'No, your exit line was after you said you loved me. So-was it a joke?'

She closed her eyes. It was not that she was afraid to look at him, she was afraid she might lose him, that as soon as she had decided wholeheartedly to commit herself to him, he would be the one to back away. Suddenly she knew that that was more than she could bear.

'Of course it was a joke,' she said. 'I mean, if you wanted to pull the trigger, do you think I didn't?'

'Open your eyes,' he said, bending closer, and she did as he asked.

'Give me the exit line, only this time look at me.'

'I love you,' she said softly.

'You got me,' he said, his voice gruff. He had waited a long time to hear her say it, and mean it.

Lorraine ate her plastic lunch on the nine thirty flight out of Newark, eager to get the interview with Nick Nathan over and done with, and hoping the journey wouldn't be a waste of time. She landed in Albuquerque just after lunch and stepped out into the surprisingly pleasant dry air of a high altitude and to the limitless New Mexico sky: even in fall it was like walking on the bottom of an ocean of blue, which made even the mountains surrounding the desert city seem only knee-high. She carried her jacket over her arm, her briefcase in one hand and made her way through the terminal to the travel agent's. She picked up a rental car, a Buick, then, armed with road maps, pulled out of town into the landscape of grey rock, desert pine and juniper to look for signs for the 1-25 to Santa Fe.

As she joined the Interstate, Lorraine noticed on the map that its first thirty miles followed the course of the Rio Grande, and she could not resist turning off the highway for a few minutes to look at the great canyon, plunging down hundreds of feet to a truly breathtaking depth. Its sheer scale produced an overwhelming sense of the measureless, almost the eternal, and Lorraine understood now why so many artists and writers had chosen to make New Mexico their home. Still, she allowed herself only a couple of minutes' delay one middle-aged painter was all the scenery she had come to see.

Sonja came back from the beauty salon feeling glossy, gleaming and beautiful from top to toe, and she knew that part of the feeling of newness and freshness had nothing to do with the beauty treatments or the new hairdo: she felt that she and Arthur had turned the corner at last. It had been her fault, she knew, that it had taken so long, but she would make it up to him now.

When she got back Arthur was not in the suite, but there was plenty of time to dress, and she decided to wear a tailored navy suit with a crisp white shirt, dark navy stockings and matching navy court shoes. She had a Valentino navy and white check trench-style coat that she would slip around her shoulders. She had made up carefully and slightly more heavily than usual, glossing her lips in a deep pink shade she had bought downstairs to match her expertly lacquered nails, and she smiled in the mirror at her new manicure. It had been months, years, since she had taken such care of her hands, but she could have inch-long talons covered in scarlet glitter now if she wished. It had been months, too, since she had bothered to accentuate her eyes, her most striking feature, with shadow and mascara and the fine tracing of dark liner on the lids, which extended their length. When she had finished she studied her reflection carefully a new woman, she thought, or, rather, a transformed one, risen from the ashes of the old.

She checked her soft leather document case for her passport and tickets, then snapped it shut and cast an eye over the rest of the luggage, which she had lined up by the main door of the suite. She checked that Arthur's cases were packed and ready, then searched the room to make sure nothing had been left behind. The limo would be arriving any minute, and she wondered where Arthur had got to. She hated last-minute scrambles to get to airports.

The phone rang Reception, as she had expected, to say that their car was waiting. She told them to send up a porter for the luggage, and to take the other items the concierge was holding for her to the car. When the porter arrived with the trolley and loaded the luggage, there was still no sign of Arthur and Sonja sat at the writing desk drumming her fingers.

She didn't hear him come in, but she turned as she heard his voice. He counted the luggage, and then, as Sonja had done, reminded the porter not to forget the other things with the concierge. 'They know, I told them,' she said, then gasped. Arthur was wearing a white shirt with a Russian collar and a dark grey pinstriped suit. His hair had been trimmed and he was sporting a pair of round Armani sunglasses with steel frames. 'My, my, you've been shopping,' she said, smiling, and he posed with one hand on his hip.

'What do you think? It's too straight?'

'You look fabulous turn around.' He did so, and Sonja clapped. 'You look so good I really like it. My God, new shoes as well.'

Arthur looked down and removed his shades. 'Yeah, got everything from the same place, and I had a haircut and a shave at the barber's in the hotel, and . . .' He dug in his pocket and produced a small leather box, which he tossed to her. Then he looked closely at her, and took in her appearance with surprise: it had been months since he had seen her looking so elegant, so feminine, and he was almost unnerved by it. 'You look very grown-up,' he said, walking round her.

