I went straight over to her, glad that I was standing and she wasn’t. She knew I was making excuses. She knew what everyone knew about my life. Her face was round and pale in a boxy haircut, self-inflicted, by the look of it. She watched me from narrowed eyes, shrewd in the way a mistreated cat is shrewd. The contrast with the stylish merrymakers of the painting beside her was comical. Not to mention the contrast with Maddy.

“Was it?” asked Alison in her scratchy voice.

“Was what?”

“Was something spilled in there?”

“If so, they cleaned it up,” I said. “Alison, I have to tell you there’s been a complaint.”

“I thought you said the cleaners weren’t allowed in the wax room?”

I ignored that. “Not official, but a complaint nevertheless. From a member of the public.”

“A complaint about what?”

“A visitor told one of the docents that you spoke to him in an ‘extremely rude manner.’ Something about a Matisse.”

“People don’t like being told what to do, no matter how polite you are.”

“And how polite were you?”

Alison had a way of appearing to be looking at me without actually meeting my eye. “If it wasn’t an official complaint, what are you telling me for? They can say anything they want.”

I gave her what I hoped was the piercing look of a line manager. I no longer had any confidence in my own authority.

“He was this big loud guy. He went right up and put his finger on the Matisse. I said, ‘Please don’t touch the artwork.’ He said, ‘But it’s behind glass.’ I said, ‘If you touch the glass, the glass touches the painting.’ He gave me a dirty look, and when he thought I’d turned my back, he did it again. Where do people get off, damaging works of art?”

“How long have you been here, Alison?”

“Year and a half.”

“Weren’t you planning to start a master’s?”

“I was going to.” She made a face. “Want to know why he was provoking me?”

“We take visitor complaints very seriously, you know. It’s a disciplinary matter.”

“The guy was wearing a backpack. He must’ve sneaked up the fire stairs. So I said to him, ‘You can’t bring that in here. Can I ask you to go check it in the coatroom?’ He said in this nasty way, ‘You can ask me, but I’m not leaving this in any coatroom. Do you know what’s in here?’ He went like this . . .” Alison made the hand sign for a pistol. “Pointed his finger straight at my head like he was taking aim, and laughed. Asshole.”

“Did you call him that?”

“Of course not.”

“Phew.”

“I called him a redneck jerk.”

“You can’t call visitors names!” I sighed. “You know that.”

“Should I have called the police? It’s against the law here, carrying a gun.”