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started with the shipping industry. Manufactured items will follow next. He believes the Japanese economy is set to boom.’
    ‘I hope he’s right,’ he said, relieved the conversation had turned to more practical matters. ‘I was thinking of a job in international commerce after I’ve finished.’
    ‘Smart thinking. Most young men in your situation choose the diplomatic corps.’
    He broke off the conversation to fetch another round of drinks, his head already beginning to spin light from the first. Apart from a meat paste sandwich in the queue of mourners, nothing to eat all day. Macy appeared unaffected by her half of bitter, happy to tackle another.
    He asked her about her painting. She turned out to be more serious about her art than he had imagined. It was not just a little rich girl’s hobby, the diplomat’s daughter dipping into bohemia before daddy’s trust fund fully kicked in. She had a degree in Art History from some Ivy League university, she was passionate about the new Abstract Expressionism breaking through in the States, spearheaded by the man she cited as her greatest influence – Jackson Pollock.
    ‘He just spreads his canvas on the floor, drips his paints on to the surface direct from the can,’ she explained. ‘Action painting. No composition. No relationship between parts. Just the pure expression of the artist’s unconscious mood. No space between the self and the work. It’s angry. Aggressive. Arrogant. Screaming to be heard.’
    He watched her as she talked. Red-painted lips animated over those so-white, even tributes to American dentistry. Her arms open, describing Pollock’s techniques, pulling slightly at the silk of her blouse, revealing just a peek of bra strap, the shadow of cleavage.
    ‘I wonder how similar they are,’ he said.
    ‘What? Who?’
    ‘These artists on canvas. This Pollock with his abstract expressionism on the one hand. And the Japanese calligrapher on the other.’
    ‘You must be joking. They couldn’t be further apart.’
    ‘Don’t be so sure. What you describe seems to be very manic, releasing the subconscious through lack of control. Painting without thinking.’
    ‘So?’
    ‘Well, on the face of it,
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seems to be the opposite. Calming the mind until reason and emotion are one, allowing for a deeper spirituality to emerge. Yet both are about truth. One is truth achieved through a state of agitation. While the other is achieved through a state of calmness. The difference between Western and Oriental thought perhaps.’
    Macy sat back in her chair, grinning.
    ‘What’s so funny?’ he asked.
    ‘Well, first I thought you weren’t listening. Second, I was ready for you to dismiss Pollock as a madman. But you’ve got an open mind, Eddie. I can call you Eddie, can’t I? Edward is too formal. Too much like that dead king. I like that about you, Eddie. An open mind. And a sensitivity to go with it.’ She sucked on her cigarette, then waved away the smoke, clearing the space between them. ‘I’ve got a little exhibition of my work coming up in a week or so. Nothing much. A space in a gallery of a family friend. You should come.’
    ‘Has it lots of dripping paint in it?’
    ‘More like sloshing.’
    ‘Good. I prefer the sloshing.’
    ‘That’s exactly what this beer is doing in my stomach. I’m usually a gin and tonic girl.’
    ‘So why the beer?’
    ‘I thought I’d try to impress you.’
    His fingers wandered to her cigarette lighter, flicked open the lid, sparked up a flame to the empty air. ‘Would you like to get something to eat?’
    They picked up two fish and chip suppers in Soho. Her idea. After all she was still an American in London who relished the idea of her food wrapped up in newsprint. He insisted on walking her back to her flat, choosing a route along the broad pavements of Bond Street and Mayfair, past Georgian porticos, windows with flowerboxes, balconies with sawn-off wrought-iron stumps. Consular buildings, luxury