44 Scotland Street

think about. It would draw them in.”

Matthew looked thoughtful. “But where would we get all these paintings from?” he asked.

“You’d contact an artist and ask him to give you a whole lot of paintings,” she said. “Artists like that. It’s called a show.”

“But I don’t know any artists,” said Matthew.

Pat looked at him. She wanted to ask him why he was running a gallery, but she did not. Bruce had been right, she told herself.

He is useless. He hasn’t got a clue.

“I know some artists,” she said. “We had an artist in residence at school. He’s very good. He’s called Tim Cockburn, and he Gallery Matters

109

lives in Fife. There are a lot of artists in Pittenweem. There’s Tim Cockburn, and then there’s somebody called Reinhard Behrens, who puts a little submarine into all his paintings. He’s good too. We could ask them to do a show.”

Matthew was interested, but then he looked at his watch. “My God! Look at the time. And I’m meant to be playing golf with the old man. I’m going to have to shoot.”

Left by herself for the rest of the afternoon, Pat dealt with the few customers who came in. She sold a D.Y. Cameron print and dealt with an enquiry from a woman who wanted to buy a Vettriano for her husband.

“I went into another gallery and asked them the same question,” she said to Pat. “And they told me that they had no Vettrianos but that I could paint one myself if I wanted. What do you think they meant by that?”

Pat thought for a moment. There was an endemic snobbery in the art world, and here was an example.

“Some people are sniffy about him,” she said. “Some people don’t like his work at all.”

“But my husband does,” protested the woman. “And he knows all about art. He even went to a lecture by Timothy Clifford once.”

“About Vettriano?” asked Pat.

“Perhaps,” said the woman, vaguely. “It was about the Renaissance. That sort of thing.”

Pat looked at the floor. “Vettriano is not a Renaissance painter.

In fact, he’s still alive, you know.”

“Oh,” said the woman. “Well, there you are.”

“And I’m sorry, but we do not have any Vettriani in stock. But how about a D.Y. Cameron print? We have one over there of Ben Lawers.”

Pat almost sold a second D.Y. Cameron print, but eventually did not. She was pleased, though, with the other sale, and when she left the gallery at five that evening, the Peploe? wrapped in brown paper and tucked under her arm, she was in a cheerful mood. She had agreed to meet Chris that evening, of course, and she had her misgivings about that, but at least she was going out 110

The Sort of People You See in Edinburgh Wine Bars and would not have to endure Bruce’s company in the flat. And it would do him no harm, she thought, to know that she had been asked out by a man. He condescended to her, and probably thought that his own invitation to the pub was the only social invitation she was likely to receive. Well, he could reflect on the fact that she was going out that evening to a wine bar, and at the invitation of a man.

Back in the flat, Pat opened the hall cupboard and inspected its contents. There were a couple of battered suitcases, some empty cardboard boxes, and a bicycle saddle. Everything looked abandoned, which it probably was. This was a perfect place to hide a painting, and Pat tucked it away, leaning against a wall, hidden by one of the cardboard boxes. It would be safe there, as safe, perhaps, as one of those missing masterpieces secreted in the hidden collections of South American drug barons. Except that this was Edinburgh, not Ascuncion or Bogota. That was the difference.

43. The Sort of People You See in

Edinburgh Wine Bars

She was due to meet Chris at seven, in the Hot Cool Wine Bar halfway along Thistle Street. She arrived at ten- past, which was just when she happened to arrive, but which was also exactly the right time to arrive in the circumstances. Quarter past the hour would have made her late, and any closer to seven would have made her seem too keen. And she was not keen – definitely not

– although he was presentable enough and had been polite to her. The problem was the way he had said hah, hah; that had been a bad sign. So now she was there out of duty; having agreed to meet him she would do so, but would leave early.

She looked around the bar. It was a long, narrow room, decorated in the obligatory Danish minimalist style, which meant that there was no furniture. She had always thought that Danish The Sort of People You See in Edinburgh Wine Bars 111

minimalism should have been the cheapest style available, because it involved nothing, but in fact it was the most expensive. The empty spaces in Danish minimalism were what cost the money.

In true minimalist style, everybody was obliged to stand, and they were doing so around a long, stainless-steel covered bar.

Above the bar, suspended on almost invisible wires, minimalist lights cast descending cones of brightness onto those standing below. This made everybody look somewhat stark, an impression that was furthered by the fact that so many of them were wearing black.

There were about twenty people in the bar and Pat quickly saw that Chris was not among them. She looked at her watch and checked the time. Had he said seven? She was sure that he had. And had it been the Hot Cool? She