You perk up at Clive’s praise. You can never resist an opportunity to talk about your work.

“I often wonder if I shouldn’t go with my first thoughts on things. They usually come out more directly. The trouble begins when I read what I’ve written and realize all the nuances that aren’t yet planted in my words.”

Clive is watching you. I see you smile at him. It is a smile I know.

“Ginny, I need your help with the food. The others will be here soon.” Clive is mine and I will not let you steal him. I shepherd you into the dining room, where the table is set for a buffet lunch. I pass you a basket of cutlery which must be sorted and wrapped into napkins.

We work alongside each other without speaking. I finish my share of the cutlery and take the fruit out of its bag. I sense you studying me. I arrange oranges and apples on a plate, sculpting them into a tempting mound. I glance at your hands as you fold the linen squares and notice how pale they are. I want to ask how you are feeling but do not dare. I break a grape from its stem and offer it to you. You shake your head and I pop the fruit into my own mouth. Its juice is bittersweet on my tongue.

Several of the guests have arrived when we return to the drawing room. Gwen congratulates me on my picture and I accompany her to the fireplace. Clive puts a record on the gramophone, another of his gifts. Nina pulls Henry up to dance. I feel Clive’s arm encircle my waist. His hands are warm on my bare skin. As Clive steers me across the floor the soft folds of my skirt swirl round me like a fan. Light pours through the windows and I am conscious of everyone looking at me. The music finishes and I whisper in Clive’s ear. He nods and makes his way toward you. I watch him loop his arm round your shoulder as Ka sets the music going again. For a few steps you follow Clive, your movements an awkward imitation of his. Leonard comes to talk to me, and when I search for you again Clive is dancing with Mary. You are nowhere to be seen.

I catch up with you in the hall. You have your coat on and are fastening the buttons.

“You’re not leaving.” I stand in front of you. You glare at me angrily.

“You set him up to do that. You want to make me look ridiculous.”

I shrug. “I thought you’d like someone to dance with.”

“I don’t want your pity! You’re so unfair! You have everything—Clive, money, people wanting your pictures—whereas I have nothing . . .” Your voice trails away. You gesture vaguely toward the drawing room. “You must see how we all worship you.”