I woke up early today and decided to walk all the way to work. The sky seemed a little bluer than usual. If I believed in God, I’d say that he’d added a few extra drops of colour with a giant pipette. The air smelt cleaner, as if it were rich with tiny crystals of ice that melted into pure water inside me. I felt shiny, like polished metal. Cold. I walked fast, until I was out of breath. I smiled to myself every so often, when I thought about scrambled eggs or black and white films or syrup chocolate sauce. I felt full of life. I bumped into Mary in the corridor on the way to the lab. We talked as we walked, dodging the endless stream of hospital porters pushing bits of equipment or patients on trolleys from one end of the hospital to another. She was smiling — told me she’d found a place to live and had moved in at the weekend. She was sharing with a student doctor, a Christian — they had lots in common and were getting on really well. She seemed happy; I was glad.

This morning there was a postcard waiting for me on the mat. It featured four stunningly tacky photos of Brighton. I turned it over; it said, ‘Here are some photos for you to learn from. Sorry you are not here… oh yes, you are. Love, Red’. There were twelve kisses underneath. He must have sent it on Saturday night when I was writing. I called him to say thank you. There always seems to be something to talk to him about these days. I keep thinking of things to tell him, I make a list in my head as things happen. I pay more attention.

Today we arranged for me to finish modelling for the second painting. We’ll start again next week. I’m seeing him this Thursday for my birthday; we’re going out for a meal I think — there’s a place he wants to take me to. He got his new mobile last week and texts me quite a lot. Not normal texts like, ‘Could you buy some milk,’ or, ‘Nice to see you yesterday.’ They’re like little pieces of poetry. Last week I had, ‘The sun is sitting on my lap today,’ and, ‘You are not here, and I am not there, but we are together in my head.’

Abbie called tonight — she said she didn’t want to push me, but she’s found a counsellor I could get in touch with if that’s what I decide to do. One of her friends had recommended her; she’s called Rachel. So now I have her number. I wouldn’t know what to say if I called her. I returned Zoë’s calls too; I haven’t talked to her for more than a week. I don’t want her to feel left out of all this. Told her that I’d been feeling down, that I’d been having some problems and had seen a doctor about it. I didn’t give her any details. She wanted to come round right away to talk to me about it properly, but I persuaded her not to, and she sounded a bit rejected. She didn’t push me for any answers, just wanted me to reassure her that I’d be OK. I said I’d tell her about it when I saw her and that she shouldn’t worry. She was pleased that me and Red had made up after the party, said, ‘About time.’ She seems to be getting on alright, and is still settling into her new life. She’d put another bookshelf together yesterday evening on her own and felt proud, even though she’d put the back bit on back to front. She said she’d missed me and her words were like sunlight.

Tonight I looked properly at one of my own photos for the first time. It was a print from the class, from when we went out onto the street. Sara was fooling about with that silver street performer, and I’d taken a couple of quick snaps, not really knowing what to expect. And one of them has come out just wonderfully. It’s a close-up of both of their faces, and the look between them is just perfect. He’d been flirting with her outrageously, bravely trying to disregard the fact of his silverness, and she was keeping him back. But the photo has caught a moment when her face has just begun melting towards being amused, towards letting him in, sharing a joke with him. I looked at her face for ages; it was a wonderful thing to have captured, and it made me feel a bit emotional — I’m not sure why. I feel emotional all over the place these days; yesterday I cried at a baked bean advert because of the sweet, choral background music. A baked bean advert!

Sara was wearing such a private expression in my photo that I felt like a voyeur. It revealed things about her — that she wants to be loved like everyone else, that she’s a bit scared to let people in. It was strange to look so closely at a scene I’d been present at, a scene I’d captured myself. I liked it. I had an extra layer of knowledge about what was going on. I felt a part of the photo — I felt a part of the world.

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