– So, if you don't mind, I'll ask you to leave your pictures until this evening, and at six o'clock you can pick them up.

– Well, if those are your sponsor's terms, then of course I will come back for them later.

– I promise in return that all your thirty pictures will be safe and sound. And naturally I would be pleased and pleased to co-operate with you, Miss Mroczek.

We shook hands, and Mr. Attick suddenly smiled confusedly.

– Oh, please forgive my oversight! I should have ordered coffee or tea for you …

– No, I'm not cold, believe me," I hastened to interrupt him.

He was gentlemanly enough to assume that the coldness of my hands was, however trivial, a matter of coldness.

A nice mortal, I'll give you that. Not many of them.

– Goodbye, Mr. Attick, I'll be back at six. – I picked up my bag and woollen cardigan and headed for the door.

– See you tonight, Miss Mroczek.

I had a three-hour wait ahead of me, and I didn't feel like going back to the hotel. I caught a taxi and went to Najada Olivecka's exhibition. After breathing in the aroma of reportage photography, which I would call "social" as this Moldovan photographer's work reflected everyday life and generational conflict, and imagining exactly how I would design my exhibition, I returned to the Colour world office to find out my verdict.

– Your work was to his liking. Congratulations. – Mr. Attick smiled, but I could see that he was clearly hiding something, and it was something that made him mentally uncomfortable.

– Well, I'm glad. So it's time to sign the contract? – I asked. – But there's something troubling about you. Your sponsor must have had some questions about my work.

My bluntness didn't embarrass Bernard. Of course he did – he'd been working at the magazine for twenty-seven years, as editor-in-chief, and had seen a lot.

– No, everything went smoothly. He really liked your work. That's true. But he'll only agree to organise your exhibition on one small, I'd say insignificant condition.

– What condition? – I frowned.

– He wants to buy one of your works on the condition that you never publish it anywhere else. All options, all files.

– Hmm, that's an interesting condition! – I grinned. It flattered me. – Did he like my work that much?

– When he got to this picture, he looked at it for about three minutes. Usually, he looks at each work in ten seconds.

– Which one? – I was getting curious.

– This one. – Mr. Attick held it out to me. – It won't be the subject of the exhibition.

А 4. A girl waiting for a tram. Ten years ago. One of the worst neighbourhoods in Prague. Not my favourite work, I must admit. I photographed this girl by chance because I was fascinated by her long, thick hair, slightly dishevelled by the wind. It was autumn and this girl was wearing a long black coat. Her hands were hidden in her pockets. Expressive brown eyes squinted. Hmm. And this picture so impressed the "great and terrible" sponsor that he was willing to buy all the rights to it?

– If he likes it so much, I can't deny him the joy of owning it," I said in a serious but ironic tone. – So, as you said, the name of your sponsor?

– Mr. Brandon Grayson.

My mouth dropped open, but no sound came out of it. I fell into a stupor.

– I see. – After a long pause, I let it out.

– Is everything all right? – Mr. Attick asked in a slightly concerned tone.

– Yes. It's just… I know him. He's one of my family friends. I didn't know he did exhibitions," I said casually. – How long has it been?

– This will be my seventh. Mr. Grayson is very generous and supports young talent. Like you, Miss Mroczek.

I grinned. To myself. Only a mortal would call me young.

– I'm flattered. So what about the contract? If we've got it all figured out, and I'm willing to give up all the rights and all the files for the job, I'm ready to sign and go to the hotel," I smiled.

Everything went without further ado. The contract was signed. The official opening date was set for the tenth of October.

I got into a taxi and ordered it to take me to the hotel, and called Markus's number.

– I need Brandon's number. It's an emergency," I said briefly.

Yeah, I didn't have Brandon's number. I never imagined I'd be dealing with him.

Markus had sent me the number, thankfully without further question, and I dialled it immediately. My fingers did it on their own, regardless of my desire to never communicate with Grayson. I hated him.

But I needed to know. Why he needed that picture. Because he knew damn well I was the author.

– Brandon Grayson. – I heard his beautiful, low voice.

– Why do you want that picture? – I asked in a joking tone.

Apparently, he chuckled. I could feel it.

– It's you, Maria. I have to admit, you're a great photographer.

– I know I am. So why do you want this picture?

– Did you sign the contract?

– I did.

– I don't have to answer to you.

– And I don't have to sell it to you. – His calm, indifferent tone burned me.

– You already did.

– But I still haven't disclosed the amount.

– You're right, it's about time.

I desperately didn't want to sell him my picture. No, hell no!

– How much would you give for it?

– That's not a fair question. You're the author, it's your right to set the price.

– Then I want it for… Let's say a million. – I said that high figure on purpose. I don't think he'd want to buy a small photograph for that kind of money.

– It's a decent amount for a decent job," Brandon said, as if nothing had happened.

– Are you kidding? – I blurted out.

– Is that the final price?

– Do you want that picture that badly? – I couldn't help myself.

– Do I? No. But I like its aesthetics.

– Then I'm not selling it.

– It's too late. You signed a contract. You have to sell it to me.

– You know what, Brandon? I'll sell you my work, but only because I want the damn exhibit! And you're a scumbag like the world has never seen!

He laughed.

– You make it sound like a compliment, Maria. What's the final sum?

– I've already given it. Pounds sterling.

– That's good. It's already in your account. I'll be at your hotel tomorrow, 8pm. We can have dinner together and I'll pick up my purchase.

– Don't put conditions on me," I replied irritably.

– It's not conditions, it's just routine.

Dinner with Grayson. Never. How will I be able to look at him and hide my dislike, my disgust? For my eyes will burn with hatred.

But if he doesn't care, he can take his purchase and go to hell.

– It's a deal. Eight o'clock tomorrow at the hotel restaurant. – I passed out.

I was full of contradictory feelings, and I thought my head was spinning, even though it was impossible. But these feelings, these emotions sat inside me, pressing, tormenting, tearing. A worthless conversation with that narcissist Mr. Grayson – and I fell into a state I'd never known. I'm lying. The same state that had come over me in the church eight years ago when that bastard had said to my mother, "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Mroczek, I'm terribly late." Those words rang in my head like the striking of a bell. Does that mean my head is as empty as the dome of a church? No. It's bursting. The thoughts. They're like the strikes of a bell, like Brandon's words, like everything around him and connected to him. My hatred. For him. For that day. For myself.

"Is that how much I need this exhibition? I can break the contract at any time, especially since no action from the performer has yet begun," I pondered. – He needs my work. He loves aesthetics. What aesthetics did he find in that photograph? He'll come for it… I should have just sent all the files by courier! I don't need this meeting. What the hell am I going to do, pretend to be indifferent to his presence again? He's ruined my whole life. Shit, Maria, you're acting like a white bunny trying to hide from a sly fox. What's wrong with you? Have you gone soft? Are you spoilt? It's just another business meeting and you'll be as calm as Everest. You'll chat about nothing…"