Matthew Thinks
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102. Matthew Thinks
After Big Lou had burst into the gallery, full of her good news, and had burst out again, Matthew and Pat sat quietly around a desk, sorting out the photographs for a catalogue that they were planning.
“I’m very pleased for Big Lou,” Matthew said. “She had written him off, you know. She thought she’d seen the last of him.”
“She deserves some good luck,” said Pat. “I hope that he’s good for her.”
“Big Lou can look after herself,” said Matthew. “She’s strong.”
Pat disagreed, at least in part. “And it’s often the strong women who suffer the most,” she said. “You’d be surprised, Matthew. Strong women put up with dreadful men.”
“Anyway,” said Matthew, “the important thing is that Big Lou is happy.”
“Yes,” said Pat. “That’s good.”
Matthew looked at Pat. It made her uncomfortable when he looked at her like that; it was almost as if he were reproaching her for something.
“And I’m feeling pretty happy too,” he said. “Do you know that? I’m feeling very happy this morning.”
“I’m glad,” said Pat. “And why is that?”
“That talk I had with my old man,” said Matthew. “It was
. . . well, shall we say that it was productive.”
Pat waited for him to continue.
“I was wrong about Janis,” went on Matthew. “I thought that she wasn’t right for him.”
“In what way?” asked Pat. “Too young?”
“That . . . and in other ways,” said Matthew. “But I was wrong.
And now I know that one shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”
“And you told him this?” asked Pat.
“I did. And he was really nice to me – really nice. He said something very kind to me. And then . . .”
Pat waited. She was pleased by this reconciliation – she liked Gordon and she had thought that Matthew had been too hard on him.
334 Matthew Thinks
Matthew seemed to be debating with himself whether to tell Pat something. He opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it. But at last he spoke.
“He was very generous to me,” he said. “He gave me some money.”
“That’s good of him,” said Pat. “He’s done that before, hasn’t he?”
“Oh yes, he’s done that before. But never on this scale.”
Pat sighed. “My father gave me fifty pounds last week,” she said. “How much did you get? A hundred?”
Matthew looked down at the desk and picked up a photograph of a painting. It was of a sheep-dog chasing sheep; the sort of painting that nineteenth-century artists loved to paint, on a large scale, for upwardly mobile 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. Four million.
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 Matthew Thinks
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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 All Goes Well for Bruce
“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.
103. All Goes Well for Bruce
“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.”
“Yes,” said Pat.
“Apart from Bruce, that is,” said her father.
Pat thought for a moment. There had been a boy at school who had been very smug. He came from a smug family in Barnton. All of them were smug. And what made it worse was that he won everything: the boys’ 100-metre dash; the under-sixteen 50-metre breaststroke; the school half-marathon . . .
“Yes,” she said. “There was somebody like that.”