Kitabı oku: «What Happens Now?», sayfa 4

Chapter Two

THE SITUATION ON MONDAY morning remained unchanged. The ticks were still grey, two little daggers beside that preposterous message. But I forced myself out of bed and tried to summon up some optimism in the shower. Dating had changed since I’d started going out with Jake, I knew. People didn’t reply immediately any more. Probably I’d get a message that day. And if not that day, because he might be busy doing whatever explorers did during office hours, then I’d hear from him that evening. I was sure of it. Nobody left a message unread for longer than that. It was rude. I elbowed my way on to the Tube at Brixton feeling hopeful about Max, but slightly less so about my meeting with Miss Montague.

I knocked on her door at precisely 7.29 a.m. She was a woman who appreciated punctuality and the school ran as if it were a military academy.

‘Come in,’ came the crisp, English voice.

She was sitting at her desk looking as she did every day – stern, in a blue skirt suit, collared shirt, a pearl in each ear sitting underneath a rigid hairstyle which I’d always figured was inspired by that unlikely style icon, Princess Anne.

‘Morning,’ I said, hovering just inside the door. Pasta, Miss Montague’s dachshund, lay dozing on his side in a patch of early sun beaming through the window.

‘Miss Bailey, good morning. Do have a seat.’

I sat. She looked over her glasses at me from behind her desk and leant forward, the chair creaking as she did. ‘It’s a sensitive situation, which is why I’m telling you now before I mention it to the other members of staff.’

I raised my eyebrows at her and spoke slowly. ‘O-O-O-K-K-K-K.’

‘It’s a late entry to the school year. Coming into your class. Roman Walker.’ She paused and looked at me expectantly.

‘O-O-O-K-K-K-K,’ I said again. It sounded familiar but I couldn’t quite place him. St Lancelot’s had various celebrity sons – of royalty, of musicians, of artists, of tech billionaires, of politicians. Who’d called their son Roman?

‘As in, Luke Walker’s son, Roman.’

‘Oh. Right.’ The mists cleared and I realized who she was talking about. Luke Walker, the premiership footballer. His son. This was a huge deal. No wonder Miss Montague had called it sensitive. There had been a rumour that we’d get Prince George a few years ago, an exhausting period of time when Miss Montague was especially warlike and had made all members of staff practise their curtsy or bow ahead of the anticipated Royal visit. But then they’d picked Thomas’s in Clapham and we’d all calmed down again.

‘Probably a blessing,’ my favourite colleague Steph had said in the playground shortly afterwards. ‘Imagine what the mothers would wear if he was here, poor little bugger.’

‘Why’s Roman coming here now?’ I asked Miss Montague. Term had already started. It didn’t make sense.

Miss Montague opened her mouth but remained silent for a few moments as if working out how to explain. ‘Spot of trouble at Holland Gate. I gather there was a… dalliance between Mr Walker and a teacher. And apparently the governors there felt it best that Roman be moved.’

‘To here?’

‘Well, to somewhere different,’ said Miss Montague, smoothly. ‘It’s all extremely last-minute and I’ve spent the weekend arranging it. But he’ll be joining your class this morning, so could you make sure everyone welcomes him and be aware of the… sensitivity?’

‘Yes, course.’

‘No need to do anything differently. Do reading this morning and see how he gets on. If there are any problems, please inform me.’

‘Sure,’ I nodded. ‘And should I, er, meet the, er, Walkers at any point this week? Like the others…’ All class teachers had met their new parents just before the new school year had started, to talk them through the syllabus and what would be expected of their sons. I’d spent an evening in August shaking hands with my new parents and lecturing them about mobile phone policy.

This year, I had eight boys in my class, including the son of a Tory MP, the son of a Russian steel magnate (the father had the menacing air of a man who ate his victims for breakfast; the mother looked eleven years old); a Greek prince, and a sweetheart called Vikram whose family had just moved from Delhi to London. His mother was so concerned about Vikram settling in that she’d asked if they could send his nanny to sit at the back of the classroom, so I’d had to say gently she couldn’t.

