Rosa’s paintings defied comment. They were like ikebana. What do you say about ikebana: ‘It’s very still. Very pretty. Thank you.’ I wished Mrs Parish were here. She would understand Rosa’s paintings. Because even though it seemed silly, like a joke—all 26 paintings being white, every single one of them—the effect of all that white wasn’t silly at all. In total, all collected together like that, they had a kind of power. And when you went up close, you realised there was another trick: they weren’t just white at all. You had to peer really hard through the white surface, but underneath it there were other pictures. Phantom pictures of towns and houses and people, skies and gardens and walls, mountains. All painted over in white. Shimmering shapes that didn’t really exist, like mirages. They were like Pompeii looked, after the volcano came: dead but alive at the same time. Petrified.

Kitten elbowed me in the ribs and passed me a glass of soda water. Her hair was coming out of her combs, and her mascara had run. But she still looked beautiful: half movie star, half pet. ‘Is this art?’ she whispered. ‘Is it, Owen?’ She didn’t wait for my reply, but linked arms with me and we went around together. ‘I think it is,’ she said, slopping some red wine on my shoes in her enthusiasm.

I thought it was too. I was fully decided. I would tell Rosa when I saw her and it would make her really happy.

‘You know what I’m going to do?’ said Kitten. She let go of my arm and turned to face me. ‘I’m going to buy one!’ She looked around the gallery. ‘Which one, O-yo? Which is your favourite?’

And then it was really funny, because we went round and round the gallery deciding which painting Kitten should buy. ‘This one?’ ‘No, this one!’ ‘Hmmm,’ said Kitten, pointing, ‘that one’s too white!’ and we burst into laughter.

‘What are you up to?’ said Mr Parish, sidling up to us. ‘What are you two concocting?’ He was still drunk and I could tell he wanted to put his arm around Kitten.

But Kitten nudged me and put her finger to her lips, and we burst out laughing again, and the joke was on Mr Parish. It seemed so hysterically funny, all of a sudden, that the joke could be on Mr Parish. Kitten pinched me and we ran away.

I was glad to be with Kitten. Kitten was the perfect person that evening to be with. She had no artistic pretending to do: she was not on duty. She had no responsibility to me beyond making me laugh. She bought a white painting with the very faint outline of a garden behind it. Hers was the first red sticker. But others followed. And Rosa’s joke was not a joke at all. Not a trick. Not a joke. Not even a concept. It was a Trojan horse.