An offer from Paris

That same afternoon, Pat had arrived at Matthew’s gallery two hours later than usual. She had warned Matthew that she might be delayed at an interview she was attending for another part-time job, but had implied that she would be in for work no more than half an hour after he would normally expect her. As it turned out, it was not until almost four o’clock that Matthew saw a taxi draw up outside the gallery entrance and Pat step out. That in itself was unusual: Pat never travelled by taxi, as she made a point of walking eve - rywhere or using the 23 bus, which conveniently made its way from the south side of the city, where Pat lived, all the way down Dundas Street, a route that took her almost to the gallery door.

“A taxi?” said Matthew as Pat came through the front door.

She looked at her watch. “It’s still, technically, three-something,” she said. “It’s not quite four.”

Matthew smiled. “You told me. Don’t worry. I knew you were going to be late.”

“But not this late,” said Pat. “I’m really, really sorry.”

Matthew reassured her that it was not the end of the world. “It hasn’t exactly been busy,” he said. “We almost sold a painting, and then the person changed her mind.

It was that woman who lives round the corner. She came in with her husband and I could see that he didn’t like it.” Matthew paused. “Imagine being married to somebody who doesn’t understand.”

“Doesn’t understand what?” Matthew shrugged. “Oh, the things that you yourself understand. Music. Art. Literature.”

“A Philistine, in other words?” “Yes,” said Matthew. “How does the nursery rhyme go? Jack Spratt could eat no fat, and his wife could eat no lean …”

“Yes, that’s how it goes. But it doesn’t really say much about them, does it? Or not as far as I remember.”

Matthew shook his head. He had been reading nursery rhymes to the triplets, from a book that Elspeth had had as a child, Nursery Rhymes for Good Children, and they were fresh in his mind. The boys, for some reason, liked Little Jack Horner – he who had sat in the corner, gorging himself on carbohydrates – and Georgie Porgie, a most unsavoury character, Matthew thought, who would be in deep trouble were he to behave like that today.

“The Spratts were actually quite hap - py,” he said. “I think the message – if there is one – was that people could be happily married even if they had rather different tastes.” He paused. “A rare example of harmony in a nursery rhyme.”

Pat sat down at her desk. “They’re full of misfortune, aren’t they? Jack and Jill and their abortive trip up the hill. Humpty Dumpty too – I remember feeling so sorry for him, falling off his wall like that.” She laughed. “He was such a nice character – Humpty Dumpty.”

Matthew considered this. He was not sure that he agreed with Pat. “Actually, I find him a bit sinister. There’s something odd about Humpty Dumpty – and I don’t just mean his shape. I think there was a hint of … well, I’m afraid to say a hint of something …” He shrugged. “I can’t put my finger on it, but I think it’s there. A psycho-sexual issue, I suppose.”

Pat laughed. “Come on, Matthew. It’s a nursery rhyme.”

“But innocent little stories are full of hidden meaning,” said Matthew. “Don’t be fooled. You can deconstruct anything. You should know that. You have a degree in art history – and that leaves nothing undeconstructed.”

Pat looked at her watch again. “I’m really sorry about being so late, but that interview I told you about …” Matthew waited.

“That interview … Well it turned out to be rather different from what I had imagined.”

“The job was different. Or the interview?”

“The job,” she replied. “It was complete - ly different. It’s for a full-time post.”

Matthew said nothing. He knew that there would come a time when Pat would go after a full-time job somewhere – it was inevitable. But he had become used to having her as his part-time assistant, being there for when he needed a few hours away from the gallery, or for when he went down for a day or two to the London Art Fair or to some other trade gathering. Pat was good at her job – she was tactful with the clients, being not too pushy nor too diffident in her sales techniques, and she knew about art. She had a good eye, too, and there had been more than one occasion when she had spotted a warning sign in a painting that Matthew was contemplating buying at auction – some infelicity of style that suggested the auctioneer’s attribution might be too optimistic or simply misinformed.

Eventually, Matthew said, “You mustn’t hesitate.”

She seemed surprised. “To take this job?”

“To take a job. I know that I don’t have a permanent claim on your time. I know that.”

She looked away. “But you’ve been so good to me. All the way through. When I was a student in my first year. Right since then.”

Matthew made a self-deprecatory gesture. “You were good at the job. Now … well, you have to have a career. I’m not going to stand in your way.” “It’s in Paris.”

Matthew was not prepared for this. “Paris? Your actual Paris?”

“Yes, your actual Paris. I can hardly believe it myself, but one of the people interviewing me for the part-time job, which was here in Edinburgh, said at the end that he could offer me something far better. I wasn’t sure what he meant – I didn’t have a clue, in fact – and then he said, ‘How would you like to work in Paris?’ I couldn’t believe it.”

Matthew shook his head. “You can’t refuse anybody who says, ‘How would you like to work in Paris?’ You just can’t.” “I didn’t,” said Pat.

Matthew thought: I should have been prepared for this, but I’m not. I’m going to get emotional. Struggling to keep his voice even, he said, “That’s wonderful, Pat.” And then he added, lamely, “Paris.”

“It turned out that he – this guy who was interviewing me – is on the board of the Gargantuan Institute.”

Matthew drew in his breath. “The Gargantuan? The people who …”

Pat nodded. “Yes, them. Mr Gargantuan has six researchers working for him in Paris. They want to appoint a seventh who will handle British painting in general, but particularly Scottish art. They’ve been dealing in the Colourists recently and they felt they didn’t have the necessary expertise. Not to have the final say, of course, but somebody who would know where to go for an opinion.”

“You can certainly do that,” said Matthew.

Pat turned to look at him. “You aren’t cross with me, are you? Leaving, and eve - rything …”

He was quick to reply. “Of course not. Of course, I’m not cross.”

Then he thought: this could change everything. What if Pat took James with her? If you were going off to Paris, what would stop you from taking your younger boyfriend with you?

‘Of course I’m not cross,’ said Matthew. Then he thought: this could change everything. What if Pat took James with her? If you were going off to Paris, what would stop you

from taking your younger boyfriend with you?

© 2020 Alexander Mccall Smith Available in book form from November as A Promise of Ankles (Polygon, £16.99). The Peppermint Tea Chronicles is out now in paperback