Miss Montague shook her head, the helmet of hair unmoving. ‘The Walkers aren’t coming in for now. I’m going to liaise with them directly. It does of course mean there may be more media interest in us. But the usual rules apply – nobody is to talk to any press and if anyone approaches you please direct them to me.’ Her eyes burned into me like a female huntress on safari.

‘OK, no problem,’ I said.

‘Marvellous, I’ll see you for staff meeting in a second then,’ said Miss Montague.

I nodded and stood up, relieved I wasn’t in trouble.

Because I’d come in so early, the staffroom was empty when I arrived, so I dropped my bag on a chair and went straight for the coffee machine in the corner. I liked being in early. It gave me time to swallow at least two coffees before the kids started sliding up to the school gates on their scooters.

St Lancelot’s wasn’t huge compared to some of its rivals in Knightsbridge and Battersea, but it was generally considered the most exclusive boys’ school in London (as Miss Montague told us almost daily), with just over five hundred boys aged from four to thirteen. It occupied the site of a Gothic red-brick building between Chelsea and Pimlico which had once been a hospital but was converted into the school after the Second World War by a zealous army captain. Captain Bower, he was called. I had a sip of coffee and glanced at the portrait of him in army khakis hanging up in the staffroom. He had a moustache and was covered in medals. He had also studied Classics at Oxford and so the school motto – moniti meliora sequamur – was engraved in stone over the main entrance.

During my interview for the job five years earlier, Miss Montague, Captain Bower’s granddaughter, had begun by asking whether I knew what the motto meant. Hadn’t a clue.

She’d peered at me over her desk and replied: ‘After instruction, let us move on to pursue higher things.’

‘Oh I see,’ I’d answered politely.

‘It’s a line from Virgil’s Aeniad. I expect you’ve read it,’ she said, and I’d nodded vaguely into my coffee cup.

I hadn’t.

‘It’s fitting,’ went on Miss Montague, ‘because we teach a great many pupils who are destined for public life. Both here and abroad. Do you feel capable of shaping these young minds, Miss Bailey?’

I’d said yes, obviously, but five years on, I sometimes wondered whether these young minds should be destined for public life. Just ahead of the last general election, a Year 2 called Theodore had marched up to me in the playground during lunch and asked who I’d be voting for.

‘Errr,’ I’d started, unsure what to reply. We weren’t supposed to foist our own politics on the pupils. ‘The thing is, Theodore, some people think it’s rude to ask that question.’

Theodore had looked nonplussed at this. ‘My daddy says everyone who doesn’t vote Conservative is an idiot.’

I was so surprised I didn’t have time to answer before Theodore had turned round and swaggered off to canvass elsewhere in the playground.

‘Don’t worry about him,’ said Steph, standing next to me and keeping an eye on the future prime ministers and despots pushing one another off the climbing frame. ‘His dad’s a minister. Minister for sheep or something.’

Being a teacher at school is much the same as being a kid at school. You need mates. Allies. Steph was one of my closest allies. She taught Year 8, the 12-year-olds, and I loved her for her no-nonsense attitude – she didn’t take lip from the kids or grumbles from the parents. Outspoken and somewhere in her mid-forties (I’d never dared ask), she lived in Surbiton where her own kids were at the local school and where her husband, Tim, worked as a GP.

‘Morning, love,’ she said, coming through the staffroom door laden with bags, red in the face and with wisps of hair sticking to her forehead.

‘Hiya. Coffee?’ I replied, still hovering beside the kettle.

‘Mmm, please,’ said Steph. ‘Victoria was a fucking nightmare this morning.’

I spooned some Nescafé into the least grimy cup I could find on the tray and poured hot water over the top. It often sounded more like a working men’s club than a staffroom in here, although Miss Montague took a dim view of swearing among her staff. She took a dim view of many things – beards, the internet, staff on their mobile phones, parents who picked their boys up late, parents who dropped their boys off too early, parents who took their boys out of school before the holidays for skiing in Val d’Isère, and parents who threw their son’s birthday party at Claridge’s.

