‘I see the playboys have arrived, just in time to save me from this awful hooch!’ He wafted his empty champagne flute like a conductor’s baton. His eyes fixed on Laura. ‘I don’t blame you, my dear, it is your job after all…’

‘Actually, it’s Hugh who orders in the catering.’

Gissing shook his head theatrically. ‘I’m talking about the paintings, child! Don’t know why I come to these tragic affairs.’

‘The free booze?’ Allan pretended to guess, but Gissing ignored him.

‘Dozens and dozens of works, representing the best each artist could muster… a story behind each brush stroke, each carefully considered placement of object or subject…’ Gissing had pinched his thumb and forefinger together, as though holding a tiny brush. ‘They belong to us all, part of our collective consciousness, our nation’s narrative… our history.’ He was in his element now. Mike caught Laura’s eye and offered a wink: they’d both heard the speech – or variations on its central theme – plenty of times in the past. ‘They don’t belong in boardrooms,’ Gissing went on, ‘where only a security pass will get you into the building. Nor do they belong in some insurance company’s vault or a captain of industry’s hunting lodge…’

‘Or a self-made millionaire’s apartment,’ Allan teased, but Gissing wagged a finger as fat as a sausage at him.

‘You lot at First Caly are the worst offenders – overpaying for undeveloped young talent that then gets too big for its boots!’ He paused for breath, and slapped a hand down on Mike’s shoulder again. ‘But I won’t hear a word said against young Michael here.’ Mike flinched as Gissing’s grip tightened. ‘Especially as he’s just about to buy me a pint-pot of whisky.’

‘I’ll leave you boys to it,’ Laura said, fanning out the fingers of her free hand as she waved goodbye. ‘Sale’s a week today… make sure it’s in your diaries.’ There was, it seemed to Mike, a final smile just for him as she moved away.