“It’s of great importance to the gallery,” Peter went on. He had his backside propped on the windowsill now. The slate sky, the fingery branches were behind him. His face was eclipsed. He saluted an imaginary general. “Scandal to be avoided at all costs. The good name to be preserved. As if anyone gave a shit about us or the gallery or our good name. Though I suppose it would have made an image for the tabloids, you hanging there.”

“Yes,” she said. The word stretched out like elastic. Her own voice breathed it back to her from somewhere far away.

“Oh, and we’re a bit concerned about your American.”

“American …?” She closed her eyes for a second. Yes. That stupid, stupid man. That Richard Storm. She was falling into the image of him. She sucked air in sharply through her nose, forced her eyes open. “…  oh …” she said.

“He says he’ll be quiet, but he won’t take our money, thank you very much,” said Peter. “I told Father, ‘Don’t be silly. He’s an American. Taking money is what they do, for Christ’s sake.’ I mean, maybe he doesn’t understand English. Perhaps we should wave the notes in front of him and shout, ‘Lookee, lookee, money, money.’ What sort of name is Storm anyhow?”

It was no good. She was losing her grip, going down. “Don’t know … Don’t know him … really …”

“Well, he saved the old man’s arse at the auction, that’s certain.”

Her eyes shot open one last time. “…  auction …?”

But she was irresistibly swept under now. She wanted to call out, but she was just too tired and he was too far away. For a while she thought he was pressing his hand to her cheek. She thought she was smiling. And somewhere above her, she thought she heard his voice again, distant, suddenly bitter.

“Don’t worry, Sophe. I’ll make the bastards stop poisoning you. They’re all a lot of bastards anyway. Bastards.”