‘Fuck knows where all my lesson plans are this morning. I thought I had them but couldn’t find them anywhere on the train so I’m going to have to print them all off again,’ added Steph, collapsing on a chair next to her bags and bending down to take off her trainers. ‘I hate the bastard Anglo-Saxons.’

I put the coffee on the table next to her.

‘Ta, love. How was your weekend?’

‘Good.’ Then I paused and lowered my voice. ‘I had that date on Saturday night.’

‘Oh my giddy aunt,’ said Steph, looking up from untying her trainers, cheeks puce from the effort. ‘Tell me everything.’

Other staff members were drifting in and hanging their coats up. ‘Morning, Renée,’ I said, waving at the art teacher, then I lowered my voice again. ‘It was… nice.’

‘Nice?’ shrieked Steph. ‘Lilian, love, I’m an old married woman who gets her leg over once a year. You’ve got to do better than nice.’

‘All right all right. It was better than nice. Lovely. Will that do?’

‘So you shagged him?’ she said, narrowing her eyes at me. ‘A proper shag?’

‘Shhhh!’ I inclined my head towards the door, which Miss Montague had just drifted through, like a battleship coming into port.

‘Hiya, Mrs M,’ said Steph, who’d taught at St Lancelot’s for over a decade and was one of the few members of staff who could get away with referring to her as such.

‘Good morning,’ said Miss Montague, loudly, so everyone heard.

We dutifully murmured mornings back and looked round the room for seats. Every Monday morning we had a staff meeting. Sometimes the meetings were five minutes; sometimes they were twenty. The trick was to grab a seat as fast as possible, because if you had to stand throughout the meeting the chances were Miss Montague would catch your eye when she was after a volunteer for something – cleaning out the guinea pig cage or taking that week’s Lego Club.

As Miss Montague made her way to the front of the room, colleagues parting for her and Pasta to waddle their way through, I reached into my pocket to check my phone – nope, still nothing from Max. And because I was momentarily distracted, I missed the spare seats, so I had to hover awkwardly behind Steph’s chair.

‘Undivided attention, please, everyone. There’s a serious matter I need to bring to your attention,’ said Miss Montague, standing underneath the painting of Captain Bower. He looked like he’d been a stern, imperial chap and I imagine that was where she’d inherited her authority from. If Stalin and Joan of Arc had had a lovechild, it would have been exactly like Miss Montague.

Her face darkened as if ahead of a storm. ‘Joel Glassman in Year 6 arrived at school in a Range Rover last week,’ she announced.

Steph glanced up at me and frowned. I shrugged. What was the problem? Most of the school arrived in a Range Rover every day. Dmitri, the Russian in my class, arrived in a blacked-out one each morning, and only jumped down, clutching his schoolbag, once a security guard from the front of the car had opened a back door for him. He had two security guards, actually, who he referred to as his uncles. ‘Uncle Boris’ and ‘Uncle Sasha’. Burly, with necks thicker than their heads, I still hadn’t worked out which was which but one of them had winked at me during the first week of term and I’m afraid to say I did feel a frisson of excitement.

‘I don’t mean a normal Range Rover,’ went on Miss Montague, her voice louder and more menacing, as if she was a party leader building to a crescendo. ‘What I am talking about is one of those electric, toy Range Rovers.’ She said the word ‘toy’ with absolute disgust. ‘Joel had been given it for his birthday and decided to drive it to school, accompanied by the nanny, but we simply don’t have room in the scooter park for electric vehicles. So I’ve had words with Mr and Mrs Glassman but I would like you all to keep a vigilant eye on the situation and alert me if you see this happening again.’

The toadiest teachers – mostly the language department – all nodded back dutifully before Miss Montague moved on.

‘I’ve also had an email from Lady Fitzalan over the weekend. She and her husband are divorcing so can whoever is little Rupert’s form teacher – ah, Miss Cookson, yes, there you are – can you keep an eye on him, please?’

