But she had to say that, didn’t she?

I suddenly remembered my own mother. She was so far away, in that cemetery near Villiers, and for a moment I felt dizzy to think of the distance that separated me from that cemetery: from my mother’s tombstone, alongside my father’s. I had never actually stood in that cemetery, it is not I who buried them.

And then Helena said, let’s go to bed. We turned off the lamps, one by one, and the room darkened, by degrees. I left one lamp on, I leave it on at night, because I wake sometimes. The lamp shed its soft light in a circle, and we turned then from the room.

At my bedroom door Helena leaned towards me. I’m taller than her, and she embraced me, I could feel her firm, strong body against mine. Goodnight Mom, she said. And I told her I was glad she had come. I was.

We went to bed.

And I thought how I’d be alone again on Tuesday, in this apartment, so quiet. I have my books, I do read, I’ve said that.

But I thought then that perhaps Helena had reason to worry, to worry about me. I said nothing.

I VISITED ERIC’S STORE and told him I was feeling much better, perhaps something new was about to begin with my painting, I had felt its pulse again. Eric was so pleased. I think we need more than tea to toast this, he said. It’s not time to toast yet, I said, I’ll let you know when I’ve actually done something to the painting. And he laughed. How incremental our progress was with our work, how painfully slow. I was glad, again, that I could talk to Eric.

But Eric had some big news. Eric was going to study in London for a year, he had got into a course run at the Royal Academy. I was thrilled for Eric, but what would I do without my weekly visits to his shop, our tea, our commiserating about our work?

Visit André when I’m gone, he said, he’s nice to talk to. I can’t substitute you just like that, you know, I said. I know, I know, I’m just trying to help, he said. I’ll miss you too.

Eric had a goodbye party, it was held at the gallery of a friend of his. Howard and I went. Eric’s friends from art school were there, Eric’s parents, and other friends of his I recognized from gallery openings. And André was there. Howard hadn’t met André before, I was so happy to introduce them. André framed your painting, he frames all my paintings, I said to Howard. And Howard said, oh, Jacqueline’s framer, such a pleasure to meet you! She’s always talking about ‘her framer,’ she’s at her framer, she’s going to see her framer, she must ask her framer . . . you’re almost as important to her as Eric is, he said, and laughed, and André laughed too. Tall, handsome André, a shock of dark hair falling across his forehead.