“I couldn’t possibly tell her! She’s far too young. And in any case, think how difficult it would be for Clive. She has his name.”

“She’s going to find out sooner or later. She even looks like Duncan.”

“Yes, but not yet.”

“I don’t understand how delaying will make it easier.”

I look at you helplessly. Suddenly I blurt out the truth.

“I’m frightened Duncan wouldn’t come at all if he felt there were ties on him as a father.”

I pick up one of the trays and carry it across the garden. After a moment you pick up the second tray and follow me into the kitchen.

I have split myself between too many stools. No, that is not the right phrase—you always laughed at my inability to remember idioms correctly. Still, it is the thought that is uppermost in my mind as I wave goodbye to Angelica. I watch the car wind its way down the lane, straining for a final glimpse before it disappears from view. I remain for a moment in the doorway and look out across the garden. There is a mist over the pond and the light has the pearly quality of early morning. I turn back inside the house.

Now that Angelica is gone, I have the whole day for painting. I make my way down the hall and wander into the sitting room. I am not ready to go to my studio yet. I find a chair and remember the ambitions I had for my art before my children were born. The days and weeks of Angelica’s school term stretch out ahead of me, but instead of relishing my longed-for freedom, I have no desire to work. The newspaper stares at me from the table. I resist the temptation to pick it up. I know it will be a distraction. I have to sit with my emptiness, find a way of reconnecting with the young woman I used to be.