I wonder if you would be kind enough to pass on an invitation to Miss Lomita Nairn from Mr Lorken, inviting her to dinner at home, on Friday night. The details are in the attachment below.

I do hope I have gone through the correct channel in approaching you: I am unable to access a direct communication with Miss Nairn. Of course, if the date does not suit, please inform and we can accommodate.

I do not wish to presume an intrusion.

With reference to John Everett Millen: we are in the process of arranging the transportation of these works to our private viewing room at the beginning of next week – hopefully Monday.

I would be grateful if you could confirm a suitable day for Miss Nairn’s appraisal of these works thereafter, if that proves convenient.

Please excuse the demand for two confirmations in one communication.

If there is anything else I can help you with, please do not hesitate to contact me.

Many thanks.

Yours

Peony Money-Root.

Gallery Development Executive.

Ever sensed a suggestion of humour towards the end of the email, but he couldn’t visualise her face in response to that humour: he had never seen her smile.

And, of course, he was the minion and was not invited. A fly on the wall: he wished to be.

The house was quiet, it was always quiet; but it seemed to have the sound of sleep hanging in the air on his return. Manita did not appear to be around.

After a brief lie-down on his bed, and a difficult time with the remote, trying, without panic, to access the shopping channel, he felt the need for some calming medication.

This could only be administered by his resident physician Miss Lomita Nairn.

He walked out of his room, stood outside her door, listening for any sound and taking in the sun. Always the sun, playing with the trees: he was glad of the air conditioning that brought a cool to the world inside. It made looking outside at the warmth like a visit to a planetarium or an aquarium, where the observer is placed in a different environment. Complete separation. He was living in a different climate: he was in a different world. He knocked quietly on her door.

‘Hello?’

Was the surprise response. Mainly because the knock was so quiet: good hearing, he thought.

‘What do you want?’

A warm tone to the question.

‘It’s me, Ever.’

‘Come in, my sweet. Come in.’

He opened the door; she was fully in bed, looking pale and tired, but not unhappy to see him. She patted the bed and invited him to sit. It was usually the other way round, with her showing the concern, and sitting, like the doctor, on the bed.

‘I have just overdone it a bit, my sweet. I’ve missed you. Did everything go all right?’

‘Yes.’

He said simply. He did not want to invite questions.