Doors Open

‘MD’s office will be locked. He’s got a Wilkie and a couple of Raeburns…’

In the weeks after the party, they’d exchanged emails, gone out for drinks a few times, and become friends. Mike had come to the viewing this evening only because Allan had persuaded him that it might be fun. But so far he had seen nothing to whet his jaded appetite, other than a charcoal study by one of the major Scottish Colourists – and he already had three at home much the same, probably torn from the self-same sketchbook.

‘You look bored,’ Allan said with a smile. He held his dog-eared catalogue in one hand, and a drained champagne flute in the other. Tiny flakes of pastry on his striped tie showed that he had sampled the canapés.

‘I am bored.’

‘No gold-digging blondes sidling up to you with offers you’d be hard pressed to refuse?’

‘Not so far.’

‘Well, this is Edinburgh after all; more chance of being asked to make up a four for bridge…’ Allan looked around him. ‘Busy old night, all the same. Usual mix of freeloaders, dealers and the privileged.’

‘And which are we?’

‘We’re art lovers, Michael – pure and simple.’

‘So is there anything you’ll be bidding on come auction day?’

‘Probably not.’ Allan gave a sigh, staring into the depths of his parched glass. ‘The next lot of school fees are still on my desk, awaiting chequebook. And I know what you’re going to say: plenty of good schools in the city without needing to pay for one. You yourself attended a rough-hewn comprehensive and it didn’t do you any harm, but this is tradition we’re talking about. Three generations, all schooled at the same fusty establishment. My father would curdle in his grave if I put the boys elsewhere.’

‘I’m sure Margot would have something to say about it, too.’

At mention of his ex-wife, Allan gave an exaggerated shudder. Mike smiled, playing his part. He knew better than to offer financial assistance – he’d made that mistake once before. A banker, a man whose daily dealings involved some of the wealthiest individuals in Scotland, couldn’t be seen to accept handouts.

‘You should get Margot to pay her share,’ Mike teased. ‘You’re always saying she earns as much as you do.’

‘And used that purchasing power to good effect when she chose her lawyers.’ Another tray of undercooked pastry was coming past. Mike shook his head while Allan asked if the fizz could be pointed in their direction. ‘Not that it’s worth the effort,’ he muttered to Mike. ‘Ersatz, if you ask me. That’s why they’ve wrapped those white cotton napkins around the bottles. Means we can’t read the label.’ He took another look around the chatter-filled room. ‘Have you pressed the flesh with Laura yet?’

‘A glance and a smile,’ Mike replied. ‘She seems popular tonight. ’

‘The winter auction was the first one she’d fronted,’ Allan reminded him, ‘and it didn’t exactly catch fire. She needs to woo potential buyers.’

‘And we don’t fit the bill?’

‘With due respect, Mike, you’re fairly transparent – you lack what gamblers would call the “poker face”. That little glance you say you exchanged probably told her all she needed to know. When you see a painting you like, you stand in front of it for minutes on end, and then you go up on your tiptoes when you’ve made up your mind to buy it.’ Allan attempted the movement, rocking on his heels and his toes, while holding out his glass towards the arriving champagne.

‘You’re good at reading people, aren’t you?’ Mike said with a laugh.

‘Comes with the job. A lot of HNWs want you to know what they’re thinking without them having to spell it out.’

‘So what am I thinking now?’ Mike held a hand over his own glass and the waiter gave a little bow before moving on.

Allan made a show of screwing shut his eyes in thought. ‘You’re thinking you can do without my smart-arsed remarks,’ he said, opening his eyes again. ‘You’re wishing you could stand in front of our charming hostess for minutes on end – tiptoes or no tiptoes.’ He paused. ‘And you’re just about to suggest a bar where we can get ourselves a real drink.’

‘That’s unca

‘What’s more,’ Allan added, raising his glass in a toast, ‘one of your wishes is about to be granted…’

Yes, because Mike had seen her, too: Laura Stanton, squeezing her way through the throng, heading straight towards them. Almost six feet tall in her heels, auburn hair pulled back into a simple ponytail. She wore a sleeveless knee-length black dress, cut low to show the opal pendant hanging at her throat.

‘Laura,’ Allan drawled, pecking her on both cheeks. ‘Congratulations, you’ve put together quite a sale.’

‘Better tell your employers at First Caly – I’ve got at least two brokers in the room scouting on behalf of rival banks. Everyone seems to want something for the boardroom.’ She had already turned her attention towards Mike. ‘Hello, you,’ she said, leaning forward for another exchange of kisses. ‘I get the feeling nothing’s quite caught your fancy tonight.’

‘Not strictly true,’ Mike corrected her, causing her cheeks to redden.

‘Where did you find the Matthewson?’ Allan was asking. ‘We’ve one from the same series outside the lifts on the fourth floor.’

‘It’s from an estate in Perthshire. Owner wants to buy some adjacent land so developers can’t spoil the view.’ She turned towards him. ‘Would First Caly be interested…?’

Allan offered little more than a shrug and the puffing out of his cheeks.

‘Which is the Matthewson?’ Mike asked.

‘The snowy landscape,’ Laura explained, pointing towards the far wall. ‘Ornate gilt frame… not really your thing, Mike.’

‘Nor mine,’ Allan felt compelled to add. ‘Highland cattle and sheep huddled together for warmth beneath trees with no leaves.’

‘Fu

‘Any sniffs from overseas?’ Allan was asking.

Laura gave a thoughtful pout, measuring her response. ‘Russian market is strong… same goes for China and India. I reckon we’ll have plenty of telephone bidders come sale day.’

‘But no pre-emptives?’

Laura pretended to swipe at Allan with her catalogue. ‘Now you’re just fishing,’ she chided him.

‘Incidentally,’ Mike began, ‘I’ve hung the Monboddo.’

‘Where?’ she asked.

‘Just inside the front door.’ The Albert Monboddo still life had been his only purchase at the winter auction. ‘You said you’d come see it,’ he reminded her.

‘I’ll email you.’ Her eyes narrowed a little. ‘But meantime, feel free to quash a rumour I’ve been hearing.’

‘Uh-oh,’ Allan said, snorting into his glass.

‘What rumour?’

‘That you’ve been cosying up to the city’s other, less likeable auction houses.’

‘Where did you hear that?’ Mike asked her.

‘Small world,’ she replied. ‘And gossipy with it.’

‘I’ve not bought anything,’ Mike said defensively.

‘Poor swine’s actually blushing,’ Allan added.

‘You don’t want me visiting the Monboddo,’ Laura went on, ‘and have to turn on my heel because there’s half of Christie’s and Sotheby’s hanging next to it. Well, do you?’

But before Mike could answer, a meaty hand landed on his shoulder. He turned his head and was staring into the dark, piercing eyes of Robert Gissing. The older man’s huge dome of a head gleamed with sweat. His tweed tie was askew, his blue linen jacket creased and stretched beyond saving. All the same, he carried real presence, and his booming voice took no prisoners.

‘I see the playboys have arrived, just in time to save me from this awful hooch!’ He wafted his empty champagne flute like a conductor’s baton. His eyes fixed on Laura. ‘I don’t blame you, my dear, it is your job after all…’

‘Actually, it’s Hugh who orders in the catering.’