Steph sighed heavily in her seat and I saw Mike slip through the staffroom door. He was our other ally. Head of music.

‘Good of you to join us, Mr Abbey,’ said Miss Montague.

‘Ah yes, um, sorry,’ he said. ‘Tube was terrible.’

‘But of course it was,’ she said, blinking at him with a deadpan expression. ‘And could I remind you all that it’s our Harvest Festival in few weeks so if you could talk to your forms about it that would be appreciated. An email will be going out to all parents this week.’ We all nodded dutifully while I caught Mike’s eye and smiled. He was always charged with assembly rehearsals for the Harvest Festival and, for several weeks last year, arrived at the pub after work humming songs with titles like ‘A Very Happy Vegetable’.

‘Finally, could I have a volunteer for someone to help Mrs O’Raraty with Harry Potter Club on Wednesday afternoon?’

Mike winked back at me and I stifled a laugh with my hand, turning it into a cough. He was always late and the Tube was always the excuse but the truth was that he was hung-over and slept through his snooze button. This meant he always looked crumpled – creased shirt, scuffed shoes, curls of hair springing out from his head at odd angles, as if he’d slept on it while wet. I winked back.

‘Miss Bailey, how kind of you to volunteer,’ said Miss Montague from the front. ‘Please could you liaise directly with Mrs O’Raraty as to what she needs you to do.’

Shit.

I nodded.

‘And that’s everything from me. So I suggest we all get on with our day. Unless there’s anything else?’ said Miss Montague, gazing out at her teachers like Napoleon about to send troops into battle.

Silence.

‘Very good,’ she said, and the room started moving again.

Mike hurried over to Steph and me. A pillow crease was still imprinted on his cheek.

‘Either of you got any Nurofen? My head feels like it’s about to fall off and I’ve got to give a Year 6 his French horn lesson,’ he said.

‘No, sorry,’ I said.

‘Go see Matron,’ said Steph. ‘She’ll have some.’

‘She told me off last week. Said it wasn’t her job to hand out painkillers like sweets. Mad old bag.’

‘Well you’ll have to have a coffee and get on with it then. Come on, let’s get going. The sooner we start the sooner it’s over,’ said Steph, getting to her feet.

Roman took the number of my class to nine. Small class sizes at St Lancelot’s was one of the reasons that parents paid £8,420 a term (extras and uniform not included) for their sons to come here. It meant that the pupils were supposedly lavished with attention by the teachers and our teaching assistants, although my teaching assistant this year was a dim 18-year-old called Fergus who got the job because Miss Montague is his aunt and he apparently needed to ‘get something on his CV’ during his gap year.

Only one week into the school year, I had mentally relegated Fergus to the same level of intelligence and ability as the 5-year-olds. He arrived late every morning, made more mess at the art table than any of the boys, constantly checked his phone in the classroom (phones were forbidden there, ‘only visible in the staffroom’ was the rule) and took extremely long loo breaks.

Still, the boys were mostly cherubic (it was like teaching a litter of puppies every day), and Fergus’s uselessness hadn’t mattered a great deal. Yet.

The four British boys sounded as if they could have stepped straight from the pages of an Oscar Wilde play – George, Arthur, Cosmo and Phineas (although I’d got off lightly because Steph had a Ptolemy in her class this year). Plus Dmitri the son of the Russians; Achilles, the Greek prince; Hunter, the son of two Americans who wanted him to go to Harvard, and Vikram, who hadn’t acclimatized to London yet and had arrived at school every morning, his teeth chattering, wearing three coats.

Because the classes were so tiny at St Lancelot’s, the parents (or nannies, or bodyguards) of the boys brought them to their classrooms every morning, instead of dropping them at the gate. Or to Nelson, as my classroom was called, since Captain Bower had named them all after British military heroes. Other class names included Wellington, Marlborough, Kitchener and Steph taught Allenby, Year 8.

