Jeanie takes a cigarette out of her bag and Ollie shakes his head at her. Don’t smoke in here, it’s not good for them.

She puts the cigarette down in her lap. I did love Johann you know.

I know. But let’s not talk about it now.

She gets up and reaches for something in her bag, holds up a small lump of hash wrapped in clingfilm. I’m gonna make this in the other room.

Ollie stands and follows her. He leans against the windows and watches her roll a one-skin joint.

They go out onto the balcony to smoke it, shaking with the cold and residual alcohol. They drape Jeanie’s coat around their shoulders. Ollie shares out the DFs he gets from his mum and they wash these down with whisky. The Romanians next door are also on their balcony, in dressing gowns, similarly occupied: the woman gives a cheery wave. He pulls Jeanie to him under the coat as he takes the joint from her and draws on it. They watch a car burning out in the next street. He shuts his eyes and traces the crisscrossed scars on the underside of her arm. The DFs starting to work already, a numbness and a buzz at once, and he lays his head on her shoulder (he could fall, very far, very fast right now and he wouldn’t care). That’s the hum of the train on the Southend line. One Canada Square blinking red in the distance. A police siren, haunting and faint.

Midissage: No suits, no phones

Ollie scans the roof terrace. Ad execs on the sunloungers and at the bar, glasses and bottles and pastel shirts reflecting the light. The blank blue glare of the empty pool – a dried leaf spins on its glassy surface. Dedicated afternoon drinkers – models, dancers, DJs – sit around its edge, already settled in. A girl in denim cut-offs and tights trails her hand back and forth in the water. Rufus Sewell dressed all in black. That other guy who nearly won an Oscar. Given the time of day, an awful lot of people.

He can’t see the gallerist – or can’t recognize him. He takes a deep breath, strolls the length of the terrace and makes another slow scan of the space. He looks out at the view, panoramic – cranes on the skyline and developers’ hoardings below. Thirty St Mary Axe glinting green. The Oscar guy looks up and at him briefly. He starts to sweat a little, shifts the portfolio under his arm. He wouldn’t mind a swim.

Finally, he sees him – squat, sixty, bald, wearing dark glasses. Lying like a Roman prefect on a sunlounger, cocktail in fat hand.