I snort, but I can already feel the pull of that Burne-Jones. There’s a whole exhibition waiting for me, no crowds, and from the sound of it, some paintings I’ve only ever sighed over in books. I’ve been in the art business for more than a decade now and handled probably thousands of paintings, some good, some brilliant, and some truly abysmal. But each time I see a new work I feel something deep in my gut, almost on a cellular level. Emotions quickly follow, their trajectory depending on what mood the artist has tried to create and how well he or she has pulled it off, but it’s that initial frisson that keeps me chasing art. It’s like a drug, and right now, it’s quelling my anxiety. I step forward, closing the gap between John and me.

‘Let’s go.’ He moves to the door and reaches for the bell, but the guard sitting inside has already clocked our approach. The door lock buzzes and we push our way in, the sudden cool chilling my nervous sweat. No art here, just an expanse of polished concrete leading to the museum beyond. A reception desk is built into the wall on our right, the guard installed in the cubbyhole behind it. He watches as we approach.

‘John Porter and Alex Clayton to see Giles Westerman. We’re expected …’ John leans forward and reads the guard’s name tag, ‘Ray.’

The guard gives John a bit of a smirk and I wonder if he witnessed the awkward boogaloo moment.

‘Porter and Clayton?’ He runs a meaty finger down the brief list in front of him, then stabs the page. ‘Righto.’

I blink. I’m on the list. No one has objected or tried to kick me out.

We sign in and Ray slides two visitor tags across the desk to us. ‘Pop those on and I’ll let Mr Westerman know you’re here.’

John and I retreat a few steps and hang the lanyards around our necks as Ray gets busy on the phone.

‘He’ll be along directly.’

Nodding our thanks, we’re silent, occupying ourselves by pulling faces at each other. Thrilled that his strategy has worked and I’m here, inside, John’s faces are all smug, wide-eyed, what-a-great-surprise. A small part of me is still wondering how I let myself be suckered into this, so mine tend toward you’re-pathetic-grow-up sort of expressions. It passes the time quite satisfactorily.