No, wait, they’re not white. They’re covered in something. Cloth.

I glance left to the door. There’s a handwritten sign on it that reads ‘Fermé’, but there’s a light on inside so maybe, just maybe…

Fuck it. I need to try.

I reach for the handle and push. It opens with a creak. Hooray! I move inside, shutting it quietly behind me. The air smells like damp, dust and furniture polish and I stand still for a moment, listening for movement. But there’s nothing. It’s just me, and the canvases all covered by cloth.

Still, the door was unlocked, a light is on and there are two alarm sensors flickering red from the corners of the room, yet no alarm has been set: someone must be coming back. I don’t have a lot of time. I tiptoe over to the canvas in front of me, reach for the edge of the white covering and gently pull it off.

Plain black frame. A sheet of glass. And beyond it: a canvas. The edges are old, distressed Marvel comics stained in deep shades of burgundy and purple. Interesting. They’ve been torn away to reveal a woman, sitting on a shimmery golden background – think thirteenth and fourteenth century Italy. She’s naked – aside from a red kabbalah string tied around her wrist and a small gold nose ring. She’s hugging her knees, ankles crossed as she stares straight out at the viewer. She has porcelain skin, light blue eyes, fire-engine red hair and a grey-metal gun lying on the floor beside her.

I reach for my phone, snap a picture and quickly glance down at it.

Shit. All I got was my own reflection and the flare of a couple of streetlights in the glass.

I snap a few more from other angles and the last one is strong. No reflections.

I start to drape the cloth back over it but then—

‘What the hell are you doing?’ comes a male voice. American.

Shit.

I turn my head quickly. He’s tall, young – maybe thirty-two? – has floppy brown hair and tanned skin and, wow, he has the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. Skies-over-the-alps blue. His chest is broad, like he works out, and he’s wearing a pair of black jeans with a white T-shirt and a navy blazer. He’s the kind of guy I’d usually flirt with, but he’s carrying a big set of jangly keys and he looks way too pissed off for flirting right now.

He must run the gallery. Shit.

‘Sorry,’ I say, as he strides towards me and I awkwardly pull the remainder of the white fabric over the canvas. I swallow hard, trying to figure out how to get out of this. I have to come back here tomorrow night to review the exhibition. I can’t get myself banned…

‘Didn’t you see the sign on the door?’ he snaps, nodding towards it. He’s half a step away from me now; I can smell his cologne. His eyebrows – thick, well formed – are raised. ‘We’re closed. You can’t just come in here.’