Lost in a Good Book

and put it down again. Joffy, looking very smart indeed in a dinner jacket and dog-collar, leapt forward when he saw me, grinning wildly.

‘Hello, Doofus!’ he said, hugging me affectionately. ‘Glad you could make it. Have you met Mr Saveloy?’

Without waiting for an answer he propelled me towards where a puffy man stood quite alone at the side of the room. He introduced me as quickly as he could and then legged it. Frankie Saveloy was the compere of Name That Fruit! and looked more like a toad in real life than he did on TV. I half expected a long sticky tongue to shoot out and capture a wayward fly, but I smiled politely nonetheless.

‘Mr Saveloy,’ I said, offering my hand. He took it in his clammy mitt and held on to it tightly.

‘Delighted!’ grunted Saveloy, his eyes flicking to my cleavage. ‘I’m sorry we couldn’t get you to appear on my show—but you’re probably feeling quite honoured to meet me, just the same.’

‘Quite the reverse,’ I assured him, retrieving my hand forcibly.

‘Ah!’ said Saveloy, grinning so much the sides of his mouth almost met his ears and I feared the top of his head might fall off. ‘I have my Rolls-Royce outside. Perhaps you might like to join me for a ride?’

‘I think,’ I replied, ‘that I would sooner eat rusty nails.’

He didn’t seem in the least put out. He grinned some more and said:

‘Shame to put such magnificent hooters to waste, Miss Next.’

I raised my hand to slap him but my wrist was caught by Cordelia Flakk, who had decided to intervene.

‘Up to your old tricks, Frankie?’

Saveloy grimaced at Cordelia.

‘Damn you, Dilly—out to spoil my fun!’

‘Come on, Thursday, there are plenty of bigger fools to waste your time on than this one.’

Flakk had dropped the bright pink outfit for a more reserved shade but was still able to fog film at forty yards. She took me by the hand and steered me towards some of the art on display

‘You have been leading me around the houses a bit, Thursday,’ she said testily. ‘I only need ten minutes of your time with those guests of mine!’

‘Sorry, Dilly. Things have been a bit hectic. Where are they?’

‘He’s performing Richard III at the Ritz—you would have thought he’d never been to Swindon the way he’s carrying on. Can you please make time for them both tomorrow?’

‘I’ll try.’

‘Good.’

We approached a small scrum where one of the featured artists was presenting his latest work to an attentive audience composed mostly of art critics who all wore collarless black suits and were scribbling notes in their catalogues.

‘So,’ said one of the critics, gazing at the piece through his half-moon spectacles, ‘tell us all about it, Mr Duchamp2924.’

‘I call it The id within,’ said the young artist in a quiet voice, avoiding everyone’s gaze and pressing his fingertips together. He was dressed in a long black cloak and had sideburns cut so sharp that if he turned abruptly he would have had someone’s eye out. He continued:

‘Like life, my piece reflects the many different layers that cocoon and restrict us in society today. The outer layer—reflecting yet counterpoising the harsh exoskeleton we all display—is hard, thin, yet somehow brittle—but beneath this a softer layer awaits, yet of the same shape and almost the same size. As one delves deeper one finds many different shells, each smaller yet no softer than the one before. The journey is a tearful one, and when one reaches the centre there is almost nothing there at all, and the similarity to the outer crust is, in a sense, illusory.’

‘It’s an onion,’ I said in a loud voice.

There was a stunned silence. Several of the art critics looked at me, then at Duchamp2924, then at the onion.

I was sort of hoping the critics would say something like. ‘We’d like to thank you for bringing this to our attention. We nearly made complete dopes of ourselves’, but they didn’t. They just said:

‘Is this true?’

To which Duchamp2924 replied that this was true in fact, but untrue representationally, and as if to reinforce the fact he drew a bunch of shallots from within his jacket and added:

‘I have here another piece I’d like you to see. It’s called The id within II (grouped), and is a collection of concentric three-dimensional shapes locked around a central core…’

Cordelia pulled me away as the critics craned forward with renewed interest.

‘You seem very troublesome tonight, Thursday.’ She smiled. ‘Come on, I want you to meet someone.’

She introduced me to a young man with a well-tailored suit and well-tailored hair.

‘This is Harold Flex,’ announced Cordelia. ‘Harry is Lola Vavoom’s agent and a big cheese in the film industry.’

Flex shook my hand gratefully and told me how fantastically humbled he was to be in my presence.

‘Your story needs to be told, Miss Next,’ enthused Flex, ‘and Lola is very enthusiastic.’

‘Oh, no,’ I said hurriedly, realising what was coming. ‘No, no. Not in a million years.’

‘You should hear Harry out, Thursday,’ pleaded Cordelia. ‘He’s the sort of agent who could cut a really good financial deal for you, do a fantastic PR job for SpecOps and make sure your wishes and opinions in the whole story were vigorously listened to.’

‘A movie’’ I asked incredulously. ‘Are you nuts? Didn’t you see The Adrian Lush Show? SpecOps and Goliath would pare the story to the bone!’

‘We’d present it as fiction, Miss Next,’ explained Flex. ‘We’ve even got a title. The Eyre Affair. What do you think?’

‘I think you’re both out of your tiny minds. Excuse me.’

I left Dilly and Mr Flex plotting their next move in low voices and went to find Bowden, who was staring at a dustbin full of paper cups.

‘How can they present this as art?’ he asked. ‘It looks just like a rubbish bin!’

‘It is a rubbish bin,’ I replied. ‘That’s why it’s next to the refreshments table.’

‘Oh!’ he said, then asked me how the press conference went.

‘Kaine is fishing for votes,’ he told me when I had finished. ‘Got to be. A hundred million might buy you some serious airtime for advertising but putting Cardenio in the public domain could sway the Shakespeare vote—that’s one group of voters you can’t buy.’

I hadn’t thought of this.

‘Anything else?’

Bowden unfolded a piece of paper.

‘Yes. I’m trying to figure out the running order for my stand-up comedy routine tomorrow night.’

‘How long is your slot?’

‘Ten minutes.’

‘Let me see.’

He had been trying out his routine on me, although I protested that I probably wasn’t the best person to ask. Bowden himself didn’t find any of the jokes funny, although he understood the technical process involved.

‘I’d start off with the penguins on the ice floe,’ I suggested, looking at the list as Bowden made notes, ‘then move on to the pet centipede. Try the white horse in the pub next and if that works well do the tortoise that gets mugged by the snails—but don’t forget the voice; then move on to the dogs in the waiting room at the vet’s and