‘That’s it. I’m out of here.’

And he actually started picking up his equipment and stuffing it clumsily into bags. I put my hand on his forearm, but he pulled away. ‘Fuck off,’ he said. ‘You’re just like the rest.’

‘The rest of what? The capitalist system? Humanity?’

I tugged at the bag he was holding but he wrenched it back and it fell with a thud. A zoom lens rolled across the floor. ‘Have you any idea what that costs?’

‘I’m just a stupid bike messenger, remember? But it doesn’t matter, does it? It’s just money, after all.’

He gripped me by the forearm; I could feel his fingers digging into my flesh.

‘You’re hurting.’

‘You’re asking to be hurt.’

‘I never ask to be hurt.’

‘Oh, excuse me.’ Orla’s drawl made us spring apart. ‘Am I interrupting something here?’

‘Nothing at all,’ I said brightly.

Owen muttered something and retrieved the lens. I had thought Orla might have gone to the toilet to snort some coke. No such luck. She was as lackadaisical as ever, and asked if she could have something to drink before we resumed. ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Coffee, tea, water, orange juice, cranberry?’

‘Do you have mint tea?’

‘No, sorry.’

‘Or camomile?’

‘Just Tetley’s.’

She winced. ‘Is the coffee decaffeinated?’

‘Not as such.’

‘What kind of water?’

‘Tap,’ I said.

She made another disgusted face. ‘I’ve got a headache,’ she said.

‘Do you want a paracetamol?’

‘No.’

‘Would you like to reschedule this for tomorrow?’ asked Owen. His voice was soft and creepy.

It didn’t bother Orla, though. ‘I’m on set tomorrow,’ she said.

‘Then we’ll just have to do it now, won’t we?’

‘S’pose.’

Owen unscrewed his camera from the stand and walked over to her. ‘I’d like to make things a bit more casual, less posed,’ he said. ‘But you know that the magazine wants you animated, happy. Do you think you could manage that?’

Orla just shrugged and stayed in exactly the same position, staring into the lens. Owen took some photographs and Orla was as unresponsive as it was possible to look. She didn’t even glower.

‘Orla,’ said Owen, eventually. I could see a muscle working in his jaw.

‘Yeah?’

‘You’re an actress, aren’t you? Can’t you manage one small smile? Look at you – you could be made of wax. Not my idea of sexy at all.’

‘There’s no need to be so rude. I think I’m going to call my agent and ask for someone else to photograph me.’

I looked at Owen, standing there clutching his camera as if he was about to bludgeon her with it. Then I nodded at Orla. ‘Can I have a moment?’ I said.

‘Astrid?’ said Owen. ‘You want a fucking girls’ chat now? You want to find out how she puts on her makeup?’

‘Behave,’ I said. I signalled to Orla to follow me across to the far side of the huge studio. We were standing by a window, latticed with steel bars, that looked out over the canal. It was raining, the drops dimpling the surface of the grey water. I took my jacket off.

‘You said you liked it,’ I said. ‘I want to give it to you.’

‘Are you sure?’ she said, unsurprised. ‘That’s really kind of you.’

‘It’ll suit you,’ I said.

She pulled on the jacket with the eagerness of a small child.

‘Could you do me a favour in return?’ I said.

She stood in front of a full-length mirror on the wall opposite the window and admired herself. ‘What?’

‘Like Owen said, you’re an actress,’ I said. ‘I know it’s grim and you’re tired, but for the next five minutes, could you play the part of a person who’s happy and vivacious and having a really great time?’

Orla’s expression was thoughtful, then she looked round at me and smiled, her eyes suddenly illuminated as if from the inside, her thin face radiant and sweet with imitation joy. ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘Astrid?’

We were walking back along the canal, through the gathering rain, both carrying a bag with Owen’s cameras and equipment.

‘Yeah?’

‘Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘Except that I hate myself for not kicking her out on her little arse.’

‘Don’t hate yourself.’

‘I’ll buy you another jacket.’

‘I didn’t even like it that much.’

‘And you’re getting wet and cold. Put this on.’

He took off his own and put it over my shoulders. ‘Are you always this forgiving?’ he asked.

‘Of you or her?’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

The rain was heavy now, ploughing up the canal and pattering in the leaves of the trees. It trickled down my neck and bounced off my nose. I could hear the water squelching in my shoes. Owen’s hair was plastered to his skull and his shirt was wet through.

‘Dario will have used up all the hot water,’ I said.

‘Do you want to get a bus or a cab?’

‘Not unless you do.’

‘I quite enjoy walking in the rain.’

We walked in silence, taking care not to touch and not looking at each other but staring ahead at the muddy path, the grey water. I was hot and cold at the same time.

We went under a bridge and in the half-light, without knowing we were going to, we stopped and kissed urgently, pressed up against the damp wall, water dripping from our hair and running down our cheeks like tears. Our wet clothes clung to us. Then we moved apart and set off along the canal again. Owen hadn’t even let go of his bag full of equipment.

‘Do you like being a despatch rider?’ he said.

‘Kind of. I don’t want to do it for ever. Who wants to be a despatch rider when they’re sixty? I’ve already been doing it longer than I thought I would. I thought it was just for a few weeks in the summer while I made up my mind what I wanted to do next, and that was a year ago.’

‘So why did you continue?’

‘Because I never made up my mind what I wanted to do next. I was studying law, you know. That’s how I met Pippa. But I never really knew why I was doing it. I went travelling instead, worked abroad. It’s been fun, but at some point I guess I’ll have to get a grown-up job. It’s odd, isn’t it? I mean, I look at someone like Miles. When I first met him he was radical and dangerous. He was always going on about individual freedom and the way the system imprisons you. But what was I expecting? That Miles should still be chaining himself to trees and Dario should do botched painting jobs and get stoned and I should cycle round London until I drop dead in the saddle? And that we should all live like students in Maitland Road for ever and ever? Maybe that’s why we’re upset about moving. Because it means we have to look at our lives.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Are we having a conversation?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps not. You’re doing most of the talking: I’m just letting you.’

‘Oh. Well, I won’t say anything else, then.’

But he took me by the wrist, pulled me to a halt again and stared at me in the streaming rain. ‘Listen. You know you said I didn’t even see you. It’s not true. I see you. Here, look at your cheekbones, you could be from Lapland. Your eyes are set wide apart. You’ve got quite a sharp collarbone’ – with one finger, he traced it – ‘and strong arms and a flat stomach. On your shoulders, under your shirt, you’ve got small prominent knots of muscle. But then you’ve got these full breasts and -’

‘You’re talking about me as if I wasn’t here. I don’t like it. Stop it.’

‘I’d like to photograph you.’

‘I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.’

‘All the contradictions.’

‘Didn’t you hear me? I’m not one of your subjects.’

‘A beautiful object, an object of desire.’

‘Oh, please.’

‘Black-and-white. By a window.’

‘I don’t think so.’

He put his hands on my shoulders and looked at me. ‘I’d like to photograph you, Astrid,’ he said softly. ‘Please?’

‘I tell you what. Let me look at your other pictures and then I’ll see.’

‘Come on, then.’

He set off at a stride, and I had to almost run to keep up, the heavy bag bumping against my shins. We got to the house and he took it from me, then helped me out of his sodden jacket. There was the tinny sound of a radio coming from the top floor, but otherwise it seemed empty. We went up the stairs together. He opened the door of his room and looked at me.