She half smiled, but without a smidgen of humour. ‘Only, I was to lie facing the artist…’

Two yards away, Hugh fidgeted in his sleep.

She leaned further forward, her chin almost to her knees. ‘Like I said, we loved each other very much—well above a passion.’ Her voice was growing softer and softer. I moved my head closer. We were breathing the same air in front of her face. ‘It wasn’t anything to do with sex. Oh, it was in a way, but also not part of it at all. When you pose for people, you’re sharing with them. Bhero never talked while he worked, but afterwards he’d say: “When I’m painting you, I feel I’m touching you. I know what the texture of your skin is like. I know the texture of your hair in the way your husband does. I feel the bone under your forehead, I’m running my fingers over it…”’ Her hand mimicked the motion. ‘He taught me that turning someone into art is one of the most intimate things you can do.’

‘How did it end?’

‘Horribly.’ Her arm fell back slowly. ‘Hugh came home and it was only with great difficulty that I returned to him. But he had been in the war…’

‘Did you see Bhero again?’

She shook her head. Her face had taken on a painful, obscure look. She stared down at her gleaming shins, then at her husband—before hoisting her eyes up to me. ‘But I saw his painting.’