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“Don’t be a fool!” Drewe said firmly when he heard about the latest round of fireworks. “You’re not responsible for her well-being. You’re divorced. Except for the children’s safety, what matters most now is your work. You have to paint. You must provide for the children.”

Myatt agreed to put an end to his ex-wife’s extended stay, and placed a call to his former in-laws to tell them that their daughter needed help. Before long, his ex-father-in-law had moved her out of her boyfriend’s house and into a new one near Myatt, and the boyfriend began to come around less and less.

Within a few weeks the storm had passed, and Myatt felt comfortable enough to let her take the children when she wanted to. He returned to his painting full force. Several weeks later, however, he received an unpleasant surprise visit from Social Services. It was billed as a routine checkup to make sure he was providing a healthy environment for the kids, but the experience left him shaken. It was clear that he was barely making ends meet. The house was a single-father nightmare: frames and canvases, toys and finger paints, food and diapers were everywhere. In addition, the sleeping arrangements were far from ideal. Amy slept in the attic, up a steep, narrow flight of stairs, in a room with a ceiling that sloped so badly Myatt could hardly stand up straight. Sam, a fretful child, had the room next to his, so Myatt rarely got a good night’s sleep.

The visit from Social Services ended without incident, but Myatt was rattled by the notion that the government could simply march into his house, declare him an unfit father, and take off with the kids. A few days after the visit, when he took the train to Euston station to drop off another piece for Drewe, he was still in a deep funk.

“Calm down,” said Drewe, who was waiting for him at the bar. “You don’t have to be a perfect housekeeper or live in a palace to prove you’re a good father and a good man. This will pass.”

Again Drewe encouraged him to focus on his painting and not to let anxiety get in the way of his life with the kids. Family and loved ones came first, he said. Something would turn up. Myatt’s finances would improve. All he needed was patience.

Drewe was no stranger to family upheavals. When he was a boy, he told Myatt, his father, a scientist, had beaten up Drewe’s mother after learning that she was having an affair with one of his colleagues. The scandal ended in divorce, and his father spent a year in prison for assault. Drewe hadn’t seen him since. To dissociate himself from his family’s unsavory past, he had changed the surname he was born with, Cockett, and become John Drewe, adopting a variation on his mother’s maiden name.

While Myatt was digesting this news, Drewe went on to say that he had married a Cambridge mathematician, the love of his life, but she had left him and broken his heart. Her work took precedence over their relationship, she’d calmly explained. He was devastated, but he’d gotten over it.

“Look at me,” he said. “I’ve suffered a great deal, but I’ve put my life in order. It takes time. Things work out in the end.”

Myatt nodded. Drewe was apparently living happily with Goudsmid now, well off, successful in every respect.

“You’re spending too much time teaching other people’s children and not enough time teaching your own. Your job is a drain on your talents.” The most important thing in the world, he reiterated, was for Myatt to provide for his children, preferably without having to suffer the daily drudgery of working for a pittance.

Myatt had always wanted to work from home and manage his schedule around the children’s, so he listened carefully. By now, even though Myatt was nearly three years older than Drewe, the professor was a father figure to him, someone with authority and compassion who could guide him through the difficult moments. What Myatt didn’t know was that Drewe had invented most of his tragic narrative, conjuring it from air to tug at Myatt