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there had been hundreds of people around them that evening, she had felt as if she was both giving and receiving a private viewing. She felt as though she was seeing the work in a way that nobody else could; it had been unique and unrepeatable.
    Not finding out his true identity irritated her. Aside from his slippery act of deception, he'd been near-perfect. At least, he had seemed so.
    Judy looked into Peter's eyes, searching for his solidity, which she desperately needed right now. He seemed concerned for her, but more for her mental health than her emotional well-being. His eyes were flat, reflecting the lights above them, but offering nothing of their own.
    She told him about the naked bulb and the naked flame and other visual puns. She left out any mention of Mark. She recalled that there had been a take on the Blackpool beach sidings with the heads cut out, so people could put their faces on cartoon bodies. She asked Peter if he would have had a go, as she had, and he didn't know how to answer her.
    “Look,” Judy said, and she pulled the little book out of her bag.
    Peter turned it over in his hands and flicked through the pages.
     “I was late because I was getting you this book. It's a gift for you.”
    He didn't say thank you.
    “And then it seemed silly not to have a quick look at the exhibition as well,” she added. “A lot of those works were in the gallery. I thought it would give us something to talk about.”
    He said nothing, except: “The queues must have been horrendous. No wonder you were late. Not such a quick look, after all, eh?”
    “I didn't feel much of anything at first,” Judy went on, “but after a while it was extraordinarily erotic. I came out feeling like a different woman. It's been too long since I had some fun.”
    Peter didn't look at her.
    “Maybe you could come with me?” Judy said.
    Again, he refused to look up, as if eye-contact was dangerous now. Perhaps it was.
    She told him about some of the exhibits she had seen. She admitted to feelings that she hadn't admitted to Mark, because Mark had been wrapped up in them. She tried to explain to Peter that art had teased the emptiness inside her and inspired her to fill it.
    With his help.
    Tonight.
    “Maybe that's why I ran all the way here,” she said. “I couldn't wait to be with you.”
    Peter grunted, conflicted, as reluctant to look at her as to look at the book.
    “Open it up,” Judy whispered. “It's all yours.”
    The first image he turned to was that of a cup and saucer covered in fur. Even the spoon was covered in fur.
    “Are these postcards?” he said.
    “There are some postcards, yes,” she replied, “but there are words, too. Look properly.”
    “I've seen enough,” he said and riffled the pages noisily.
    “It's not a flip book,” Judy said.
    “Isn't it?” he replied and handed it back with a derisive sneer.
    Peter had a child from an ex-partner. He saw him at weekends. A little boy named Eric. She could imagine Peter looking at Eric's school drawings and turning them over and over in his hands before intoning:
    “Very good, Eric, very good, but what is it supposed to be?”
    Peter was smart and interesting and practical and dependable, a provider and a rock, but he wasn't kind. He had softness to him, which Judy was attracted to, but he wasn't gentle. She realised that those weren't the same things.
    A man could be firm and strong, but gentle. He could be smart and opinionated, but kind.
    She was on the brink of mentioning Mark, wanting something to throw in Peter's face, but that act of cruelty would make her a hypocrite, and she wasn't sure it would hit its target anyway. Peter seemed to be distancing himself from her. It was more than dissatisfaction with her lateness and she knew it.
    She recalled how Mark had said that he would have waited for her all night, as long as it took. In the end, however, nothing about him was credible. Perhaps it had all been a line to string her along.
    She was