A couple of years ago, one mother had said this was distasteful and launched an impassioned discussion about the classroom names on Mumsnet. But when this came to Miss Montague’s attention, she sent an email to all parents saying if they didn’t like the school traditions, they were welcome to take their sons elsewhere. Nobody did. Nobody ever gave up a place at St Lancelot’s because their boys were guaranteed to go on to Eton, Harrow, St Paul’s or Westminster. Really, wherever the parents wanted.

That morning, the boys started arriving as usual from around 8.30.

‘Hi, George, did you have a nice weekend? Pop your bag on your desk.’

‘Hunter, hello, I could hear you coming down the corridor. Did you have magic beans for breakfast?’

‘Vikram, quick, come inside and warm up.’ This went on for a few minutes as I waved to various nannies.

Then Roman appeared in the doorway, or at least who I took to be Roman because I didn’t recognize him. I squatted down and held my hand out. ‘Hello, you must be Roman.’ He frowned at my hand and didn’t take it.

‘I’m not allowed to talk to strangers,’ he said, kicking the heel of his shoe repeatedly against the carpet.

‘Roman!’ said a woman hurrying in behind him in suede ankle boots and sunglasses. ‘I’m so sorry, I think he’s nervous.’

‘Of course,’ I said, standing up. ‘You must be Mrs Walker.’

She nodded and we shook hands. ‘Miss Bailey?’

‘Exactly.’ She looked like many of the other St Lancelot mothers – expensive. She had a yellow diamond the size of a raspberry on her right hand and long, shiny hair which I suspected wasn’t all her own.

‘Great. Can we just have a word…’ She gestured to the corner of the classroom away from the door.

‘Sure, er, Fergus?’ He had just arrived, wafting cigarette smoke around the classroom. ‘Can you man the door?’

‘Yah, no problem,’ he replied.

In the corner, Mrs Walker talked in a hushed voice: ‘I just wanted to triple-check the privacy issue. I know Miss Montague said there’s a strict no mobile phone policy. It’s just that I don’t want any photos of Roman to leak and we can’t move him again.’

‘Not a problem,’ I said smoothly. ‘I’m sure Miss Montague has already told you but we have several high-profile pupils here and security is our first priority.’

‘Fabulous,’ she said. ‘OK, gotta run. Bye, sweetie. Be good.’ And without even kissing her son goodbye, she trotted out on her suede boots.

I turned back to Roman and smiled brightly. ‘Let’s get you to your desk.’

By Wednesday, not only had I not heard from Max (even though the ticks had finally gone blue), I’d also got thrush. I realized this while sitting in the staff loos that lunchtime because my vagina felt like it was on fire, and not in a good way. Terrific, I thought grimly, standing and pulling my knickers up. I’d have to nip to Boots for some Canesten. I absolutely couldn’t teach anything about the Pyramids this afternoon with this level of itchiness going on in my pants.

When I got to Boots, there was a queue of people taking for ever to discuss their Nicorette and their sleeping problems. And then, finally, when I got to the front of the queue, the pharmacist seemed deaf.

‘Could I have some Canesten please?’ I said quietly. Almost a whisper.

‘I’m sorry, dear?’ said the elderly man in his lab coat, leaning towards me.

‘Some Canesten,’ I hissed, slightly louder. I pointed behind him at the boxes of it.

‘Oh, right you are,’ he said, turning round to look. Then, bellowing so that everyone in Boots could hear, he said: ‘The Canesten Combi or just the cream? Or just the pill?’

‘The combi,’ I whispered, glancing over my shoulder to see a snake of people behind me. I hoped they were all buying embarrassing items too. I hoped they were all buying Anusol for their piles.

‘Here you go,’ he said, slowly picking a box, slowly turning back to the till, slowly scanning it. ‘Would you like a bag?’

‘No thanks,’ I said, snatching it and shoving it into my pocket.

I went straight back to the staff bathrooms, pulled my knickers down again – Christ, the INTENSE itchiness – unscrewed the lid on the little tube and rubbed it in. ‘Aaaaaaah,’ I sighed audibly as I felt the cream’s soothing effect immediately kick in, forgetting that there was someone in the cubicle next to me.