'I've had all these things for ages,' she said. 'Just never got around to wearing them.' She opened the box and gasped it contained a solitaire diamond ring. She snapped it shut as the porter wheeled out their luggage. 'Are you crazy? I thought we'd agreed to be careful until . . . afterwards. How much did this cost?'

He pointed to the box. 'That was a legitimate hole in my legitimate earnings. Now open it again. You're supposed to look at me, all dewy-eyed, then I put it on your finger.'

'What?'

'Jesus Christ, it's an engagement ring didn't you look at it properly?'

Sonja opened the box again and started to laugh gently. 'Engagement? Aren't we a bit old for that kind of-'

Arthur took the box from her and removed the ring. He hurled the box across the room. 'Now, gimme your hand and let me do this properly.'

The ring was a little too large for her finger, but it didn't matter it made Sonja feel happy and warm. Arm in arm, they went to the elevators, where the porter was waiting.

Sonja twisted the ring round and round her finger, then she held up her hand to look at the stone. Arthur laughed as she examined it closely, and by the time the elevator stopped on the ground floor they were both laughing: the jewel was a fake, but an exceptionally good one. Sonja kept turning it on her finger as she watched the luggage being loaded into the trunk of the limo. Arthur's 'wardrobe' of paintings had been sent ahead on an earlier flight so that the canvases would be stretched, framed and ready for collection on their arrival in Germany, as had the new piece of work Sonja proposed to exhibit for the first time in Berlin. While she was receiving her award, Arthur would be delivering his own exhibition to the small independent gallery in Rreuzberg a cover for negotiating the sale of a second collection, accumulated over years and valued at twenty million dollars, with the list of private buyers he and Sonja had carefully selected.

After leaving the Rio Grande flood plain, Lorraine drove through a switchback of gently rolling hills before she reached the lower slopes of La Bajaba, and began the ascent of the notoriously steep mountain. At last she reached the plateau and the centuries-old settlement of Santa Fe came into view, surrounded by the same backdrop of mountain landscape against the huge, azure sky. She drove into town, chose a small motel near the downtown area almost at random and booked a room in which to change and make phone calls.

She rang Nick Nathan's number. A woman answered and was at first wary, asking how Lorraine had got their number. She told her that Raymond Vallance had suggested she call: she was opening a gallery and needed to find work by unknown artists. Vallance had recommended Nick. The woman kept her waiting for some time before she returned to give the address and a time at which it would be convenient to call. Lorraine had two hours to kill, so she decided to check up on some of the local galleries and enquire whether any of Nathan's work was on sale.

Lorraine walked past a number of galleries in the Plaza and the surrounding streets, and even without specialist knowledge of art she could tell that some of the works displayed were as sophisticated as anything she had seen in LA. It was clear that the old town was an art snob's heaven. Everywhere, too, was the beautiful American-Indian jewellery, glowing rows of semi-precious stones surrounded by silver settings, whose traditional designs Lorraine recognized as the height of current fashion. She studied piece after piece in turquoise, lapis, amethyst, citrine, rose quartz, freshwater pearls and a dozen other stones, whose names she didn't know, before eventually buying a serpentine ring for Rosie, some lapis cuff-links for Rooney, and an elaborate necklace of five inlaid hearts suspended from a beaded choker, all in precious minerals and stones, for herself. She savoured, too, the opportunity to look for a gift for Jake. It had been so long since she had had someone special to shop for that the time flew past. Then she saw two heavy silver cuff bracelets, set with bars of turquoise and speckled leopard-skin jasper. She went into the shop and bought them both. When the assistant remarked on how beautiful they looked on her wrist, she spoke without thinking. 'They're for my daughters.'

As she waited for the bracelets to be wrapped, she repeated, 'They're for my daughters,' in her mind. She knew that what Jake had said, and Rosie had repeated to her, meant yet another step towards her future.

When she returned to the car, she checked the map, then began to concentrate on how she would question Nathan, and, most important of all, what she needed to get out of the interview.

The narrow alleyway ran between two four-storey houses with shop fronts, situated in the most rundown part of town. She headed down the alley past boxes of old garbage from both of the shops, and found a peeling door marked 48. As it was ajar, Lorraine pushed it open.

The hallway was narrow, cluttered with bits of broken furniture and a mattress was propped up against a door. A girl of about nine was sitting on the stairs, whose bare boards were dusty and well worn.

'Hi, I'm looking for someone called Nick. Do you know which floor?'

The child wiped her nose with the back of her grubby hand. 'Up, number eight,' she said, and held out her hand. Lorraine opened her purse and gave her a dollar, and the little girl ran out, squealing with pleasure.

