Lou nodded. “Best to tell the truth,” she said.
And Lou was right, thought Matthew, as he crossed the street to return to the gallery. She had told him nothing that he did not already know – deep within him; that was often the case with that which purported to be a disclosure: we knew it already.
He had somehow convinced himself that he would be happy with Pat, but in his heart he knew that this was not so. Now the thought that he had even gone so far as to propose to her at that party made him feel extremely uncomfortable. She had asked for time to consider and had mentioned a few weeks. What if she decided to accept? If he wanted to avoid that embarrassment, then he would need to speak to her soon and tell her that it was over.
Now, it might have been simple for some young men to drop a girlfriend, but it was not easy for Matthew. There were two reasons for this. One was that Matthew had never done this before; he had always been the one who had been discouraged or disposed of, and he had no idea how one should let the other person know. The other reason was that he was kind by nature, and the thought of causing distress to another was quite alien to him. That is, of course, if Pat would be distressed, and it occurred to him that there was a strong possibility that she would not be. In fact, there was even the possibility that she would be relieved. She had never been unduly demonstrative towards Matthew – indeed, there had been many occasions on which Matthew had thought that she was quite indifferent to him.
Well, if that was the case, then it could be a release for both of them.
Matthew felt quite cheered by this thought as he completed
his crossing of Dundas Street and approached the door of the gallery. He now noticed that there was somebody standing outside peering into his display window. It was a woman, not as young as Pat, but about Matthew’s age, or perhaps a year or two older. Twenty-eight or twenty-nine, thought Matthew as he drew nearer.
“I’m about to open up again,” said Matthew, as he reached for his keys. “If there’s anything you’d like to look at more closely, please come in.”
The woman seemed flustered. “Oh no,” she said. “I’m not really thinking of buying a painting. I was just looking at that picture over there. That little one in the window. It’s so . . .
Well, it’s so beautiful.”
Matthew looked over her shoulder at the painting behind the glass. It was a small Cowie oil that he had acquired recently at an auction – the front of a building with a girl sitting on stone steps. And beyond this a sweep of rolling countryside, fields, the dark green of trees.
“That’s by James Cowie,” he said. “He was a very fine painter. You may know that big painting of his in the modern art gallery. Do you? That big one of the people sitting in front of a wide stretch of countryside with a curtain behind them and a man on a horse? It’s one of my absolute favourites.”
She shook her head. “I’m not sure if I’ve seen it,” she said.
“I’ll go, though. I’ll go and look for it.”
Matthew watched her as she spoke. She has a lovely face, he thought, lovely, like one of those Italian madonnas, smooth skin.
And I like her eyes. I just like them.
“Come in and look at it,” he pressed. “Most people who go into galleries have no intention of buying a painting. Please.”
She hesitated for a moment and then agreed. “I’ve been shopping,” she said, gesturing to a small bag she was carrying. “I’ve spent enough money.”
Matthew ushered her into the gallery. “Shopping for things you need?” he asked. “Or for things you don’t need?”
She laughed. “The latter, I’m afraid. You’ve got such a nice 230
antiques shop just down the road. The Thrie Estaits. Do you know it?”
“Of course,” said Matthew. “I know Peter Powell. He’s got a very good eye. Everything in his shop is very beautiful.”
“Yes,” said woman. “And this is what I bought. Look.”
She reached into the bag and took out a small vase, chalice-shaped, made of streaky, opaque glass. “It’s called slag-ware,”
she said. “He told me that the glassmakers put something into the glass to make it look like this.” She traced a pattern along the side of the vase, following a whorl of purple. “Isn’t it lovely?
He had three or four of these. I chose this one. It’s a present to myself. I know that sounds awful, but I really wanted it.”
“It’s very attractive,” said Matthew. “May I take a closer look?”
She handed him the vase and he took it over towards the window to look at it in the light. “The colours are really wonderful,” said Matthew. “Look at these different shades of purple. And that lovely creamy white.”
Then he dropped it. He had been holding it firmly enough –
or so he thought – but the vase suddenly slipped through his hands and tumbled downwards. Matthew gave a shout – a strangled cry of alarm – and the glass broke, shattering into fragments which went shooting across the floor.
Matthew stared at the floor for a few moments. Then he looked up at the young woman. She was gazing at the broken vase, her eyes wide with shock.
