We’re interrupted by the artist in person.

‘Hey, Hadley,’ he says, ‘I need you to talk to this person.’ There’s an old, very drunk man wobbling around at Nico’s side. ‘He’s from a newspaper or something.’

‘Great,’ says Hadley, jumping away from me as if he’s just been stung. ‘Hi. Great to see you here.’ And he’s off. Nico, or Nicolae Vladimirescu, remains, looking as if someone has just farted under his nose. He’s wearing some of the most repulsive clothes I’ve ever seen, all appliqued slogans and frayed seams, with his waistband even further down than normal.

‘Hi Nico,’ says Jonathan, ‘great show.’

‘Yes,’ says Nico. ‘The creative power of the universe flows through me.’ He makes a gesture with his hands – very large, hairy-backed hands that would be more at home wrapped round a pickaxe.

‘How did you make them?’

‘It’s a very long complicated process,’ he says, ‘based on the theories of Ferdinand de Saussure. I write thesis on him at university.’

‘Wow,’ says Jonathan. ‘I did a thesis too. Mine was about …’

‘The art world at home … pffff.’

‘Oh yes,’ says Jonathan, ‘it’s so hard to get shown …’

‘So I come to England and here I find wealthy collectors.’

‘Fascinating choice of subject matter,’ I say. ‘The pigeon, for instance.’

Nico shrugs. ‘I hate fucking pigeons,’ he says, and walks off, as if mortally offended.

‘He’s very moody,’ says Jonathan, looking starry-eyed. ‘The other day he and Hadley had the most dreadful row.’

‘Are they … you know. Lovers?’

‘God, you’re so shallow,’ says Jonathan. ‘Hadley is promoting Nico’s work …’

‘Because I got the distinct impression that Nico was an escort.’

‘Oh you just see the worst in everything.’

‘Not least because I’ve seen his photograph in the back of a magazine, with a black bar over his eyes and the words “nine inches, thick”.’

‘How do you know it’s him?’

‘Well, it says he’s thick …’

Jonathan storms off to the loo to take drugs, so I pace around the walls trying to look interested in the ‘work’.

‘Brilliant comment on the ubiquity of the photographic eye,’ I hear someone say. ‘Subverting accepted notions of photography as an art form by using the cheapest mobile phone camera and re-contextualising it in the gallery space.’ From this I assume that Nico downloaded a few random snaps from his SIM card and got them enlarged at Hadley’s expense.

Stuart comes bounding across the room, places two hands on my shoulders and practically leapfrogs over me. He’s so full of energy he makes me feel exhausted already.

‘Hello,’ he says, then grabs my tits. ‘You didn’t go to the gym. You’re all flat and saggy.’

‘Hello,’ I say. ‘Where have you been all day?’

‘Studio. My God, these pictures are fucking awful.’

‘Can I have my keys?’

‘Sure,’ he says, but he’s got nothing in his pockets and no bag, so God knows where the keys are. ‘What the fuck are you wearing?’