Page 15 of A Night with Damien Spur

The vast white room hummed with clusters of people dressed in minimalist gear milling around with glasses of champagne, picking at the trays of sushi and edamame beans offered by young waiting staff dressed in black T-shirts and trousers, topped by purple aprons.

Damien read the graffiti splashed on the first wall in big black shiny letters.

My art is subjective. No questions, no answers. Olga Krilova is me, and me is my art.

The next wall read:

Let your mind flow. Choose what you want to see. But don’task me what I think or what I know.

Well, that’s a conversation stopper, said the Voice.

Damien scanned the crowd. There she was, across the room – with a man.

Keep your cool, said the Voice.Don’t jump to conclusions.If she catches your eye, give her a casual wave. But take your time to amble over. Don’t want to seem too eager.

Damien nodded to himself, but his attention was quickly diverted by Angus, talking to a pale-skinned guy with long grey hair and large, black-framed glasses. Even from a distance he recognised him. It was Lazarus.

Better steer clear. Just in case Angus had been to the Haunt. Probably not. He was far too mean to spend a £1,000 for a night in the sack.

Damien started to amble his way towards Sophie. A painting caught his eye – a black square on a grey canvas and a girl in a white dress holding a bleeding heart on a cushion, titledSacrifice to Unrequited Love.

Poor woman, said the Voice,she definitely needs cheering up.

He moved on to the next painting. A man with a gun to his head and a woman lying on the floor, covered in cockroaches.

Death of Love

Damien stared at the picture open-mouthed.

‘Outrageous,’ he muttered.

An incendiary rage coursed through his body like a hand grenade. ‘What kind of world do we live in when this vile piece of rubbish is considered art?’

Steady now, said the Voice,or the security men will throw you out.

Luckily most of the guests had moved on to the next room, save for a Japanese couple who ignored him.

You really need to calm yourself, said the Voice.CAN YOU HEAR ME?

‘Yes! You don’t need to shout,’ Damien whispered.

You’re very embarrassing, the Voice hissed.Just because you can’t look further than Picasso or Matisse, doesn’t mean that everyone else has to agree with you when it comes to other artists’ work.

‘Just tell me why anybody would want to buy this depressing piece of ugliness.’

Damien had fired his last shot when a tiny woman with owlish eyes and thin lips suddenly appeared next to him.

‘Someone already has,’ she said in a thick Russian accent. ‘The little red dot means sold in case you didn’t know. By the way, I’m Olga,’ she added casually.

Touché. Serves you right. Now apologise!said the Voice.

‘And who are you?’ she said.

‘I’m Damien. Damien Spur.’ He held out his hand.

Olga patted his fingers. ‘Why would I shake hands with somebody who has just stabbed me in the back?’ she said, all softly sweet.

She’s good, Damien. A light touch with a deadly blow.

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