The shortlist

Well, that could have gone worse: at least James didn’t win. It had been slightly galling to be shortlisted alongside your childhood friend. It’s not like you don’t have dozens of school and university exhibitions behind you, each of which showed him to be harmlessly adequate next to your work, genuinely bringing forward the field of cross-disciplinary arts.

Jenny Crawford, on the other hand, is a proper up-and-comer. You’ve never met her, but you’ve seen her exhibitions. You’ve read her interviews. She has a powerful and original voice. If you hold back from flattering yourself for just a moment, she clearly deserved this prize. And she’s gorgeous. Utterly gorgeous.

“Alex?”

You realise you’re gazing off into space. You haven’t said anything for a while. People are filing out of the small hall. You’ve daydreamed through everything since the New Cross-Disciplinary Artist award. You turn to your sister and flash an unconvincing smile.

“She’s a proper up-and-comer,” you say.

“There’s somebody here to see you,” she says, nudging your arm.

You half-hope to see Jenny Crawford, but you’re not upset to see James standing next to your table, smiling through his carefully-groomed beard.

“Hullo there,” he begins, fidgeting with a cufflink. “Rotten luck, but it’s not all so bad, eh?”

You make some small talk with him. His suit tonight really flatters him. Adds an inch or two to his slightly short stature. Your sister tunes out and starts scrolling on her phone.

Before too long, James comes to a point. “You’re not unadventurous, are you, Alex? You know what I mean.”

You don’t entirely, but you say: “Of course not”.

“Good. There’s a bit of a soirée happening up at my hotel suite”—James is ridiculously loaded, even for an art world full of so-and-so’s niece-or-nephews—“Would love for you to come.”

Your sister looks up at that. “There’s a party?”

James smiles weakly. “Strictly new artist shortlisters-only, I’m afraid. Sorry Lauren. But Alex, what do you say?”