I feel kind of sick walking back to the studio from the gallery. I feel unsteady on my feet, like my body isn’t mine, and it isn’t a good fit for me—like on my next step, I might just accidentally step out of it, leaving it behind me: an empty woman, just standing still on the pavement, passersby looking at her and wondering what she is doing. By the time I get back, I can’t tell what I’m feeling, whether it’s hunger again, or whether it’s anger, on behalf of or perhaps actually felt by my human side. In the darkness of my studio, I unlock my phone and see I have an email from Gideon. It’s from his personal Gmail account rather than his work account. I open it, feeling kind of panicky, worrying, for some reason, that the email might tell me that I have done something wrong, but it just says:

Hello Lydia,

It was very nice talking to you yesterday and seeing you again today. It’d be great to talk properly and hear more about your work. I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time to do so over the next few weeks.

Best wishes,

Gideon

I read the email a few times. I don’t know what to think. It’s confusing. It’s like it’s saying “what happened today didn’t happen” or “what happened today is normal.” I lock my phone. Then I lie down, feeling miserable, the room spinning, my insides churning. I fall asleep, there on the floor, and my demon side dreams about something that makes me feel a bit better. By the time I wake up, though, I don’t remember what the dream was about.

Later, I tear out the page with the print of Three Girls from the Amrita Sher-Gil book. I do it neatly, folding the page first and then licking the fold. Then, I push my table against the wall and stand up all the books from the museum, along with the three from the Waterloo Bridge bookshop, against it. I take the puppet out of my bag too and sit her next to the books with her back against the wall. I face her, so it’s kind of like looking into a mirror. I’d forgotten that I’d named her after myself. “Hello, Lydia,” I say, out loud. “Lyd . . . deeee. . . . aaaah.” I put the picture of Three Girls next to her, so the girls’ gazes are directed toward her. Then I say, imagining one of the girls speaking, “What happened today, hmm?”

“Ugh, I don’t know,” I make the puppet say.