‘It’s always the bottom line.’

Where did that come from?

Arnott was speaking.

‘The bottom line is that Ingmar and about fifty other people in the world, they are the only ones that can compete in the over-fifty-million market. They are really more important than the artist. I think Ingmar’s earlier example of Schnabel and Basquiat shows exactly what I mean.’

The chocolate mousse now just left tracks on the plates. Lomita had declined the desert: she perused the calligraphic menus lying by the placements, elaborately twirled by hand with pen and ink.

Lomita’s disengagement, she thought, might bring about that lull that often inspired a change of direction.

‘My son now runs my online business.’

A sugar-revived Mr Lorken started up.

‘I think art online is for decorators.’

A little contentious from Daizō.

‘Yes, it’s low price. Cheap end, limited market. But a market. He would have looked, Jonathan, my son, through our warehouse stock, thousands of works, and he didn’t even bother to put this man Millen’s work online.’

‘And what about the demoralisation of the artist?’

‘The what? You are asking me what? About the feeling of the artist if his work doesn’t sell?’

A stupid question, Lomita realised before the breath had left her mouth.

‘I think we’ve been here.’

More Eastern diplomacy.

‘Could I give a damn?’

Less Western diplomacy.

‘Excuse me. Ladies, shall we move to the drawing room for coffee and chocolate truffles? Arnott? Daizō?’

‘Thank you, Dinah.’

Said a relieved Lomita.

With that there was the Exodus: though not of Biblical proportions.

But with a sense of relief from certain parties. Abby and Dinah linked arms and made an empathetic attempt to rescue Lomita from what they realised to have been a bit of a celebration of power.

Moving from the table gave change in perspective, it made Lomita look at all these privileged people with a familiar feeling. It took her back, to a world of not caring. A time when no one had cared for her. A time when the extreme of not caring had run into abuse.

*

She sat for the coffee only briefly, she was exhausted.

She asked if she could take her leave: they all stood up and were beyond polite in their partings. Daizō Mori once more bowed. Lomita expressed her genuine gratitude at their hospitality; even if the sentiment of the conversation had been disturbing to say the least. Mr Lorken escorted her to the door.

‘I hope for Friday.’

Then as a postscript, thrown in with the faint quality of a pencil inclusion.

‘Did you not tell me, at my gallery that you had a Metzinger in your collection?’

‘Did I?’

Wondering why she had, if she had.

‘Which one?’

‘I do not think I am obliged to tell you that, Ingmar.’

There was a pause, where she felt true guilt. An outsider in a world of constant awareness of persecution. A plunderer of Jewish art.