'You're not going to go on with all that nonsense, are you?' he said.

'I don't know what you're talking about,' she countered.

'All that bulls.h.i.t where you pretend to be disinterested, but at the same time you've put on a s.e.xy dress and done your hair.'

'I do wish you wouldn't swear so. It's very crude.'

'It's the only way you Regent's Park types can get a real education.'

She was about to correct him and say Mayfair, but held it back.

'Well, I'm sure I don't need that kind of education, thank you very much.'

He laughed. It was quite disarming.

'Have it your way, Emerald with the beautiful green eyes. Now ... are you coming, or not?'

She could see herself spinning on her heel and slamming the door in his face, but she suddenly wanted to go with him very much.

'What is this exhibition all about?' she sniffed.

'You'll have to come along to find out, won't you? But if you do come, I promise it will change your perception of art. You can have your van Goghs and Turners: Ivanof is a real-world artist. When you see something that is real, unlike your paintings, where everything is intended to trick the eye, you'll be amazed at what you've missed in real life. Until a brilliant photographer makes you see the world - really see it - you don't have a clue. And after he shows you, you can never see that object in the same way ever again.'

As he spoke she watched his expression change. His piercing eyes softened and the tight line of his jaw relaxed, adding a fullness to his mouth she'd previously not noticed. Even his voice, which had appeared strident at their first meeting, had become more rounded and expressive. He was still intense, but now she could see the pa.s.sion that impelled him.

'So what are you going to do, Miss Emerald Eyes? Do you want to remain stuck with your views of the world, or are you brave enough to let me challenge them?'

At that moment she thought Raph could have convinced her the fiery depths of h.e.l.l were worth a visit. She took a breath. 'Very well,' she said, and followed him to the front gate.

'I didn't know the exhibition was in Oxford,' Emerald said above the wind that had almost torn her hat out of her hand, and now flung her hair in every direction.

'Would it have made any difference?' he said, his voice raised to be heard over the wind.

'Well, for one thing, I would have worn a hat more suitable for a spin in a ... a ... What did you say it's called?'

'It's an MG TA. Made right here near Oxford. And in case you're interested, it's nearly 1300cc, overhead cams, and fifty horsepower.' He turned to her and smiled. 'Are you impressed?'

'I'll say,' she said, grinning.

Raph was a different person when he wasn't baiting her.

'How long have you owned it?' she called.

'I don't. Not yet. It's my brother Kelvin's. I'm paying it off. He left it with me when he went away to America.'

'I see.'

She couldn't imagine not immediately owning something that she wanted. All her life, even after her parents' divorce and before her mother's remarriage, she'd never wanted for anything. She was starting to realise the world was a more complex place than what she'd seen. Until she heard Goran Papasov's story, she'd had no idea of the prejudices levelled at the gypsies, nor the horrors of their life on the continent during the war. And until she met Raph, and he challenged her about it, she'd never given a thought to the poor in her own country.

She wondered about being the wife of a working-cla.s.s man. She would have to be careful of her spending. No spontaneous trips to Harrods for a new outfit; no traipsing off to the Cotswolds for the summer.

She looked at Raph hunched over the wheel, the wind tearing at his rakish tartan scarf and flinging his untamed blond hair here and there, and wondered what it would be like to live in his world.

Raph led Emerald into the temporarily rearranged dining room of the Oxford Hounds hotel, where a small group of enthusiasts, some sipping champagne, strolled from one large photograph to another.

Emerald wondered aloud whether all the cultural events west of London were confined to pubs: surely there were ample proper exhibition s.p.a.ces elsewhere in that part of England to accommodate them.

'It saves on costs,' was Raph's explanation. 'And Alexi can't be too choosy. It's not easy being a Russian in the west these days; but the publican's sympathetic.'

'Sympathetic to what?'

'To the cause.'

'What cause?'

'The socialist cause, of course,' he said.

'Socialist? You mean communism?' Her stepfather had often been apoplectic upon reading any reference to communism in The Times. 'b.l.o.o.d.y reds!' he'd say. 'We should have let Hitler wipe them all out in the war.'

'No,' he said, patiently. 'I mean socialism. There is a difference, you know.'

She had expected derision, so his only slightly patronising words disarmed her. Now she wanted to know more, but they were interrupted by a huge man who came to Raph and swept him into a bearhug.

'Raphael!' he boomed. 'My friend. It is good to see you again.'

'Jesus, Alexi!' Raph spluttered as he broke the embrace. 'At least have a shave if you're going to kiss me, will you?'

'And look, you have found yourself a beautiful English rose,' the big man said, eyeing Emerald.

'Emerald, this is Alexi Ivanof,' he said.

'Wonderful,' Alexi said. 'She is beautiful.' He raised his hand to the waitress. 'Drinks! Over here, mademoiselle.'

The waitress arrived with a tray of champagne flutes.

