Golding's modest apartment block on a cluttered side street a few minutes walk from the main plaça. Her name is brightly illuminated in oxtail brown italics above her bell and as I press it, I hear the familiar low growl of her Irish terrier, Rosie, from the open first-floor window. A moment later Nancy speaks huskily into the intercom.
  'Come on up.'
  There's a click and the heavy door opens a fraction, allowing me to turn the handle and enter the stark hallway. Rosie has been unleashed and, with tail wagging and tongue lolling, dashes down the steps towards me. I bend down to fondle her and in so doing spill the contents of my straw shoulder bag on the floor. I sit clearing up the mess. Nancy has walked falteringly from her apartment to the upper landing and leans over the banister looking down at me with a sublime smile on her face.
  'Now that's the sort of thing I thought you only ever did at my age.'
  I hoist myself off the floor and plod up the stairs to greet her. Inside the cluttered flat we enter her studio, a child's paradise full of boxes overflowing with brightly coloured pens, pencils and brushes and assorted canvasses daubed with rich paint, stacked precariously against cupboards and chairs. The walls are suffocated with random photos, newspaper clippings and handwritten scribblings and on the large, paintsmeared table on which she works, Post-its with indecipherable jottings litter the surface. Ollie sits quietly at the table painting, barely acknowledging my presence when I appear.
  'Take a seat, dear,' she says in her easy drawl. 'I'll fix us both a drink.'
  'Let me do it.'
  'I may be decrepit, but even I'm good for opening a bottle.'
  She gives a girlish laugh, revealing an immaculate set of white teeth. The sculptured face with its ivory skin and luxurious, thick black lashes reminds me of the flawless complexion of a Victorian doll.
  She patters off into the kitchen returning with two glasses of white Rioja. Settling them on the table, she leans over and whispers to Ollie. He nods and wanders out of the studio, reappearing with a large glass of juice and some crisps. We sip at our wine, watching the gathering dusk beyond her window.
  'So, how far have you got with the exhibition?'
  She clasps her hands together, the heavy amber stone rings seeming incongruous on her long thin fingers.
  'I'm about halfway finished. You can take a look if you like.'
  She gets up slowly and shuffles over to a large stack of canvasses.
  'Here, take a peek at these.'
  I study each one carefully, alighting on a haunting work in shades of gold and purple, overlaid with slivers of silver and gold foil. It has a whiff of Klimt about it. Nancy bobs her head over my shoulder.
  'I've called that In the Land of the Mayans . You like it?'
  'Very much.'
  'It'll be waiting for you at the gallery.'
  I laugh. 'I'll have to start saving.'
  As is customary when visiting Nancy, I wander around the studio, invading her private domain, reading postcards, scrutinising old photos and random poems. She never minds, often following behind and enlightening me, yet again, on the content of each one.
  I met Nancy a year ago when she was exhibiting at a local gallery. Barely able to walk as a result of a recent operation, she sat regally in a corner clad in a striking fedora and chic black dress. At her neck a riot of jade played with the light and chunky amber stones swallowed up the fingers on both hands. Along with other guests and the town's mayor, I waited patiently to pay homage to the queen of art as she sipped delicately from a flute of cava and chatted in a bright and breezy manner with those nearest her. We have been firm friends ever since.
  Nancy stifles a sneeze.
  'Are you cold?'
  'That's the darn thing. It can be blazing outside, but it's like a
  'Come on up.'
  There's a click and the heavy door opens a fraction, allowing me to turn the handle and enter the stark hallway. Rosie has been unleashed and, with tail wagging and tongue lolling, dashes down the steps towards me. I bend down to fondle her and in so doing spill the contents of my straw shoulder bag on the floor. I sit clearing up the mess. Nancy has walked falteringly from her apartment to the upper landing and leans over the banister looking down at me with a sublime smile on her face.
  'Now that's the sort of thing I thought you only ever did at my age.'
  I hoist myself off the floor and plod up the stairs to greet her. Inside the cluttered flat we enter her studio, a child's paradise full of boxes overflowing with brightly coloured pens, pencils and brushes and assorted canvasses daubed with rich paint, stacked precariously against cupboards and chairs. The walls are suffocated with random photos, newspaper clippings and handwritten scribblings and on the large, paintsmeared table on which she works, Post-its with indecipherable jottings litter the surface. Ollie sits quietly at the table painting, barely acknowledging my presence when I appear.
  'Take a seat, dear,' she says in her easy drawl. 'I'll fix us both a drink.'
  'Let me do it.'
  'I may be decrepit, but even I'm good for opening a bottle.'
  She gives a girlish laugh, revealing an immaculate set of white teeth. The sculptured face with its ivory skin and luxurious, thick black lashes reminds me of the flawless complexion of a Victorian doll.
  She patters off into the kitchen returning with two glasses of white Rioja. Settling them on the table, she leans over and whispers to Ollie. He nods and wanders out of the studio, reappearing with a large glass of juice and some crisps. We sip at our wine, watching the gathering dusk beyond her window.
  'So, how far have you got with the exhibition?'
  She clasps her hands together, the heavy amber stone rings seeming incongruous on her long thin fingers.
  'I'm about halfway finished. You can take a look if you like.'
  She gets up slowly and shuffles over to a large stack of canvasses.
  'Here, take a peek at these.'
  I study each one carefully, alighting on a haunting work in shades of gold and purple, overlaid with slivers of silver and gold foil. It has a whiff of Klimt about it. Nancy bobs her head over my shoulder.
  'I've called that In the Land of the Mayans . You like it?'
  'Very much.'
  'It'll be waiting for you at the gallery.'
  I laugh. 'I'll have to start saving.'
  As is customary when visiting Nancy, I wander around the studio, invading her private domain, reading postcards, scrutinising old photos and random poems. She never minds, often following behind and enlightening me, yet again, on the content of each one.
  I met Nancy a year ago when she was exhibiting at a local gallery. Barely able to walk as a result of a recent operation, she sat regally in a corner clad in a striking fedora and chic black dress. At her neck a riot of jade played with the light and chunky amber stones swallowed up the fingers on both hands. Along with other guests and the town's mayor, I waited patiently to pay homage to the queen of art as she sipped delicately from a flute of cava and chatted in a bright and breezy manner with those nearest her. We have been firm friends ever since.
  Nancy stifles a sneeze.
  'Are you cold?'
  'That's the darn thing. It can be blazing outside, but it's like a
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