjects seem to come out willowy, like ballerinas. Sub-consciously, I must have thought that’s how beautiful women look. One day I decided there was nothing wrong with short, curvy women. I did use myself as a model to get the form and the movement right. And the mood? Well … I was trying to reflect the me I wanted to be rather than the me I feel I am. Freer.’