I soothe myself with color. I squeeze rivulets of orange, blue, mauve onto my palette and brush them straight onto the paper. I am not painting. I only wish to console myself. I let the sweep of the blue across the white blank out my fury. All morning I have sat by the window and watched for the pair of you to come back from your walk. I have calmed Julian’s feverish crying and imagined the two of you alone together on the sand. I have not slept well. The room is hot and stuffy and I long for the bracing sea air. I refill my brush with mauve and continue my wash of color. Julian frets in his cot and I rock him for a moment until he settles. Suddenly I crave black. I picture your hand resting lightly on Clive’s arm, your eyes glancing up at him as you ask him a question. I know your naivety arouses Clive’s desire and that he will try to kiss you. I work bars of black that tear my colors to shreds. Orange is rent asunder, blue and mauve are prized apart.

Did some of this touch you? Did some of my murderous, self-preserving anger reach you as you walked along the shore that day? Was there a moment when you looked up and saw a shark’s fin lance the water, or the dip of a bird’s wing pierce the unending blue? Was it at this point, as you let Clive guide you over the shingle, that doubts began to fissure your mind, made you tremble and draw back?