When I stepped outside the cubicle to wash my hands, it transpired that the person in the cubicle next to me was Miss Montague. I quickly dropped the Canesten back into my pocket.

‘Hello,’ I squeaked, our eyes meeting in the mirror in front of us.

‘Afternoon, Miss Bailey,’ she said, raising her eyebrows at me. ‘Everything all right?’

‘Mmm, all good.’

But the cream still hadn’t helped much by the time Harry Potter Club rolled round at 4.30 that afternoon, so I spent an hour trying to help boys of varying ages try to design their own broomstick while crossing my legs back and forth to try and take the pressure off things down there.

I didn’t have time to go home between school and Walt’s exhibition on Friday evening so I had to go straight there. I hate doing that. For a night out, I feel like you need to go home, wash your hair, put on a clean pair of pants and reapply make-up to transform into weekend mode. I wanted to get drunk tonight. I was in that sort of mood.

Max was clearly not going to text, which made me sad. And gloomy about my dating antennae. I knew we’d had a good time. A great time. So I didn’t understand the silence. Maybe it was the shagging him on the first date thing? Maybe the old rules did still apply? Depressing.

I caught the Tube to Green Park and walked down Piccadilly towards a pub in Shepherd’s Market to meet Jess. In the evening dusk, the former red-light district still had a raffish air. Several pubs, a few cramped restaurants with tables that over-spilled to the pavement outside and the unmistakable whiff of London drains.

I saw her standing outside the pub, a bottle of wine in a cooler between her feet. She was smiling and chatting to a tall man in a black polo neck and a leather jacket. One of the art crowd, I decided, walking towards them. Either that or a trained assassin.

‘Hiya,’ I said, giving her a hug.

‘Hi, babe, here you go,’ she said, picking up an empty glass at her feet and filling it with wine. ‘And meet Alexi. He’s coming to the party too. Alexi, this is Lil. My best pal. Knows literally nothing about art. No offence, love.’

‘None taken,’ I said, reaching for the wine glass from her.

‘Lil, sensational to meet you,’ said Alexi, whereupon I went for a handshake and he went for a kiss on the cheek, so we did both and I then pulled back, awkwardly.

I thought sensational was over-egging it a bit. Was he high?

‘How do you guys know each other?’ I asked, before tipping back my wine glass. Ah, that first mouthful on a Friday evening.

‘We don’t,’ said Jess. ‘I met him at the bar and we realized we were both going to the opening.’ She smiled at Alexi and reached behind her neck to pull her hair over one shoulder. Oh dear. I recognized that flush on her face. She fancied this tall, dark stranger who was wearing a polo neck even though it was a balmy Friday evening in September. I glanced from Jess to Alexi. She and I had very different taste. Jess was into beautiful men – slim, delicate, arty men. The sorts you saw drifting about Rome or Florence in drainpipe jeans, who existed on tiny coffees and rolled cigarettes. Not for me. I’d never fancied a man with skinnier thighs than me.

‘Rrrrrright,’ I said, slowly. ‘And Alexi, how do you know Walt?’

‘Old friend from art school,’ he said, scratching his chin.

‘You’re an artist?’

He shook his head. ‘A collector.’

As Jess said, I knew little about art. If you asked me, most Picassos looked like they’d been drawn by a 4-year-old with a packet of Crayola. But collecting meant Alexi had money, no? Rubbish collecting was a job. Art collecting was less of a job, more a hobby for rich people.

‘What sort of thing do you collect?’

Alexi shrugged in his leather jacket. ‘I’m interested in young artists, but it can be any medium. Paint, graphics, installations. So long as I feel something towards it. A reaction. Something visceral, you know?’ At this, he curled his right hand into a fist and held it up to his chest, beating it against his heart.

‘Mmm,’ I replied vaguely into my glass of wine. I went to gallery openings every now and then with Jess and the only thing I felt at them was hunger because there was always plenty of wine but no snacks.

