“Okay, so . . .” Anju puts her knife and fork down. “I work from photos and life, and paint people watching TV, but I don’t paint the TV or the room, or the sofa or chair they’re sitting on . . . so, the person is basically just floating in white space. It’s about kind of suspending a moment in life that is a pretty big part of life for a lot of people, and examining it, feeling like we could turn it over, walk around it . . .”

“Oh, cool,” I say. “So, how come just TV?”

“I did a series on trains too, which was just these people suspended in space, without the context—the seats, carriage, phones in their hands, food they’re eating—around them. I was aiming for this completely clean space, like, kind of like a lab space? And the people in it are the subject, without any kinds of objects or things around them that would normally contextualize them and color our perception of them, you know?”

“I’d love to see,” I say.

“You’d be welcome to, whenever. My studio’s in my house in Camberwell.”

“Her paintings are amazing in real life,” Shakti says. Anju looks up at her, and smiles.

“What kind of work do you make?” I ask Shakti. As soon as I do, I notice that the table has gone quiet. Everyone looks particularly preoccupied by their food, all of a sudden.

“I don’t really make any work now. I haven’t for a few months,” Shakti says after a moment. She looks down at her plate. “It’s quite a long story, but I’m trying to work out what I want to do with my life.”

“I think you should make work again,” Maria says, before turning to me and adding, “Shakti is a stone carver. She makes pairs of marble sculptures, sort of similar to Barbara Hepworth but not. She’s, like, continuing in the path of Hepworth.”

“We all mourn Shakti’s stones,” Mark contributes from the end of the table.

“Hmm,” Shakti says.

“How come you stopped?” I ask, though I feel as I say the words that this might be too personal a question. Before she can answer, though, there’s a shuffling noise, and Ben comes back into the room. “Heeeey!” he says, looking refreshed.

“Oh, hey, Ben—look, myself und Utte,” Mark’s accent makes everything he says sound musical, “we successfully grew this mushroom!” He holds up the plate.

“Wow, guys, it looks, I mean—yeah!” Ben says. “Smells amazing.” He sits down and puts an eggplant on his plate. Everyone else tucks in too. James pours the wine. I notice that Shakti looks relieved that the conversation has moved on.

“Bon appétit, everyone,” she says.

“Guten Appetit,” Mark adds. Shakti raises her glass. I catch her eye and smile, and she smiles back.