purchasers. Nobody painted sheep-dogs any more, it seemed.
“Four million,” he said quietly.
There was complete silence. Matthew put down the photograph, but did not look at Pat. She was staring at him, her mouth slightly open.
At last she spoke. “Four million is a lot of money, Matthew.
What are you going to do with it?”
Matthew shrugged. He had no idea what he would do with four million pounds, other than to put it safely away in the bank.
Adam and Company would be the safest place for that.
“I don’t know,” he said. He looked about the gallery. “I could put some of it into this place, of course. I could go to the auctions and bid for the expensive paintings. A real Peploe, for example.
A Hornel or two. A Vettriano.”
“You had a Vettriano,” said Pat. “And then . . .”
“That was some months ago,” said Matthew. “There’s also Elizabeth Blackadder. People like her work. All those flowers and Japanese what-nots. Or Stephen Mangan, with those thirties-like people; very enigmatic. People like him. I could have all these people in here now if I wanted to.”
Pat reflected on this. “It could become the best gallery in town.”
Matthew beamed. “Yes,” he said. “There’s nothing to stop us
335
now. The London galleries will be very jealous. Stuck-up bunch.”
He looked down at the photographs on the table before them.
The paintings seemed somewhat forlorn after the roll-call of famous artists he had just pronounced. Yet there was a comfortable integrity about these paintings, with their earnest reporting of domestic scenes and picturesque scenes. But they were not great art, and now he would be able to handle great art. It would all be very different now that he had four million pounds.
“It’s odd, isn’t it,” said Matthew, “what a difference four million pounds makes? You wouldn’t think that it did, would you? – and yet it does.”
“Yes,” said Pat. “I wouldn’t mind having four million pounds.”
Then she added: “Are you going to buy a new car, Matthew?”
Matthew looked surprised. “I hadn’t thought of that,” he said.
“Do you think I need to?”
Pat’s reply came quickly. “Yes,” she said. “You could get yourself something sporty. One of those little BMWs. Do you know the ones?”
“I’ve seen them,” said Matthew. “I don’t know . . .”
“But you must,” said Pat. “Can’t you see yourself in one of them? Shooting down the Mound in one of those, with the top down?”
“Maybe,” said Matthew. “Or maybe one of those new Bentleys
– the ones with the leather steering wheel and the back that goes like this. I wouldn’t mind one of those.”
“Well, you can get one,” encouraged Pat. “Now that you’ve got four million pounds.” She thought for a moment, and then went on, “And just think of the trips you can make! French Polynesia! Mombassa! The Caribbean!”
“That would be interesting,” admitted Matthew.
“Well, you can do all of that,” Pat concluded. “All of that –
and more.”
They returned to their work, putting aside thoughts of expensive cars and exotic trips, at least on Matthew’s part. After about ten minutes, Pat looked up from her task of arranging photographs to look at Matthew.
“What are you doing tomorrow night?” she asked him.
336
“Domenica’s having a dinner party and asked me. She said that I could bring a friend, if I wished. Would you . . . ?”
Matthew accepted quickly. He was delighted to receive an invitation from Pat, and had long hoped for one. Now, at last, she . . . He stopped. He stood up and walked over to the window to look out on the street. He looked thoughtful, for there was something very specific to think about here, something which sapped the pleasure that he had felt. There was something worrying to consider.
“So he’s going away,” said Dr Macgregor. “To London, you say?”
Lying on her bed, talking to her father on the telephone, Pat gazed up at the ceiling. “Yes,” she said. “He came back this evening looking tremendously pleased with himself.”
“But that’s not unusual for that young man,” said Dr Macgregor. “The narcissistic personality is like that. Narcissists are always pleased with themselves. They’re very smug.” He paused. “Have you ever come across anybody who always looks very smug? Somebody who just can’t help smiling with self-satisfaction? You know the type.”