Alexi handed them each a gla.s.s. 'A toast,' he said. 'To the revolution. No ... f.u.c.k that.' He laughed - a booming sound that filled the bare room. 'To the success of my exhibition.'

They clinked gla.s.ses.

Alexi drained his in a single gulp and called for another, forcing fresh gla.s.ses into their free hands when the tray arrived.

'Now, to the two of you. A happy couple.'

Raph shrugged and Emerald smiled.

'Raph tells me you're from Russia,' Emerald said.

'Russia, no. We call it Belarus. But me, I'm from everywhere.'

'Alexis claims he knows a dozen languages,' Raph said.

'That's me. I can talk bulls.h.i.t in too many tongues.'

'Really,' Emerald said. 'Then let me test you.' She tapped her index finger against her bottom lip, trying to recall the word the gypsy used. 'Let me see, yes: what does recha mean?'

'Ah! That one too easy. From my home in Belarus. Recha, it means vibrate.'

'Vibrate?' Emerald tried to recall the context of the fortune-teller's message.

Alexi again downed the champagne. 'No,' he added. 'Better I say, echo. Yes, echo.'

He then disappeared to attend to a prospective buyer.

She replayed the gypsy's words again. She'd talked about black and white babies. Now echoes. It didn't make sense. She'd simply been swindled out of her two bob.

'How do you know Alexi?' she asked Raph, putting the matter from her mind.

'We spent time together in gaol.'

'Gaol?'

'Posing a public nuisance,' he said. 'It was a demonstration against the government's lockout at the mines a few years ago. We were locked up together for a couple of weeks because neither of us could post bail. Well, I could have, if I'd been prepared to ask my family. But it wasn't worth the heat, so I decided to sit it out. We were both convicted and released on time already served. You can get to know a lot about a person under close confinement like that. I learned he was a photographer, and I had always been interested in it, so we went from there.'

She finished the first gla.s.s of champagne and started on the second while Raph further charmed her with his enthusiasm for the art around them.

'It's not all about f-stops and depth of field. What Alexi has is creativity. He can see the shot in the landscape or the face or the animal. He can extract the essence of that scene and capture it on film.'

'Can you do that?'

He paused before answering. 'I try.'

'Do you have a collection like Alexi?' she said, indicating the work on the surrounding walls.

He ran his gaze around the room. 'Not like this.'

She wanted to ask him to show her what he had, but the moment pa.s.sed when he asked if she cared to take a tour of the exhibits.

He led her to the nearest of Alexi's work - a study of windblown trees above a bleak stretch of coastline.

'Step up to it,' Raph said.

Emerald moved closer to the black and white photograph until it filled her field of vision.

'Now ... step into it,' he added.

She glanced at him. He was watching her closely. It was hard to read his expression, but when he nodded encouragement, she tried to imagine herself in the scene.

She studied the picture with the branches of the tree nearest to the camera straining against the wind. Tiny droplets took flight from the leaves in a spray that flew horizontally across the print. Behind the tree, foam came from the sea, whipped into a froth that scuttled across the sand like startled white rabbits, then up into the dunes, where the gra.s.s waved and rippled in a vain attempt to resist the onslaught of the driving rain. She felt suddenly chilled and a shiver ran down her spine. When she turned back to Raph he was smiling.

'You felt it, didn't you?'

'It's amazing! I was actually on that hill, in the wind and rain.'

'Now, look at this one.'

He took her hand and dragged her across the room to a large photo of a black-maned male lion, its face turned full towards the camera.

'What do you see?' he asked.

'It looks a little quizzical. How did he get this shot?'

'Look again,' he insisted. 'What else do you see?'

She moved closer.

'It has a scar on its top lip.'

'Good. What else?'

'And tiny little flies around its mouth.'

'Bad breath,' he said, smiling again.

'Does Alexi make a living from his photography?' she asked.

He pointed to the price on the tag.

'Oh, I see,' she said. 'Isn't that rather ... expensive?'

'Not for people like you and your parents.'

Her impulse was again to defend herself, but she quickly realised he hadn't intended the comment as a slight. Since meeting Raph she'd become slightly paranoid about her parents' privileged position.

'It's the self-promotional game,' he continued. 'n.o.body respects your work if you put a small price on it. Look at all the great masters in art. Many were penniless for most if not all of their lives.'

He paused to take a handful of peanuts from a pa.s.sing tray.

'Today's artists have learned to value their work. Mind you, they have to make a start somewhere, which means for a long time they have to find another way to survive. If they're lucky, it would be using some of their skills, like doing weddings and portraits.'

'Hmm,' she said. 'So, to be successful as a photographer you have to charge a high price for your work, but you can't charge a high price until you're successful. It sounds rather tricky.'

'It is. So everyone is out there trying to win some acclaim, or at least be noticed, then they can start to raise the price.

'How did Alexi get his start?'

'He found a rich widow,' he said, as he popped a peanut into his mouth.

Emerald stared at him; he wasn't joking. 'You don't mean ...'