‘The point is, and I believe you mentioned that this artist, whatever he’s called, knocked out some abstract expressionist work. That particular movement peaked in the post-war fifties in New York. You have to be original. That is what we are paying for.’

‘Not skill?’

As Lomita spoke, questioning Arnott, she could see her words balloon their irrelevance into the air.

‘Skill means shit. Excuse me, but it makes something with skill alone, worth shit. The never-seen-before. Unless you sense a gimmick, and even then, in this reduced-attention-span era, it could pass. Soundbite art.’

Lomita had no reply for Arnott, her attention was wavering, she didn’t have the energy to argue.

Mr Lorken took a sip of wine and spoke through the swallow.

‘I think the man who paid thirty million dollars for Apocalypse Now, you know, by Christopher Wool, must be feeling an idiot. It won’t hold.’

‘It has held.’

Obviously it was now in Arnott’s art fund.

Disagreement at the top level. A fundamental flaw in the argument from two knowledgeable opinions: the experts disagree. How would that develop?

Defused by Abby, bless her, just as Lomita’s interest was reviving.

‘What about Howard Hodgkin? He was an abstract expressionist and maintained a price.’

Abby bringing in the sentiment of the recently deceased. An appreciated attempt at humanising.

‘He was a colourist, and there was no one like him.’

Said Daizō.

‘I would never buy him.’

Interjected Mr Lorken.

‘Once you’ve had the energy of Jackson Pollock. Why recreate it? You’re forty years too late.’

Said Arnott.

‘I’ll say it again.’

Please don’t, Lomita nearly said.

‘I am not in the business of supporting artists; some people are, of nurturing and watching them grow. I thought at one time I was, but I am not. I am in the business of having the most valuable collection of contemporary art in the world. But I won’t stop the nurturers. I will just buy the artists when they are nurtured.’

Lomita suspected that Mr Lorken was stuck on his own train of thought. Maybe a touch intoxicated.

‘Come and talk to me, Lomita, about investing.’

Arnott was not giving up.

Lomita would rather bathe in the boiling snot exhibit. She had stopped playing head tennis: the words just dropped into the air, from where she ceased to care.

‘Now this is business. You should all be ashamed.’

Finalised Dinah.

‘Mediocrity is what you are going to see, Lomita.’

Mr Lorken was back.

‘When?’

‘Maybe. Wednesday?’

‘I won’t be there. Only Mondays and Fridays.’

‘Well, would you take me to lunch on Friday; I will give you my honest opinion. And we can go from there? I would like you to hear, one on one, what I really think.’

‘Love a challenge, Lomita. I will check my diary and be in touch. I will of course move heaven and earth.’

Just the earth, thought Lomita, heaven won’t listen.