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nodded.

      ‘What do you call this piece?’

      ‘I’m sorry?’

      ‘The name of this piece,’ Simon spoke slowly, clearly. ‘Does it have a name?’

      A large tear rolled down the girl’s cheek. ‘I just don’t see … I mean, what’s the point in carrying on?’

      Her words cut through Olivia like a blade.

      ‘“What’s the Point in Carrying On”,’ she repeated.

      Only a few times in her life had anything struck her so forcibly. A terrible feeling of transparency flooded her.

      Here it all was; the world she struggled to create, her public face in all its desperate grandeur and ostentatiousness. How could this stranger, little more than a teenager, really, have guessed so accurately at the emptiness beneath the surface?

      What was the point indeed?

      Olivia crouched down next to the girl. ‘I can’t tell you how much I admire what you’ve done.’

      The girl blinked.

      ‘Look, Simon, at the detail! I mean, even the suit she’s wearing!’

      ‘Yes, dreadful! What’s your name?’

      ‘Rose.’ She struggled to her feet. ‘Rose Moriarty.’

      ‘Oh, dear. Do you have another one? Names in this business are important, you see.’

      ‘Sometimes people call me Red.’

      ‘That’s good!’

      ‘But I don’t like it,’ she added.

      ‘Never mind. Red Moriarty!’ He turned to Olivia. ‘How’s this? “Subversion has a new name: Red Moriarty”!’

      ‘Brilliant!’

      ‘Does this mean I’m hired?’ the girl asked.

      But Olivia didn’t hear. This remarkable young woman had taken the very lack of substance in her life and elevated it to the status of art.

      For the first time in a long time, she felt energized.

      ‘No one is to touch this room! Simon, get Mona Freestyle on the phone! I want this whole piece transferred to the gallery immediately. You’re a very clever girl.’

      ‘Really?’

      ‘Incredibly talented!’

      ‘At what?’

      Olivia and Simon exchanged a look.

      ‘And witty!’ Simon laughed. ‘Where did you train?’

      ‘Train? I left school when I was fifteen. You see, I have a little boy.’

      ‘A child? But you can’t be more than twelve yourself!’

      ‘I’m twenty-two. Well, almost. Next month.’

      ‘And your background?’ Simon demanded. ‘Where were you born? Where do you live? What are your family like?’

      ‘I’m from Kilburn. My dad owns a junk shop. My mother left when I was ten. I live in a council flat on an estate near Queens Park.’

      He could hardly contain himself. ‘How perfectly Tracey!’

      Olivia gestured for her to sit. ‘And your love of conceptual art … where does it come from?’

      ‘Art?’ The girl tugged at the ugly suit. ‘I can’t even draw.’

      ‘Nobody draws any more!’ Simon assured her. ‘I couldn’t sell a drawing if my life depended on it!’

      ‘An utterly raw talent,’ Olivia shook her head in amazement.

      ‘You’re right,’ Simon nodded. ‘God has answered all our prayers! Here is the enfant terrible we’ve been looking for! Even more enfant than Roddy and infinitely more terrible!’

      Meanwhile, downstairs, one of the artists that Mona Freestyle of the Slade had recommended, a lanky young man with a large nose and beady eyes who specialized in preserving human remains in aspic, was being interviewed by Gaunt. He’d done quite well on the silver-polishing exercise and acquitted himself admirably during the cutlery identification. (The lobster trident was no stranger to him.)

      Unfortunately, he didn’t have the opportunity to attempt the final exercise, as Simon Grey had the drawing room cordoned off and everything removed to the gallery later that afternoon. But Gaunt decided to hire him regardless. The quality of his sneer was first rate; he possessed a natural sense of superiority which couldn’t be taught. And if truth be told, there was something of Jean Marsh in the way he moved.

      So perhaps England lost yet another great artist in the making to the service industry.

      Then again, perhaps not.

       The Interview

      Hughie was sitting in a warm patch of sunlight on a bench in Green Park, with ten minutes to go before his appointment. He felt stiff and uncomfortable wearing the dark wool suit he’d borrowed from Malcolm. But at least it didn’t smell like violet water.

      Perhaps it had been a mistake allowing Clara to dress him. But when she heard he finally had a job interview, she wouldn’t leave him alone. Her trademark yellow Post-its began to appear offering advice instead of warnings: ‘Make eye contact and smile! But not like an IDIOT!’ ‘Don’t eat anything smelly the day before.’ ‘Remember to shave!’ As the week wore on they grew increasingly more like American life-coaching slogans: ‘You can do this!’ ‘This job already belongs to YOU! All you have to do is reach out and GRAB IT!’ ‘Failure is for LOSERS!’ Hughie had begun to miss the Post-its that only required him not to forget his fucking keys.

      He looked around at the people strolling past and the ones lolling, reading papers or dozing on the grass. And he wondered if any of them might be the person he was waiting for.

      It was unusual to hold a job interview on a park bench. It was one of the things he’d kept secret from Clara and her endless grilling. But then, he was an actor and used to strange impromptu arrangements. Besides, any job that required discretion coupled with a romantic history was bound to be a bit unorthodox.

      He checked the time again on his mobile phone. Any minute now, the man he spoke to would be here.

      Then a red-headed woman sat down next to him, unfolded a newspaper and began to read. Hughie felt a bit anxious. This was the difficulty of using public spaces; namely the public. Should he ask her to sit somewhere else? Or perhaps he should just wait until the man arrived and take it from there?

      Suddenly his phone buzzed. A text appeared.

      The message read, Flirt with the woman next to you. Your interview has begun.

      Hughie blinked.

      Flirt?

      He read the message again.

      Then he peered across at the woman reading her paper. She was about fifty-five, sensibly dressed; she looked like one of his mother’s friends. Definitely not the sort of woman he’d ever flirt with. Not that he was much of a flirt in the first place. His normal opening gambit was something along the lines of, ‘Hey.’ And occasionally, he’d add, ‘Nice shoes.’

      Just on the off chance, he glanced down. She was wearing a pair of flat, black loafers, what his mother called a ‘driving shoe.’ He knew that because they were her favourite footwear. The originals were from Todd’s but his mother bought them in bulk from Marks and Spencer’s in a variety of garish colours. An involuntary shiver shot up his spine. How could he flirt with a woman who dressed like his mother?

      His

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