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'Great, thanks. I need a drink.'

'I'll get it. Just go talk to Sanjay. What do you want?'

'Anything.' It's unlikely that the gallery bar would have Ghost on hand.

Jonathan propels me in the direction of Sanjay, who is standing in a cluster of people, in deep conversation. The one is clearly money, some corporati culture patron or art buyer; the other, I realise, is Khanyi Nkosi. I recognise her from an interview I saw, but she is so warmly energetic, waving her hands in the air to make a point and grinning, that I can't match her to her work. And the third, I realise with a shock, is Andile. It shouldn't be a surprise that he should be here, considering he picked me on the basis of my work, but I still haven't come clean with Jonathan about the branding, and this doesn't strike me as the time.

I can't deal with this right now. I push through the queue, detouring back towards the entrance and the open air – only to skewer someone's foot with the '40s-style blue velvet heels I bought for the occasion.

'Hey! Easy!'

'Oh god, I'm sorry.' Shit, I really, really, really need a Ghost. I wonder if I can make it to the spaza down the road and back before Jonathan notices.

'No worries. Art is what the artist does, right? So technically, my bruised toes could be worth something?'

I didn't even realise it was Toby whose foot I had crushed.

'So you must be the famous artist, then?'

'I'm the less famous artist. I mean, I'm not; the thing, it's not mine. But you know that.' I laugh self-consciously, still thinking about how to get a Ghost, my mind chanting a little litany of need, wondering if they serve them at the bar.

'Is now a good time to get an interview?'

'You're the journalist?'

'Ouch!' He mock-staggers back, clutching his heart. 'Yeah. I brought my own phone mic and everything.'

'I'm sorry. That's not what I… Oh God. Can we just start again?'

'Sure. No prob.'

He turns away, clears his throat, and then does a little twirl, one hand raised in fabulous salute, hamming it up like he's on the red carpet.

'Hello. I'm Toby. I'll be your journo for the evening.' And I can't help but laugh. 'Do you have a drink?'

'No, thanks. Someone's getting me one.'

'Rocking.' He suddenly turns serious. 'Okay, now listen, Special K, if you want, we can talk later. I know it's your opening and you've got things to do, people to schmooze. I will totally understand if now is not the most opportune moment.'

'Actually, do you want to get out of here?'

'What?'

'Just for a sec. I need some fresh air. And a drink.'

'I thought someone was getting you one.'

'A non-alcoholic.'

'Ooooooh. Right.' He winks.

'You want to come?'

'Sure. Can my mic come too?'

We're not the only people hanging outside. We have to push through a crowd, including an astonishingly gorgeous blonde, with fucked-up hair, who makes me feel conservative. We get halfway down the block before I take off my heels in disgust. 'That doesn't make it into the copy, okay?'

He holds up his hands. 'Do you see me making notes?' We walk in silence for another block, stepping over a bergie passed out in the street. And I'm relieved not to feel any sense of an urgent compulsion to touch him. And no Aitos in sight, either.

At the spaza, Toby opens the fridge at the back. 'Ghost, I'm assuming?' he says, putting it on his phone. It's cold and crisp and clean and it hurts my teeth and I realise my hands have been shaking all this while – or maybe my whole body. And this can't be good, but it doesn't feel bad.

'Mind if I join you?' Toby cracks the seal on another can. 'Wow. You really are an addict deluxe,' he says, a little too admiringly.

'Hey, did you check my coat tonight?

'Yeah?'

His BabyStrange is black, which is a relief after the goreporn he was projecting last time I saw him.

'It's my little shout out to Self-Portrait.'

'Cute. So, do you want to do this?'

'Am I allowed to take notes now?'

'Yeah, yeah.' I wave my hand impatiently.

He hooks a mic into