Tom sits without art or technique in an elegantly carved oak chair perilously close to the secret friend whose name he's never known, the girl who has always been here and yet who he has always been unaware of. He puts the briefcase down carelessly - as a result, it topples with a loudish bang - he doesn't even start. He just opens the front of his jacket and slumps, giving himself over to a hyperfocused study of the rose on his table, vibrant and full.