‘I can look on our database to see if we have ever had any of his work, but…’

She halted, and started up again, having gathered her thoughts in a reflective beat.

‘If he is not currently for sale on our website it is unlikely. Is that M-i-double-l?’

‘Yes.’

Confirmed Ever.

‘E-n, or I-n?’

‘E.’

Came the reply.

A time.

‘No, he is not listed. Let me check the off-sale stock list. Sorry, this is quite a slow process, as I have to access it by warehouse location and there are a quite a few. Please take a seat.’

And she pointed to another Carrara quarry section, where black leather sofas that had been responsible for the death of a few cows were resting, waiting to dwarf the occupant.

‘Many thanks.’

‘Please read our catalogue of the current exhibitions, we have three at the moment including a magnificent Koons retrospective, some of his earliest work from the seventies.’

‘Many thanks.’

He repeated, but he had no interest in the catalogue.

‘And if you would like tea?’

She continued with an admirable efficiency and attentiveness considering he was just a man off the street.

‘Or coffee, or water, Jules will be delighted to help you.’

Jules was revealed behind him as he turned around. Jules looked out of place not being on the pages of Vogue, black dressed in black, she stood out against the perfect backdrop, seeming physically overqualified to bring the cup of espresso that was ordered.

‘No sugar, thank you.’

He had walked into this inner sanctuary through two enormous glass doors that closed as if hermetically sealed, keeping the noise of the regular gallery visitors as a mime show in the background. He had assumed he was in the right place. Reasonable assumption now.

Jules presented, the only word for it, a white treat of a tray that emphasised the brilliant blue, yellow and red of the tiny Talavera cup, the only alarm of colour in the space, the cup set in an off-centre saucer, with the steam from the coffee still rising. He anticipated its deliciousness, but was desperately thinking what to say to Miss England if she found his father’s work. It surprised him that he had arrived with no plan, which made him think, only briefly, that he was hoping nothing would be found. That he could go home. Ditch it all. The coffee was piping hot and just as his mouth was beginning to accept the heat after much blowing, he heard the clip of exceedingly high heels, that clean, sharp clip allowing the minimum contact with the floor. He looked up to see the pencil-tight skirt belonging to Miss England standing in front of him.

‘May I?’