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Beckman installation. It’s going to be enormous. A spiral of metal steps winding round a central bronze column, with video screens at intervals. They’ll be showing continuous film of Beckman washing his dog, interspersed with clips of ants gathering grains of rice. And I thought this room at the end here would be ideal for the dematerialists …’
    Leo, who had an interest in modern art and a modest collection of his own, wandered off with Chay. Anthony, who couldn’t stand the stuff, his father’s work in particular, went through to the office to make himself some coffee.
    Two of the other trustees had just arrived – Derek Harvey, the art critic, looking crumpled and weary, sporting his perennial raincoat over a polo-necked sweater and baggy jeans, and Graham Amery, a prominent banker whose elegant, pinstripe suit and shining, black shoes contrasted sharply with Derek Harvey’s appearance. Ameryand Anthony chatted while Derek wandered round the main gallery morosely examining unwrapped exhibits.
    Tony Gear, Labour MP for Parson’s Green, arrived five minutes later. He cultivated a deliberately scruffy look, that of a man too busy to be concerned with his appearance, content with an M&S suit and a tie that had seen better days, and battered suede shoes which he fondly imagined were becoming something of a trademark. Gear was a man who believed in the profile and the soundbite, and although his interest in modern art was negligible, he had jumped at the chance to become a trustee of Chay’s museum. The word in Westminster was that the Prime Minister, keen to deflect recent attacks on the government’s arts-funding policy, intended to establish a new Ministry for Artistic and Cultural Development. In the true socialist spirit, Tony Gear was keen for advancement. He longed to hold that ministerial post, yearned to enjoy all the trappings of high office. To be associated with the Shoreditch venture did his reputation no harm in this regard. He raised a swift hand in greeting to Anthony and Amery, and went straight to the office to fetch himself some coffee, his pager already bleeping. Derek pulled a chair up to the makeshift meeting table and sat down, unfolding his copy of the
Evening Standard.
    Just as Chay and Leo returned to the main gallery, Melissa Angelicos arrived, clad in a voluminous coat and a swirl of silken scarves, her capacious bag bulging with papers, her blonde hair loose. From three feet away Anthony could catch the heady drift of her perfume. She dumped her bag on a chair and began to divest herself of coat andscarves, already addressing Derek in a rapid voice about the contents of Brian Sewell’s column in the
Standard.
    Leo was careful to sit at the other end of the table from Melissa. She was, as far as he was concerned, bad news. He had seen the jittery, intense creature that lived behind the attractive facade, and mistrusted her. From the very first she had pursued him, and even when he had rejected and humiliated her, she seemed unwilling to give up. Leo was accustomed to the attentions of hungry, single, middle-aged women, but never had he come across one whose passion, he suspected, could turn poisonous and obsessive, if given free rein. He had no intention of allowing that to happen. On the infrequent occasions when he met her now, he was formally, almost frigidly polite. To his relief, she seemed of late to have cooled towards him. Well, he could live with that.
    When everyone was seated, the meeting began; with Anthony taking minutes. As usual, apologies were conveyed to the assembly for the absence of the seventh trustee, Lord Stockeld, whose business obligations abroad were of so pressing a nature that he had so far only ever attended one trustee meeting. For forty-five minutes or so they discussed the prospective launch of the gallery, considering the guests, drawing up a list of names which would blend heavyweights from the creative and artistic spheres with a judicious sprinkling of