White Matter

Eighteen months earlier

Two nights I associate most particularly with the gallery; they neatly bookend not just my public life but also Monica.

Monica, she whom I have not yet seen fit to mention. The night we met was the night of my first ever exclusive, the first night the public would think of me as an artist.

For once I had allowed myself to become fully immersed in Kohei's world. He had been out and about, doing his job, getting in amongst those players who mattered, the ones with stake enough for the game, letting them know – not with a nod and a wink of course, but certainly with a nudge – that here was a new speculative play, a chance for the savvy collector to get in early. And he was right. A rich vein of inspiration meant that, for once, I had both the quality and quantity of work to fill the room. The critics, too, had noticed and were already speaking kindly of my art.

It had all come rather easily in the end, so easily in fact that all the striving and failure that had preceded it came to feel like the memory of another person, leaving me with a sense of lapsed-Methodist guilt at receiving so much reward for such little work. Not that I was about to let a little guilt steal the moment from me.

I had taken Kohei's advice and scrubbed myself up for the occasion, accepting his choice of evening suit and feeling confident enough in his taste to believe that I wouldn't be left looking like a fraud. Standing before a mirror as I prepared myself for the evening, I had even started to warm to the idea that I might present to the world with an air of louche respectability. A chunk of my guilt, too, had faded when I saw the price tag on the suit. If everyone is ripping everyone else off, doesn't that kind of make it okay?

So I did what was demanded of me. I got out and mingled; among the royalty and their retainers, the jesters, concubines and bodyguards. Among everyone who mattered, in other words, or wanted to. Even a few old artists who only used to matter, and who were now in it primarily for a free night out. An entire nest of power relationships written in patterns I couldn't read: in who-laughs-at-whose-joke, in conversational initiatives and gestures of deference. Growing in confidence as I went, I blundered happily and oblivious across these gradations of status and contours of influence, feeling increasingly at home – taking to my role and playing it, I thought, rather well. Speaking loudly when making a point, conferring in hushed tones when exchanging gossip, laughing when I was meant to laugh, remembering people's names. It was my night and I was a centre of attention, as much in demand as the wine-dollies and the canapé trays.

There was even discussion of my work. I was taken aside at one point by a dowager who lectured me in earnest tones about the history of an industrial complex that featured in several of the paintings. "My father managed that entire site once, you know, many years ago. He must be spinning in his grave at the dilapidated condition they've let it fall into." She went on to suggest that he would, nonetheless, have appreciated the sympathy with which I had rendered the scene.

I was out there, in other words, being all that I could be: a barbarian king-for-the-night, and perhaps a Prince Charming too, with an eye kept out for my possible Cinderella. Not that I was thinking in terms of happily ever after.

What I certainly hadn't planned on was to be besotted from a distance.

It was her poise that caught my attention, the way she carried herself with a dancer's posture (the set of her shoulders, the concavity of her spine). Then she turned toward me to reveal the round placid face of a madonna. I was 27 years old. She could not have been more than 20.

Excusing myself from my companions, I went across to where she was standing with her friend. They were viewing one of my larger works, an abstract depiction of a coal stockpile at an iron works. I introduced myself, explained who I was, and commented on some aspects of the piece and my choice of subject. She replied with praise for my use of colour, the heat in the reds and the depth of the blacks.

I took up her two hands in mine, as if to examine them for paint flecks. "Oh no," she said, "I'm not an artist myself. I'm studying art history."

Her friend did not appear resentful at my ignoring her. "Listen chick," she said, "I've got this sudden urge for a strong drink. You take care okay. I'll catch up with you later." She gave my madonna a squeeze on the elbow before turning away.

Her name was Monica. I showed her each of my paintings in turn. The words flowed from my mouth in fluent streams. Whenever I paused, she would ask some question or make some comment and that would set me going again. When we came to the last piece, I took her hand once more and touched it against the canvas to feel the texture. A prohibited intimacy, but one that, as the artist, was mine by right.