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argued that we needed ‘some spice’, some life, something a bit more dangerous than art patrons, calculating investors and those who came just to have their public images massaged. Fair enough, but I knew that the scum were here because they had asked Diana nicely for an invitation. And even though Diana knew that they were here angling for buyers of their own works, it was well documented that Diana could never say no if she was asked for a favour. I noticed several people – mostly men – occasionally casting furtive glances in Diana’s direction. Be my guest. She was finer than anyone they would ever get. This was not just an assumption, but an unshakeable logical fact as she was the finest of the finest. And she was mine. Just how unshakeable was something with which I tried not to torment myself. For the time being I found peace of mind thinking that she seemed to be permanently blind.
    I counted how many men there were wearing ties. As a rule, they were the ones who bought. The current square-metre price for Nørum’s works lay at around fifty thousand. With fifty-five per cent commission to the gallery you didn’t need many sales before this would become a lucrative evening. To put it another way: it had better be; Nørums were few and far between.
    People were streaming in through the doors now, and I had to move out of the way to let them get to the tray of champagne glasses.
    I ambled towards my wife and Nørum to tell him what a grovelling admirer I was. An exaggeration, of course, but not a bare-faced lie; the guy was good, no doubt about that. But as I was going to stretch out my hand, the artist was collared by a sputum-spouting man he obviously knew and dragged off to a giggling woman in apparent dire need of the toilet.
    ‘Looks good,’ I said, standing next to Diana.
    ‘Hi, darling.’ She smiled down at me, then motioned to the twin girls that they should do another round with the finger food. Sushi was out, but I had suggested the new Algerian catering service, French-inspired North African, very hot. In all senses. But I could see that she had ordered the food from Bagatelle again. It was good, too, my goodness. And three times as expensive.
    ‘Good news, my love,’ she said, slipping a hand into mine. ‘Do you remember the job for that firm in Horten you told me about?’
    ‘Pathfinder. What about it?’
    ‘I’ve found the perfect candidate.’
    I observed her with mild surprise. As a headhunter, from time to time naturally I used Diana’s customer portfolio and circle of acquaintances, which counted many business honchos among its number, without any pangs of conscience; after all, it was me who was financing this drain on the budget. What was unusual was that Diana had herself come up with a specific candidate for a specific job.
    Diana took the underside of my arm, leaned closer and whispered: ‘His name is Clas Greve. Dutch father, Norwegian mother. Or the other way round. Whatever. He stopped working three months ago and has just moved to Norway to do up a house he’s inherited. He was the CEO of one of Europe’s biggest GPS technology companies in Rotterdam. He was a co-owner until they were bought up by the Americans this spring.’
    ‘Rotterdam,’ I said, sipping some champagne. ‘What’s the company’s name?’
    ‘HOTE.’
    I almost choked on the champagne. ‘HOTE? Are you sure?’
    ‘Pretty sure.’
    ‘Have you got the guy’s number?’
    ‘No.’
    I groaned. HOTE. Pathfinder had named HOTE their model company in Europe. Just as Pathfinder was now, HOTE had been a small high-tech business specialising in delivering GPS technology to the defence industry in Europe. An ex-CEO from there would be absolutely ideal. And it was urgent. All recruitment agencies say that they only take assignments where they have exclusive rights because it is a prerequisite for serious, systematic work. But if the carrot is big and orange enough, when the gross annual salary begins to