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She is about to speak, but stops. Then she says, ‘Please, please know that it wasn’t my choice.’

I frown, not understanding. ‘Can I see you again? Do you live here in Kensington?’

‘No, and maybe.’ She fixes the lead and leaves without looking at me again. I sink onto the wet grass and stare at my ruined work. The bright greens have gone muddy.

* * *

Martha holds open a book of poetry. ‘Have you seen this? I picked it up at Hatchards on Saturday, and my goodness, this man is talented. Such longing, especially this poem. “Venetian Vespers”.’

My heart stills at the title. It can’t be. Her words. It is her voice that reads them to me as we lie side by side. Her hand resting on my waist. Her mouth near my ear so that each syllable stirs my hair and my desire.

The ringing of the Angelus

The touch of your hand

The taste of you

Have become my faith

My reason

Light plays in your hands

Setting fire to the chosen path

Love is alchemical

I am lost

Combined with you

I find my voice to stop her. ‘Who is the poet?’

‘Simon Forster,’ she says. ‘I’ve read his work before, but this collection is his best by far.’ She taps the page of a different one. ‘But it’s this poem in particular.’

I catch sight of the page but I don’t need to read the words. They are scratched onto my heart. How did he get the poem? Katherine must have given it to him. Now I know what she was saying sorry for . . . for betraying me, us, our love.

As I scan the page, my body contracts. These are my words.

They were written for me, about me. They are not his, they don’t belong to him, they don’t belong to others.

But now they do. One thing jars. The fourth line, it’s not right.

It was the reason she didn’t give me the poem right away.

She wasn’t happy with that phrase. Did she change her mind again?

‘Isn’t it fabulous. I was lost to the words when I read it last night.’

I close my eyes. I mustn’t respond. Martha isn’t to know, and I can never say, although I have in Katherine’s portrait.

The opening of the poem is on display to any keen observer, but even I know that it’s her beauty that draws the eye, not those small details.

So they can’t know that it was Katherine, not Simon, who wrote those words, for me and me alone.

Like the portrait that was painted for Katherine even though Forster commissioned it.

But that painting, newly framed by my grandfather, sits in my room. Nothing is as it should be.

‘Are you OK? You’ve gone white?’ Martha takes the book from my shaking hands.

‘Didn’t sleep well last night,’ I lie. ‘I think I’ll head home now.’

‘Not a bad idea. Rest up. We have the exhibition in a week’s time, and you haven’t finished yet.’

11 June 1936

‘You’re a dark horse. How could you not tell us?

’ Martha looks at the abstract portrait of Katherine.

I’ve been tempted to paint it again, but I could never capture the raw emotion of the original.

The rest of my works on display are shadows of that piece, and it has won the prize.

It is cheating, although I have added to it, but it feels right somehow.

Katherine’s words about me are now public, so my painting of her is public.

So public in fact that it will be in tomorrow’s Times .

Many people will not understand or like it.

But to me it is everything. Despite her betrayal of giving my poem to Simon, I still love her.

I haunt the park at all hours. Not once have I spotted her or her dog. But each time I hold a small bit of hope in me that I will at least catch sight of her. Even the smallest glimpse could fill some of the ache in my heart.

Both Jason and Martha have noticed the change in me and have done their best to jolly me, but it doesn’t work.

I need to know why she gave it to him. Part of me understands that she must have needed to, maybe to protect her and Isabella.

But I want to hear that from her. To be honest, I want to hear from her about anything, anything at all.

My grandfather makes his way across the room to me. ‘This is the same woman as the other portrait?’

‘Yes.’

‘I prefer the other, but I understand this one, which I didn’t think I would. I am too old for these new ways.’ He glances about the room. ‘Your mother tried to push the boundaries of her work, but in the end she found she fitted in a different place.’

The flowing yet harsh landscapes of West Penwith fill my thoughts. There is one of her paintings that I love more than I can express. It is simply of the sea and Godrevy lighthouse.

‘She would be so proud of you.’ He walks closer to the painting. ‘So very proud.’

My father enters the room. My little brother, Tommy, is with my grandfather’s housekeeper. She is not pleased but understands he cannot attend the opening.

‘My darling Baba, you have found your style and it is magnificent. Such passion!’ He hugs me.

I feel a fraud, as this work was painted two years ago.

My more recent work doesn’t have the same energy or heart.

It’s not bad, but it is not the same. Somehow if I am to succeed, I must find this in myself again.

Part of me wonders if it is because I am here in London.

No matter how hard I try, it doesn’t stir me the same way.

Kensington is lovely, but there is nothing wild or raw or seductive about it.

Martha walks up to my father. ‘I’m Martha Sykes and your daughter is brilliant.’

‘Sykes? Related to Brian Sykes, the sculptor?’

‘He’s my father and he’s here.’ She points to the other side of the room.

‘Haven’t seen him in years.’ He bows his head, saying, ‘If you’ll excuse me.’

Martha stands beside me as we watch our fathers greet each other. ‘We are so lucky to have had the backgrounds we had. We grew up living and breathing all things art. We both could draw before we could talk, I imagine.’

I smile.

‘But I look at what Jason has achieved in this year, and I am astounded.’

‘That is true.’ Guilt floods me, as he came second to me.

‘We need to celebrate, and we need to discuss how you must share in the studio we are about to rent in Hampstead and you must leave the comfort of Kensington to suffer for your art like the rest of us.’

I cast her a sideways glance.

‘Two reasons actually. One, you need to leave your lovely grandfather, and two, we can’t afford it without you.’

I laugh.

‘I’ll take that as a yes.’

I’ve sold four paintings and two more commissions have come in, so I can do this. Maybe it is time to stop haunting the park looking for what I can’t have and instead look to the future.