Lorraine tidied her hair, then tapped on the door. She could hear a male voice talking and laughing, so rapped again louder, then hit the door with the flat of her hand.

A chain was removed, and the door opened an inch. 'Yes?'

'I'm Lorraine Page I called earlier.'

'Oh, yes, one moment.' A dark-haired woman unhooked the chain and opened the door wide, stepping back almost to hide behind it. 'Come in.'

Lorraine followed her into the apartment. The cramped hallway was dark, with coloured shawls tacked to the wall. A fishing net was draped over a doorway, and a large papier-mche sun hung above a stripped pine door, which stood open.

Lorraine was surprised the room was large, and very bright. The sloping ceiling and walls were painted white, while the bare floorboards had been stripped and stained, then varnished to a gleaming finish. All four windows were bare of curtains, as the room was obviously used as a studio, and the light was important. Paintings were displayed on easels, and stacks of canvases lined the walls, propped against one another.

The woman, who had still not introduced herself, moved with a lovely fluid grace from window to window, drawing down blinds for much-needed shade: the room was unbearably hot. 'We don't have air-conditioning,' she said.

Lorraine recognized her vaguely from Harry Nathan's funeral. She was pale, almost unhealthy-looking, with large brown eyes, quite a prominent nose, and a rather tight mouth with buck teeth. She was not unattractive, but there was a plainness about her, and her straight dark hair, swept away from her face with two ugly hair-grips, needed washing. She wore leather sandals and a loose-fitting print dress, which left her arms bare, and she held her hands loosely in front of her.

'Do you want some coffee?' Her voice was thin, and she kept her head inclined slightly downwards, as though she didn't want to meet Lorraine's eyes.

'Yes, please, black, no sugar but if you have some honey . . .'

'Sure.'

She started to walk out, but stopped and performed a sort of pirouette when Lorraine asked if she was Nick's wife. 'I suppose so I'm Alison. Please look around. He won't be long he's just on the phone.'

As the door closed Lorraine smiled. She began to look first at the half-finished work on the easel, a portrait of a dark-haired man with finely cut features, but full, sensual lips, apparently looking through water, with flowers resting against his cheek and the lips slightly parted, as if he were gasping for air. The painting was unnerving, because Lorraine was sure the subject was Harry Nathan. She didn't like it, not that the work wasn't good, for it was, but it had a childish, almost careless quality. She turned her attention to some of the bigger canvases on the walls, all of which had a similar wash of pale colour in the background, and featured the same man from different angles and in a variety of poses hidden by ferns, screaming and, in one, with a sports shoe carefully painted on top of his head.

Other canvases were traversed by a series of palmprints, or featured pieces of fabric and leaves, but all appeared half-finished, as if the artist had grown bored mid-way and moved on to something else. Lorraine looked closely at a painting on the wall furthest from the door, which showed a group of tall trees with some scrawled writing superimposed on them.

She turned as Alison reappeared with a large chipped mug, and held it out to her. 'Coffee.' Lorraine took it, and the woman remained standing nearby, her head still bowed.

'Are you a painter?' Lorraine asked, with false brightness: there was a servile quality about Alison that made her skin crawl, as if she were afraid of something.

'No.'

She was tough to make conversation with.

'Have you lived here long?'

'Awhile.'

Alison straightened up and flexed her shoulder. She began to massage the nape of her neck, then gave a faint smile and left the room.

Lorraine could hear what they were saying in the next room.

'I'm going out now I've got a class.'

'Okay, see you.'

She moved closer to the open door: Alison was standing in the doorway opposite and the conversation continued in audible whispers.

'Is she looking at them?'

'Yes, she was when I took her coffee in.'

'I'll give her a few minutes, then. What's her name again?'

Alison replied, but Lorraine couldn't hear what she said, nor could she see the man she presumed was Nick. A phone rang, and Alison turned to cross to the front door, but waited a minute listening. Nick said hello to the caller, and Alison left.

Lorraine finished her coffee. She was becoming irritated the call went on and on. She set the mug down on the floor and started to detach some of the canvases from the stack all of the same man. She moved to the next group. These were much better, stronger. She found one she liked a lot and pulled it out. It was a crude, but powerful, life-sized portrait not, for once, of the dark man but of an Indian brave in feathered headdress. She put it to one side, planning to ask the price it would make a nice present for Jake. She was about to move to the next group of canvases when she heard a loud shriek, sustained for some time. She ran over to the open door. 'It says what? Go on! How old does it say he was?' The cries continued. Lorraine stepped into the hallway and made her way to the doorway at the end of the passage. She stood just outside the kitchen.

