Numbers again, she loved them: they were irrefutable.

‘I mean really Lomita, I think you are wasting your time.’

Mr Lorken’s summation was founded, Lomita wished, out of ignorance, but somehow she doubted that.

You don’t know why I am here, I am trying to bring about a series of events that might save your life, save you from being killed by a man who believes you are responsible for all the pain his father lived and died with.

But she could never have said it.

A good killing might be just what you need.

She certainly couldn’t have said that.

She idled the wine glass below her chin, suggesting an attention to the liquid while the thoughts unfolded.

‘I don’t think he painted anything after you bought all his work. I mean we failed to find any more recent works.’

She spoke without lifting her look.

‘When did he die?’

‘Very recently.’

‘And that’s my fault, that he painted no more, I mean?’

‘I never implied that.’

Defended Lomita.

‘Well his work is as dead as he is. Particularly if he’s hanging in a hotel.’

That seemed to supply a full stop from Mr Lorken.

But Daizō intervened.

‘I have been listening to this, and I would just like to say that I sense a certain unhappiness in the treatment of this artist, but I want to say that Mr Lorken cannot be expected to have responsibility for the welfare of an artist.’

And Lomita thought he was going to be sympathetic.

‘Only that, if they are successful, access needs to be maintained to their works. That is, brutal or not, the prime consideration.’

This was Arnott’s contribution.

Lomita was alone here.

The women had given up, engrossed in their own conversation. But they were laughing: it was Shabbat after all. So that was something, and the candles were still burning bright.

‘Yes, and if one fails or drops in value. Do I care? Do I feel guilty? Do I feel I didn’t do enough? No, of course not.’

That didn’t need to be said, it was a given, Mr Lorken.

Lomita folding her napkin, secreted her thought inside.

‘It was his fault anyway, in this particular case, he couldn’t survive through the tough times, he produced shit in an attempt to get more money. To exploit the market, if you like.’

He exploited a market that you have already claimed as your own and declared is totally controlled by you: more of Lomita’s thoughts gifted to the napkin.

‘You’ve got to be able to survive. Do you think everyone liked Warhol at the time? Van Gogh? No.’

‘We have all had to survive, it’s just that a little help is what being human is about.’

Lomita said, discarding the now triangular folded napkin.