Versailles came to mind, Lomita thought to herself – why would a man who had hired Frank Gehry to build a gallery live in a house that was paying tribute to the past?

It looked like a French chateau, not really a small version: it was an enormous property. Why the hell wouldn’t it be?

The walk past the exquisite organisation of plants had been illuminated by soft and invisible light leading to the twenty-foot-high wrought iron and glass double doors.

On entering, the first visual intake was the art. This presented an anomaly, a man known for his comprehensive collection of post-war contemporary art and all the art that she could see on the walls, appeared, as far as she could tell, to be old masters. Well, old anyway, the masters tag just seemed to trip into her thoughts as appropriate in this environment.

Lomita always arrived ten minutes after the stated time on the invitation, she liked an entrance.

She was making one.

She was wearing the kingfisher blue Valentino, in silk, with chiffon sleeves cuffed at the wrist; a large bow was tied in the blue silk at her neck; the skirt was in soft pleats ending at mid-calf; with the bow occupying her neck, she wore a diamond bracelet that sat on top of the cuff and grasped her wrist with a tightness that allowed the minimum of movement, just the softness of an occasional flop, a little rattle and roll. Her soft greying hair was in a french pleat. A pin with a diamond, like a chopstick, was randomly but perfectly placed in her hair. Every inch was refinement and beauty: a beauty that might be fading but still had sufficient dazzle to wash over the guests as the introductions were taking place.

She was nervous, this was not familiar territory for Lomita, not for many years, and she had the desire to pee, to use the bathroom, but thought how odd that would appear on arrival. How old and incontinent. Maybe she just wanted to pee and claim some territory. She was first greeted by Dinah Lorken, who introduced herself, understandably, as Ingmar Lorken’s wife; she walked Lomita across the marble floor, at a considerate pace, acknowledging the need for the use of the cane, to be introduced to a Japanese gentleman, elegantly dressed in all black Yohji Yamamoto.

‘Madam.’

He bowed as he spoke and stopped his head inches from the back of Lomita’s hand, which he had taken in offer of a formal handshake.

‘Daizō Mori. I suppose I am acting as a kind of cultural attaché, on behalf of Japan, obviously.’

This was followed by a smile, and in the style of an intimate confession, he leaned closer:

‘I think I am here as an extremely inadequate replacement, in the absence of Yusaku Maezawa.’

This time the smile was accompanied by a laugh as he enjoyed his moment of self-deprecation.