I let out a deep breath and let the door close as I step back inside. ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘but I love anything pop art. And I mean, she’s naked with a gun; it’s total vulnerability and absolute strength all in one. The Marvel comics are great too; it’s a very modern representation of femininity. And I love that she’s staring out at the viewer as though begging for their gaze. Begging for connection,’ I say, eyes to him now. Small smile. ‘Or is she challenging them?’

He grins, his forehead creases. Jesus, his eyes are practically neon up close. Something in my stomach flips. I break our gaze, glancing round the room.

‘Do you think I’d be able to take a look at the others?’ I ask, nodding at the other canvases all still shrouded in white. That would be perfect. Then I wouldn’t even have to come back tomorrow. I could write my article in peace from my bed, wearing knickers and a T-shirt, with a bottle of red and Netflix going in the background…

‘Hell no,’ he says, moving over to the large wooden desk at the back of the room where he picks up a flyer. ‘But…’ he says, as he moves over to me. He’s standing just a millimetre too close for a stranger and I can smell his cologne again. It smells familiar but I can’t quite place it… like earth… no, leather. No: wet cement after the rain. ‘You should come to the exhibition.’ He hands me the flyer; his hands are big and rough.

‘Great, thanks. I will,’ I say, like I wasn’t planning on it anyway. I take the flyer and move quickly towards the exit.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow then, Grace.’ He opens the door for me. ‘Try not to get arrested in the meantime.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ I say as I move out into the crisp night air. ‘And you see if you can figure out how to use those grey metal things. I think they’re called keys.’

Then the door closes and he’s on one side of the glass and I’m on the other and everyone’s happy. Mr Blue Eyes averted a disaster: nobody will be writing nasty things about him or his gallery on Google or Tripadvisor. And me? Well, I’m heading home with exactly what I came for: a photograph of a new Noah X painting and a head start on my story.

Chapitre trois

My bedroom window looks out onto the rooftops of Paris. All grey metal and terracotta chimneys. So no matter what colour the sky – pink, mauve, tin, electric blue, treacle black – it always looks like an Instagram post. An Instagram post with a direct view into my neighbour’s apartment. Every night she lies in bed, watching something on her laptop. Sometimes she touches herself. Sometimes her boyfriend comes over and they have sex. Either way, I try not to notice. Of course, she can probably see me wandering around naked too, but whatever. That’s urban living for you.