You accept, of course

“I didn’t know you knew all these people,” you tell James. The lift is pulling you up into the double-digits.

“The shortlisters? I didn’t, really, except Rebecca. She knew Lucy, and that’s a quorum. I’ve been hanging out with Sebastian a bit through them, and I think we’ve even snagged Jen Crawford tonight! She’s at another do first, so we’ll have to start without her.”

You're going to be at a party with Jenny Crawford. The top young talent in multidisciplinary art in the country.

The lift gently comes to a close, and opens into James's hallway. You are confronted by James's and your reflections, tastefully lit. You straighten your tie. You both look terrifically handsome. You turn and see double-doors to the balcone at the end of the room. This entryway alone is the size of your hotel room ten floors below.

“Coo-ee!”

You've never heard James say that before. A head pops round the dividing wall. The round-bespectacled eyes of Rebecca Reyes, the sculptor-poet, look out at you.

“Who've you got there?” she asks. “Is that Dawes-Head?”

James confirms with a nod and a grin. He pulls you by the arm (his grip is firmer than you would have imagined) round the corner into the main room of his hotel suite. The faces are familiar, but these aren't people you know socially. Tall and slender, posture impeccable, Sebastian Baptist nurses a cocktail. Draped onto one of the sofas is Lucy Scarcer, cute and freckled face framed by short ginger hair. Rebecca completes the scene by delicately taking a seat opposite Lucy, her knees primly together.

“Can I get you a drink?” asks James, blinking at you. “We've got the world. Tell you what, I know what you need.”