I pad into my bedroom, swathed in towels. I dress in a skirt and blouse I have thrown over the back of my chair. The blouse is creased and there are smears of paint on the skirt but I am indifferent to such details. I push my hair into a bunch with my hands and cover it with a saffron scarf.

It does not signify, how I look. I have abandoned all attempts to be fashionable. I have irrevocably put aside the ridiculous ordeal of endeavoring to be well dressed. I tie my scarf in a knot and remember the tedium of trying to keep my hair in its cage of pins. Here I dress for comfort.

I go downstairs. There is a fire in the sitting room and I squat in front of it, holding my palms up to the blaze. Duncan is reading on the sofa. Suddenly I want him to put his arms round me more than anything else in the world. I seat myself beside him and lay my head on his lap. He accepts my homage without a word.

There is a shout at the bottom of the stairs.

“Nessa? Come and see this!” Roger’s voice slices through the calm. I hold my brush suspended over my picture, praying that the intrusion will pass.

“Nessa! Where are you? You have to come!” Roger’s call sounds closer. I hear him climbing the stairs. I duck my head behind my easel, wondering for one idiotic moment if it will screen me from his view. His body fills the doorway.

“There you are! The post has just come. A card from Saxon. He’s found the perfect place, a hotel perched halfway up a Swiss Alp. He suggests we catch the first train. He says it’s truly inspirational. What do you think?”

I watch a stray leaf that has blown in through the open window circle the strut of my easel and then fall to rest. I do not want to go to Switzerland. I do not want Roger. He reins in his enthusiasm, sensing he has fallen wide of the mark. He waves the postcard at me and gives a conciliatory smile.

“Another time?” His voice struggles to maintain its cheeriness. I know I have hurt him.

“You could go on your own.” I venture the suggestion aware that this is not what he wishes.

“No, no, it was just a mad thought. You know how persuasively Saxon writes.” Roger is next to me now, his arm near enough to touch. His love is a cloister, suffocating and dull. I cannot help myself. I must break free.