"How are you?" you mumble, feeling embarrassed."Okay," she says. Her tone is friendly, but the monosyllable answer isn't encouraging.You freeze. You haven't thought about what you would say past this point. You thought you knew better. Such strong attraction always ends in disappointment. But you still want to make your token effort, just because, just to wave your fist at the god who made you imperfect and tell him that you aren't afraid of what he has done. But the god has his own ways to keep you in line, you realize. Scream how you will inside your head, you search and search for something new or funny to say, and come up with nothing. And you realize that her large grey eyes at looking at you, waiting for you to take up your part of the conversation. "Do you come here a lot?" you ask, beyond all hope of originality.She smirks. "Once in a while." What's your name?"She pauses before she answers. Her gaze travels over you, appraising you. Her head leans adorably toward her right. ’ ‘I’m thinking words and pictures,’ I said. ‘Including some pictures that the public has never seen before.’ ‘Oh? Well … sounds interesting,’ Rex said. ‘Can you do me a brief synopsis? And I do mean brief. Stab points. Say three pages max. Curiously, for publishers, the chaps at Beechcroft seem incapable of reading more than about a thousand words at any one time.’ ‘You’ll have it by lunchtime,’ I said. I was standing in my local quick-print shop, waiting while the woman who bore a striking resemblance to Nigella Lawson made photocopies of Shelley’s drawings, when I suddenly decided that I should take Shelley along to the opening of Jack Tuckwell’s exhibition at The Harmsworth Gallery. It was just as well that I had thought to get her phone number when she had delivered the drawings the previous evening. ‘What are you doing tomorrow night?’ I asked. ‘I don’t know,’ Shelley said. ‘Watching telly? I don’t know.’ ‘I want you to come to an opening with me,’ I said. ‘An opening?’ She.
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