The Latitude Brothers, Cyril and Stuart, had given me a start in their own Bond Street gallery some years earlier. Given my head, I was able to demonstrate a skill that eluded them, for all their years in the trade. The key is this: the sale price of a painting has nothing to do with its intrinsic worth. The price is set by your judgement of the purchaser’s desire combined with your estimate of the depth of his wallet. That’s what I was good at. C and S Latitude’s turnover increased correspondingly, as did my salary. But I was stifled by the brothers’ rigidly conventional portfolio: minor masters in oil and water colour. In the 21st Century that was only a small segment of the marketplace. I wanted to use my instinct for what would sell, and I wanted independence. Rather than lose me, they agreed a deal. They set me up in my own gallery a quarter of a mile away, gave me total autonomy but took an entitlement to fifty per cent of my profits for two years after they had recouped their original outlay. I called the new enterprise Longitude. By indulging some hunches with up-and-coming artists, I found more winners than losers. The same was true of my clientele. In particular, I discovered a spin-off with women of a certain age. From time to time I would be asked if I could deliver a purchase in person, perhaps advise on hanging it. Almost invariably that was a coded invitation to bed. As a matter of policy, I never refused.

Casey failed to fit the profile by, I guessed, about twenty years, but something I couldn’t pin down led me to think she was here for more than informed conversation about the contemporary art scene. So I was caught off balance when that was precisely what she asked about. I countered by suggesting that I would be happy to tell her all she wanted to know - but that my advice might be more agreeably imparted over dinner.

She stopped in front of a two-tone daub I would not have recommended and looked back at me over her shoulder. “Meaning - what?” She arched an eyebrow.

“Meaning that I know somewhere where the food is good, the staff are efficient and the atmosphere is conducive to intelligent conversation.”

“I assumed you would. Is that all?”

“Should there be something else?”

She turned to face me. “Shall we be frank? This sounds to me like an invitation that would lead eventually to one question - my place or yours.”

Unprepared for so forthright an approach, I was still considering a response that would sound neither too eager nor so stuffy it might close the option, when she went on, “I’m right, aren’t I?”

“Well, you are a very attractive woman...”

“Thank you.” This time she smiled and laid a hand on my arm. “As it happens, I am also in the mood to take an attractive, virile man to my bed. Does that shock you?” I was surprised rather than shocked but this was no moment