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I reached into my back pocket for my phone to take a picture. But it wasn’t there. I must have left it in the study.

At that moment, Tash walked in holding it in her hand. ‘Your phone was vibrating, so I answered it.’

I frowned.

‘In case it was your mother.’

‘Oh.’

Her expression was like thunder. ‘Why do you put up with that?’ she asked.

‘What?’ Without knowing what Paul had said, it would be best not to say anything.

‘Before I could speak . . . he did.’

I hadn’t replied to any of his messages.

He must be pissed off. His temper could be sharp, but it was always short-lived.

He needed to vent and then it was over. That was how he worked.

It was the opposite of me. I held onto things and overthought them until I was tied in knots inside.

I stroked the wood of the statue. I didn’t want to hear Tash’s take on this and it would be better not to know what he’d said to her. ‘Have you seen this piece?’ I asked.

‘I mean seriously, Ren, that is not OK.’

I kept my gaze on the sculpture. ‘He’s missing me.’

‘So he bullies you to show love? That’s twisted.’

Her words hurt. Paul was great. Yes, a bit protective and at times needy, but weren’t we all. ‘He loves me so much, and he needs me.’

‘He doesn’t deserve you.’ She paused, clenching her hands. ‘You’ve changed. Gone is the fun-loving friend and in her place is a frightened middle-aged ghost of the former you. A bloody Stepford wife but without a ring.’

‘No.’ I felt the colour drain from my face. It wasn’t that way at all. I might not do the same things I used to do, but Paul gave me confidence and supported me. ‘You’re wrong. He loves me and he . . .’ I struggled to find the words to stop Tash thinking like this.

‘He doesn’t hit you, does he?’

‘How could you think that?’ I spun around to look at her. ‘He loves me and he’s lost without me. That’s all.’

She handed me the phone. ‘It didn’t sound like love is all I’m saying.’

I took it from her and shoved it into my back pocket.

‘When I finally got a word in edgeways, he hung up.’

That explained the current vibration in my pocket.

He would text me until I responded. Somehow it would be my fault that he’d embarrassed himself, and it was.

I should always have my phone with me. Now I pulled it out again and took several pictures of the sculpture.

Tash stood in silence. There was no way I wanted to talk to her about Paul.

Nothing I said would change her mind. I’d tried in the past to alter their opinion of each other, but if anything, they had both become more certain they were right.

I watched Tash out of the corner of my eye as she walked slowly around the sculpture.

‘My heart aches looking at it,’ she said, touching its surface. ‘She’s highlighted the gnarly bits and the places where the tree had suffered damage but grew on.’

I blinked. I hadn’t seen that. Sometimes Tash startled me with her insights.

She might be a brilliant accountant, but there was another side to her that I had forgotten.

I was the one who had received an A in GCSE art, but she could have done a degree in it.

Instead she had chosen the sensible path, while I had for the longest time followed my heart and my gut.

No longer. Only when I had hard-and-fast proof did I give my opinion.

This was fine, and I was never in front of the camera; I was simply the grunt in the background making everything look good and providing the interesting side alleys and rabbit holes so that they had a narrative to follow.

The journey, the story, whether it ended with success or failure, had to be interesting.

There must be highs and lows in each episode, but I tried to avoid them everywhere else.

‘Thought it was you when I saw the car.’ The gardener, Tilly, stood in the doorway with the sunlight at her back. ‘Stunning piece, isn’t it?’

I nodded.

‘It was the last thing Viv did.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘Sheba had cancer, and Viv knew their time together was ending.’

‘Was Viv ill too?’ Tash asked.

‘Didn’t show it if she was.’ Tilly stepped into the studio. ‘She was as strong as an ox – had to be to work on these large pieces.’ The phone in her hand rang. She glanced at it, then walked back out.

‘Viv died of a broken heart.’ Tash stroked the sculpture. ‘She couldn’t face life without Sheba.’

I pursed my lips. ‘That sounds romantic, but she could have had a massive stroke or something.’

Tash frowned. ‘I know what I see in this piece, and it’s heartbreaking while still managing to express true love.’

Tash had never been the romantic that I was. What had changed her? She adored Annabelle, of course, and loved Gareth, though their relationship had never appeared on the outside to be a grand passion.

‘It’s a breathtaking piece, but what people see and feel about it will vary.’ I bent to give Bastard a stroke.

‘Really.’ Tash stood back with her hands on her hips. ‘Some art is like that, but this piece . . . it’s the real thing. Raw, messy love.’

I studied it again. The wood was sinuous, and I could see what she was saying, but with art I didn’t think things were that cut-and-dried.

It hit everyone differently and could do so from one second to the next, let alone day to day.

Today my impression was that the piece was beautiful and full of pain and loss.

There was no love other than that shown by the artist for her materials.

Outside, Tilly’s voice carried. What I really wanted to do was press her for details about these women.

I needed to create a narrative around the artists to ensure we received maximum interest and price.

Heading back to the house, I stopped in the brilliant sunlight.

Something inside me wanted to make their work shine.

‘Ren, where are you off to in such a hurry?’ Tash was dragging a ladder.

I shook my head. ‘Sorry, I forgot the reason I went in there in the first place.’

‘Hmm.’ She made a face. ‘Take the other end, please.’

I did as I was told, and we manoeuvred the ladder through the kitchen and into the hallway. We could have used Tilly’s help, but I heard a car leave and realised it would be up to the two of us to do this.

Tash looked from the ladder to the stairs to the painting and back again. The ladder was long, but it would still be too far away from the painting to safely take it off the wall.

‘This isn’t going to work,’ she said, balancing it against the stairs.

‘I can see that.’

‘It’s good you can see something.’

I sent her a look. That was a very sharp comment and had nothing to do with the task at hand. I wasn’t sure exactly what she was referring to.

My phone vibrated away in my pocket. I whipped it out ready to shut it off, then saw that it was Mum’s number.

‘Mum?’

‘It’s Meg. Your mother has had a fall. We’re at the hospital.’