Towards the evening’s end the party took an uglier turn. Sally was nearly raped in the rear seat of the Continental by an overboisterous tableau sculptor for whom she was mimicking the postures of the President’s widow. Carried away by the excitement, David urged the topless girl to interview her during the heat of the assault.

“Sally, this is live TV! Tell the viewers how you feel!” David dragged the cameraman after him, snatched the microphone, and rammed it through the passenger window into Sally’s enraged face. “Over to you, Sally! Let’s have a commentary in your own words…”

By the time Cleo Churchill and I had rescued Sally, the party was spilling into the street, the guests searching for an even larger exhibition. Straightening her torn dress, Sally lunged at the drunken sculptor with her shoe and hobbled away on a broken heel through the scattered wine bottles. She grimaced at the image of herself on the television screen and disappeared with a cry into the night.

“Is Sally safe?” Cleo avoided the wine dripping from the roof of the Lincoln and slammed the passenger door with relief. “You’ve proved something, Jim—though I don’t know what. Was it worth it?”

“As an experiment? I think so.” I knew that she disapproved of the exhibition and had gamely come along to give me support. “At least they never stopped looking at the cars, which is more than you can say for most gallery openings. Dick Sutherland wants to film all this for his new series. When he gets back from the States they’ll stage the party again at the Television Centre, with studio extras playing the guests.”

“Heaven forbid … Don’t let him use you all the time.” Unsettled by the violent evening, Cleo wiped the wine from her hands. She pointed to the monitor screen transmitting a picture of the empty gallery. “You’re on TV now—isn’t that enough?”

“Broadcast TV, Cleo—Dick feels the idea deserves an audience of millions.”

“I thought it had one. You know, out in the streets, the real thing?”

“Cleo, this is the real thing … But I’m glad you came. Can I give you a lift home?”

“Jim dear, I think not. This is one evening when I wouldn’t trust your driving…”

Cleo stood in front of the camera, using the screen as a mirror as she checked the wine stains on the sleeves of her dress. The electronic colours had separated slightly and reminded me of my acid vision when I had seen Cleo robed in a train of light as she strolled through the trees beside the river. My Moreau princess, who turned the starlings into peacocks and calmed the air with her graceful hands. I wanted to invite her to Shepperton again, drawn by her intelligence and forthright mind.