Nick Nathan had his back to her and was leaning against the side of a table talking on a wall-mounted phone. His dark, slightly greying hair was pulled back, as it has been at the funeral, with a rubber band. He was barefoot and wore torn, dirty jeans and a paint-stained cotton shirt, whose sleeves were rolled up to reveal muscular arms, one wrist encircled by a heavy silver bracelet, and a similar ring on the third finger of his other hand.

'Vallance shot himself? You're kidding me.'

He listened, then shrieked again in the same high-pitched fashion. He was almost bent double, and Lorraine realized suddenly that he was laughing. And whoever was on the other end of the line was telling him about the suicide of Raymond Vallance.

The call continued for another ten minutes. Lorraine returned to the studio, wishing there was somewhere to sit down. She lit a cigarette, and had smoked half of it when the shrieking stopped.

Finally Lorraine heard the receiver banged down. She hoped that Nick Nathan would finally come in and greet her, but then heard the clatter of dishes, and his voice calling the cat. At last the man came in like a whirlwind. 'Hi sorry to keep you waiting. I'm Nick.'

He danced across to her, and pumped her hand up and down. His eyes had a manic look, and he was sweating profusely, his thinning hair sticking to his scalp. He darted close to her, then moved just as rapidly away, looking pointedly at the cigarette and opening a window.

'I'm sorry.' She gestured to her cigarette, but Nick shrugged.

'You want to die, it's your choice.'

He smiled suddenly, showing even white teeth, but his eyes were hunted, and he couldn't keep still, wandering around the room dragging out one canvas after another. Now that she had seen him, Lorraine wondered if the man in the paintings was himself, but he didn't have the same high cheekbones his face was flatter and plainer than his brother's.

'I'm interested in that one,' Lorraine said, tossing the cigarette out of the window.

Nick whipped round to look at the painting she had pulled out of the stack.

'How much?' she asked, uncomfortable. She couldn't seem to get centred around Nathan he was so off-beam that he unnerved her.

'Five thousand dollars,' he snapped, as if challenging her, but she didn't flinch.

'I'll take it,' she said calmly, and he beamed, picking the piece up to admire it himself. Then he started to drag out canvases at an alarming rate, laying them around the room. He babbled to her, asking about her gallery, if she was looking for a one-man show, or intended displaying a number of artists' work together.

'How did you find me?' he said, so intent on finding work to show to her that he didn't appear interested in her reply.

'Raymond Vallance suggested I call you,' she said, and saw him stiffen.

'He's dead,' he said, staring at her.

'I know, he committed suicide.'

She was wondering how in the hell she could start to question him the reason she had come but knew that she had to tread carefully. From what she had seen of his work, Nathan did not have the technical virtuosity to imitate better artists, and he seemed so mentally unstable that he would be too dangerous to have in on any scam but she had come all this way to interview him and she intended to do so.

Lorraine took out her cheque book and started writing. 'Do you show your work mainly in Santa Fe?' she said, pretending to make conversation but paving the way for the real question she wanted to ask.

'I guess,' Nathan said. 'I've shown in California too.'

'Did you work with your brother's gallery?' Lorraine said casually.

Nick eyed her suspiciously. 'How do you know my brother had a gallery?' he asked.

'Oh, just contacts,' Lorraine said airily. 'I know a lot of people in the art world I've come across Kendall too. It must have been very useful, having a gallery in the family, so to speak.'

Nick said nothing for a while. Then, 'I had a few pieces in there.'

'Did you ever live in Los Angeles?'

'No. I just stayed at his place a few times.'

Lorraine finished writing the cheque with a flourish and Nathan slowly relaxed. 'I hated LA,' he said. 'Full of fucking phoneys. They wouldn't know art if it walked up and bit them in the face.'

'That's a pity. I'm sure Kendall could have promoted your work.'

He sneered, 'The only person Kendall ever promoted was herself, money-grubbing bitch. My brother wanted more of my work, but she wouldn't have it.'

'Her gallery was successful, though,' Lorraine said.

'Bullshit! Filled with crap, wallpaper paintings.'

'Yes, some of those paintings look as though just about anyone could do them,' Lorraine said innocently. 'I'm sure you could do stuff in exactly the same style if you wanted to.'

'You bet I could,' Nick said. 'If I wanted to.'

'It must be a great temptation,' Lorraine said, flattering him, 'I mean, for a real artist, if money's tight, to know you could make a lot more just by imitating someone who happens to be flavour of the month.'

'Well,' he said, 'sometimes I've worked in a particular way because that was what a buyer wanted that's the difference between working to a commission and working for yourself.'