‘Doomed?’ he asks, with a small smile.

I narrow my eyes. ‘Don’t you read the news?’

‘I didn’t peg you as such a negative Nancy,’ he says, reaching back for the joint.

I shrug. ‘I’m full of surprises.’

He smiles and takes a drag.

‘Shouldn’t you be inside?’ I ask, nodding to what I presume is the back door to the gallery.

‘I should. But I need this first.’ He nods to the joint. ‘Makes the bullshitting easier.’

I think about yesterday and how he didn’t tell me he was the artist, how he let me ramble on and just played me like some silly girl, some groupie. I glance over at him, there’s something in his eyes, he’s thinking, She still has no idea who I am. Should I tell her? And fuck that. Fuck letting him think he’s smarter than me. Fuck letting him have control.

‘Oh… yes,’ I say, reaching for the blunt. The end of it has been stained pink-mauve from my lipstick. ‘The bullshitting. You have quite a talent there.’ I take another inhale.

‘How do you mean?’ he asks, frowning.

I hold my breath, my eyes on his. And then I breathe out a cloud of smoke.

‘Why didn’t you tell me who you were yesterday?’ I ask. His features shift. He’s trying to figure out what to say next.

Of course, I still haven’t told him who I am either, so yes, technically that makes me a hypocrite but whatever. Nobody is perfect.

‘How did you figure it out?’ he says.

‘Fun little tool called Google.’

His eyes are all sparks and flames. He’s not used to being caught out. ‘Well, I mean, I am your favourite French artist.’ He takes the joint back from me.

‘Not anymore,’ I say.

‘Oh, is that right?’

And then we stand there in silence for a moment.

‘You wouldn’t have told me the truth if you knew,’ he says, his voice low and crackly from the weed. ‘And I wanted to know what you really thought of it. The work. It’s scary putting something new out into the world.’

The cool breeze blows my hair around as I look back to him. His face is fragile, childlike. But Harrison used to get that look, the tortured-artist-needing-validation look. It’s that look that drew me in to start with. So fuck that look. I focus my gaze on the ground instead.

‘So have you been inside tonight? Seen the rest?’

‘I have,’ I say.

‘And?’

I look up at him. ‘The one in bed is my favourite.’

‘The one with the red.’ He grins, nodding in agreement.

‘Yes,’ I say. And then I know what it reminds me of. ‘It’s very Berthe Morisot.’

He starts to laugh. ‘What? That I was not expecting.’

‘No, it is,’ I say. ‘It’s like that painting she did of a man in a hat looking out the window at women outside. I think it’s called Eugène Manet on the Isle of Wight.’