‘Of course he isn’t an artist,’ said Harriet. ‘I told you – Jacob’s really important. He doesn’t make art – he buys it. He’s a collector.’
‘Jacob, Harriet – this is Felicity,’ said James.
‘Hello,’ said Felicity, who didn’t seem to have any idea who Jacob was either. ‘And where are you from?’
‘Switzerland,’ said Jacob. Or he might have said ‘Stockholm’ or ‘Stasiland’ or ‘Swindon’, for his accent was thick, and his voice was thin.
‘Are you thinking of buying something here?’ said James.
‘Oh James, don’t worry about all that boring stuff. Come with me – Jacob has given us a present.’
Taking his arm, Harriet pulled James away and towards the nearest bathroom. In her hand was an ominous little leather pouch. James couldn’t help but feel pleased at leaving Felicity stranded with Jacob – it was exactly the kind of thing that people used to do to him.
‘Jesus,’ said James. ‘Who is that freak?’
‘Oh, don’t be such a meanie. He may look like Lord Voldemort, but he has the heart of Dumbledore. He’s been looking after me while you’ve been flirting with that awful woman.’
They went into the disabled toilets, which were generously sized, marvellously clean and suitable for a wide range of purposes. There was a cumbersome but reassuringly secure bolt on the door, and a helpful little ledge to rest their drinks on. A couple could spend a comfortable evening here.
‘I’m so pleased you brought me here,’ said Harriet. ‘I’m having such a good time.’
‘I know, I thought you’d like it. But what’s up with Felix?’
‘Oh, don’t worry about him,’ said Harriet. ‘He’s probably just jealous of how handsome we look together.’
James nodded. Harriet might be on to something – he was, still, and despite all the evidence, convinced that she was wiser than she looked. She certainly had plenty of life skills – you could tell by the way she was skilfully preparing Jacob’s cocaine in the corner. Leaning against the door, he thoughtfully drank some more of his cocktail. This one was an unsettling orange, the same colour as the logo for Lambeth Council. It was carbonated, and fizzed like an unwholesome vitamin drink.
‘Here,’ said Harriet, standing up to face him. ‘Now why don’t you kiss me?’
Harriet’s wide, curving mouth was coated in cocaine. Like a naughty girl who had been licking cake mixture, a great deal of white powder had been captured unevenly but comprehensively around her wet lips. It was, James knew, going to be much more than a drugs experiment – it would be an important life experience, and he had to make the most of it. It was not a moment to be tentative or considerate. Firmly holding her face in his hands, he gave her exactly what he hadn’t given Rachel: a selfish and wholly successful kiss, his lips pressed against hers for a full minute. The kiss was like the very best modern art – complicated and discordant, a jarring combination of lurid and provocative tastes and striking for its brutal symbolism and subversive use of physical aggression.
He pushed down, and felt Harriet push forcefully back up. She was strong and he needed to make full use of his long arms and big hands to hold her in place, and to push further into her mouth. She writhed and gasped and then, just as he was starting to worry that he was hurting her, she pulled her head back with a jerk and smiled. Her lips were pink again, her face flushed. It was often a mistake to interpret someone through their eyes, but it was difficult when they were as close and powerful as this. Harriet’s were bigger and greener than ever, and glowed with excitement and promise. James couldn’t help but also notice that at least thirty pounds’ worth of cocaine powder was now all over the toilet floor.
‘There now, wasn’t that fun?’ said Harriet. ‘Now, why don’t you go back out and look after Jacob? A girl in a cubicle does need a certain amount of privacy.’
James unbolted the door. He suspected that she was now going to take more cocaine. But what could he do? Even when she was telling the truth, she behaved as if she was lying. Besides, he’d had more than enough and was ready to go back out there. He could pick up with Harriet later – for the moment there was an adventure to be had in the gallery. He felt energised, liberated, deregulated.
‘Oh, and you better give Jacob this back,’ said Harriet, handing him the pouch. ‘I don’t think there’s much left, but I’m sure he won’t be cross.’
As James walked across the gallery, he realised that he’d found his art form. It was visual art, with a strong emphasis on the contemporary. It was obvious. Literature was, thankfully, being killed off by the Internet. Science merely gathered further evidence of the universe’s indifference and mankind’s degradation. Cinema was just sensory stimulation, and could now only aspire to pornography. Theatre, music, dance – these were crude and primitive art forms, of interest primarily to anthropologists. But visual art had transcended all this – disembodied truths that had avoided the traps laid by realism, capitalism and technology. It didn’t even need to worry about ideology – it was an ideology.