‘I think you’ll love this show,’ Jess said to Alexi, eyelashes fluttering like a baby gazelle’s. Christ. I wondered if she’d told Alexi she knew Walt because she was dating him.

Alexi smiled back at her. ‘I’m excited about seeing it.’

I felt like a pawn in a game of foreplay. ‘What is it?’ I asked. ‘I mean, who’s the exhibition by?’

‘A young artist called Daniel,’ said Jess. ‘From the Ukraine. So his work is quite intense. Twisted.’

‘He uses light to show darkness and darkness to show light,’ added Alexi.

‘Exactly,’ said Jess, gazing at Alexi with such admiration it was as if he’d just announced he’d discovered the secret to everlasting life.

‘Sounds cheerful.’

‘Oh, come on, misery guts,’ said Jess, digging me in the ribs with an elbow. ‘I take it no word from you-know-who then?’

‘Nope,’ I said, grimacing at her. ‘But it’s all right. Onwards and sideways, as Mum says.’

‘He’s an idiot, in that case, and there’ll be millions more,’ said Jess, before turning to Alexi. ‘Lil had a date last weekend but he hasn’t texted her.’

I wasn’t sure I wanted Alexi knowing about my love life, but too late.

‘Lil, I can’t believe it,’ said Alexi, smoothly. ‘I’m sorry. You liked him?’

I sighed. ‘Yeah. He was interesting. And it was my first date in ages. But I reckon if you haven’t heard from someone in five days that’s probably a bad sign, right? You’re a man. If you guys want to see someone again you let them know, no?’ I hoped my tone didn’t come across as desperate.

Alexi looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Normally, yes. But without knowing the details it’s quite hard to say. Sometimes we can be just as complicated as women.’

‘Fiiiiiinally, a man who admits it,’ said Jess, laughing.

Oh God. If there was one thing that Jess liked more than a skinny man who was into art and tight trousers, it was a complicated, skinny man.

‘What about you, Alexi?’ I said. ‘You single?’

‘Ha.’ He grimaced and ran a hand through his hair. ‘It’s complicated for me, too.’

Course it was. This was a disaster. Poor, innocent Walt, I thought, who was probably this second pouring wine into plastic cups and brushing down his neatly ironed chinos ahead of the opening. He didn’t stand a chance.

Walt’s gallery was a few minutes away on a little street off Piccadilly. ‘Walter de Winter’ said a sign hanging outside it. By the time we arrived, people were already overflowing on to the pavement outside the gallery, under the sign, plastic cups of white wine in hand. It looked like a circus gathering. A woman with bright purple hair stood talking to a man in a tartan jacket with a large dog asleep at his feet. Behind them was a man wearing a cravat over a T-shirt and a panama hat, deep in conversation with a lady who’d come dressed entirely in black lace. One man, standing with his back to us, had the world ‘REAL’ tattooed across his neck.

‘Alexi!’ shouted someone, so he said he’d come and find us in a minute and slunk his way through the crowd.

‘Let’s find Walt,’ said Jess, so I followed her inside the gallery where I spotted him, just as I’d suspected, in chinos, a sensible blazer and suede loafers, standing in front of a large canvas, gesturing to a lady with cherry-coloured lipstick beside him. We snuck up behind him and stood silently, not wanting to interrupt.

The canvas was entirely black, so far as I could see. As black as a blackboard. It was like looking out through a window into the night. No colour whatsoever.

‘And you can see here,’ said Walt, sweeping his hand across the bottom left-hand corner of the canvas. ‘He intensifies the drama. There’s a sense of heightened emotions, of fury, of anger and despair which is juxtaposed with here, where the mood changes.’ Walt stopped and waved his hand towards the top of the canvas, which was exactly as black as the lower half. ‘It’s calmer, it’s lighter, there’s less chaos. So really what he’s revealing is a true picture of mental anguish. Black and violent at times, but at other moments, far less disturbed.’