Ollie picks up a builders’ sign and hurls it against the shutters. An alarm sounds. They grab hands and fly round the corner.

When they’ve put some distance between themselves and the museum they slow to a trot. Ollie stops and lights a cigarette. How do you always look so sober, Lottie?

Because I am.

Oh. I was afraid it might be that.

They reach the Whitechapel Road. Lottie, he notices, is not walking with her usual briskness.

Are we going to the Ten Bells? he says suddenly.

She looks at him in surprise.

Cos we could… he looks at her. No, no – let’s go to the Ten Bells. He takes a long drag of his cigarette, shakes something out of his head. They cross the road.

*

Back in its heyday, at the turn of the century, the Victorian pub was frequented by Hirst, Emin and Lucas. Now it’s frequented by Ollie, Jeanie and Lottie. Half the private view is on the pavement, puffing at e-cigs through beards. As they step inside Ollie scans the crowd. There’s Jeanie, at the front. With the Pakistani guy. From the look on his face, she is telling him the George Galloway anecdote. Yep, there we go.

He and Lottie fight their way to the bar and get a drink.

I’ve been hanging around this pub for four years now, shouts Ollie, above the din.

And has it brought you what you wanted? she shouts back.

Not really, no. He gestures to the back of the pub and they hack their way through. They settle next to a radiator.

He shakes his head and points to the ceiling. One of my works is hanging upstairs, you know. In a dark corner.

Lottie tries not to roll her eyes. Did you get paid in drink?

He looks at her, as though he knows she’s taking the piss. And then he looks back towards the bar, where Jeanie is now sitting – on the bar – with the landlord of the Ten Bells and the hot new Muslim painter. The landlord looks quite taken with the painter (who is indeed quite hot).