there,’ said the friend wistfully. There was nobody of any interest to be encountered on Lothian Road, she had decided.
‘Of course you do,’ said Kirsty airily. It was a lie, but most lies can be airily tossed off. Or perhaps it was not so much a lie as a statement that was not yet true in the strictest sense, but that was teleologically so. There were probably interesting people to meet, but she had not yet encountered any of them. So far, she had met only a few rather fusty clients of the gallery – rich people with nothing better to do than to buy paintings; and none of these were young men, who were the desired class of person with whom Kirsty wished to rub shoulders.
There was Matthew, of course, but he hardly counted as interesting. First of all, he was married, and only recently so, and then even if he had been available he was so … She struggled to find the right word to describe Matthew – so domestic? Or beige? Beige was a good word, and its application to Matthew was particularlyappropriate because of the colour of the sweater that he wore. Kirsty had complimented him on it – another lie – and Matthew had explained about distressed oatmeal and how that was the colour that he had read was being taken very seriously by menswear designers. And then there were those crushed-strawberry cords of his …
Matthew warmed to the theme. ‘Denim’s finished,’ he said. ‘Very yesterday.’
Kirsty smiled. It was very yesterday to use the expression very yesterday, but poor Matthew could hardly be expected to know that. And denim was not finished. Everybody wore it. All the guys, as she put it; all of them; and they look so cute in denim, she thought, and out of it too, now that she came to think of it. Wicked, she whispered to herself. Wicked!
‘Oh well,’ she said. ‘It’s all about what makes you feel comfortable. That’s what clothes are for, aren’t they? To be comfortable in.’
Matthew agreed, but he doubted very much that this was Kirsty’s own philosophy of dress. One only had to look at her shoes, with their narrow, pointed toes, to see that if she believed in comfort this did not extend to her feet; nor, it had to be admitted, to her midriff, which was exposed to the elements and must have been cold, even in the summer weather, when the wind came from the wrong direction, which in Edinburgh was from the north, the south, the east or the west. And that was not the end of her stomach’s suffering; her jeans were extremely tight and one could see how they pinched the skin when she sat down. They were very affectionate, of course, hugging the contours of her hips and elsewhere – as Matthew politely put it.
He wondered whether she had put on weight and had been unable to buy a new wardrobe to cope with increased girth. Many students were extremely hard up and presumably had to economise on clothing, but Matthew sensed that Kirsty’s garb reflected fashion rather than financial considerations. That was not an entirely bad thing. It was better, in general, from the gallery’s point of view to have a fashionable assistant rather than one who was a frump.
When Matthew returned to the gallery that morning, he foundher sitting at his desk paging through a catalogue from one of the London auction houses.
‘Enjoy your coffee?’ she asked, looking up from the catalogue.
‘Same as usual,’ said Matthew. ‘And what happened in my absence? Sell anything?’ He knew what the answer was, and waited for her to reply. Kirsty, however, merely gestured to the cover of the catalogue.
‘You seen this?’
Matthew glanced over her shoulder. He wished that she would not sit in his chair so often, but he had lacked the courage to confront her about it. He would just have to try to get into the chair before she could sit in it, and then he could guard it for the rest of the day.
‘Impressionist and post-Impressionist,’ said Kirsty. ‘And not as expensive as you imagine.’
‘But expensive
‘Of course you do,’ said Kirsty airily. It was a lie, but most lies can be airily tossed off. Or perhaps it was not so much a lie as a statement that was not yet true in the strictest sense, but that was teleologically so. There were probably interesting people to meet, but she had not yet encountered any of them. So far, she had met only a few rather fusty clients of the gallery – rich people with nothing better to do than to buy paintings; and none of these were young men, who were the desired class of person with whom Kirsty wished to rub shoulders.
There was Matthew, of course, but he hardly counted as interesting. First of all, he was married, and only recently so, and then even if he had been available he was so … She struggled to find the right word to describe Matthew – so domestic? Or beige? Beige was a good word, and its application to Matthew was particularlyappropriate because of the colour of the sweater that he wore. Kirsty had complimented him on it – another lie – and Matthew had explained about distressed oatmeal and how that was the colour that he had read was being taken very seriously by menswear designers. And then there were those crushed-strawberry cords of his …
Matthew warmed to the theme. ‘Denim’s finished,’ he said. ‘Very yesterday.’
Kirsty smiled. It was very yesterday to use the expression very yesterday, but poor Matthew could hardly be expected to know that. And denim was not finished. Everybody wore it. All the guys, as she put it; all of them; and they look so cute in denim, she thought, and out of it too, now that she came to think of it. Wicked, she whispered to herself. Wicked!
‘Oh well,’ she said. ‘It’s all about what makes you feel comfortable. That’s what clothes are for, aren’t they? To be comfortable in.’
Matthew agreed, but he doubted very much that this was Kirsty’s own philosophy of dress. One only had to look at her shoes, with their narrow, pointed toes, to see that if she believed in comfort this did not extend to her feet; nor, it had to be admitted, to her midriff, which was exposed to the elements and must have been cold, even in the summer weather, when the wind came from the wrong direction, which in Edinburgh was from the north, the south, the east or the west. And that was not the end of her stomach’s suffering; her jeans were extremely tight and one could see how they pinched the skin when she sat down. They were very affectionate, of course, hugging the contours of her hips and elsewhere – as Matthew politely put it.
He wondered whether she had put on weight and had been unable to buy a new wardrobe to cope with increased girth. Many students were extremely hard up and presumably had to economise on clothing, but Matthew sensed that Kirsty’s garb reflected fashion rather than financial considerations. That was not an entirely bad thing. It was better, in general, from the gallery’s point of view to have a fashionable assistant rather than one who was a frump.
When Matthew returned to the gallery that morning, he foundher sitting at his desk paging through a catalogue from one of the London auction houses.
‘Enjoy your coffee?’ she asked, looking up from the catalogue.
‘Same as usual,’ said Matthew. ‘And what happened in my absence? Sell anything?’ He knew what the answer was, and waited for her to reply. Kirsty, however, merely gestured to the cover of the catalogue.
‘You seen this?’
Matthew glanced over her shoulder. He wished that she would not sit in his chair so often, but he had lacked the courage to confront her about it. He would just have to try to get into the chair before she could sit in it, and then he could guard it for the rest of the day.
‘Impressionist and post-Impressionist,’ said Kirsty. ‘And not as expensive as you imagine.’
‘But expensive
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