Trains and Lovers: A Novel by Alexander McCall Smith Read Free Book Online

think that whatever we have is better than it actually is, don’t you think?”
    I asked her whether she was referring to life in general.
    “Yes,” she replied, smiling. “We like to put the best possible gloss on our lives, I’d say. Look at the way people describe their houses. Or their children for that matter.”
    “But there must be at least some people who are honest about these things.”
    She laughed. “Name one.” It was as if she was expecting me to reply. “No? Well, let me tell you, collectors always inflate their paintings’ attributions. Always.”
    “So there’s nothing important in this collection—the one we’re going to be looking at.”
    For a moment she looked rueful. “Not really. It’s solid enough, but nothing to cause much fluttering of hearts inthe auction room.” She looked at her watch. “Ten o’clock? In my room. The porters are bringing them up now.”
    When I arrived at ten, Geoffrey was already there. He glanced at me when I came into the room and muttered something in response to my good morning. I think that Eleanor picked up his indifference. She looked at me quickly and I sensed that she disapproved.
    “Andrew will be helping us,” she said. “He’s going to draft the catalogue entries.”
    Geoffrey turned to me. “Fine,” he said. “It’s a bit of a rag-bag, I’m afraid.” His tone was slightly friendlier now, but I still felt he doubted whether I really needed to be there.
    Eleanor had ordered coffee and she made a point of giving me a cup before she gave one to Geoffrey. “So,” she said, “let’s take a look at what we have here.”
    The porters had stacked the paintings, three or four deep, against one of the walls of her office. At Eleanor’s request I went over and put the first of them on an easel that had been set up at the side of her desk. It was not a large painting, but the frame was ornate and heavy.
    “Let me know if you need any help,” said Geoffrey, sitting back in his chair and sipping at his coffee.
    “I’ll be all right.”
    “Don’t drop anything,” said Eleanor. “Who was that young man, Geoffrey, who broke that lovely Dutch frame? A couple of years ago?”
    Geoffrey shrugged. “The interns fade into one another, I’m afraid.” He looked at me and made a falsely apologetic face. “Sorry.”
    Eleanor noticed this. “And we probably all look the same to them,” she said.
    It was a gentle reproof, but Geoffrey seemed unmoved by it. Gesturing towards the painting, he passed his judgement. “Not a bad painting. Looks like Gimignani to me.”
    “I was thinking the same,” said Eleanor. “But which one?” There were, I learned, two of them: father and son.
    “Giacinto, I think. The father. Not Ludovico.”
    I stood back and looked at the painting. A group of shepherds was standing under a tree, one of them cradling a baby. The baby was staring out of the picture, so positioned that his eyes would meet those of anybody standing directly in front of the painting.
    “That baby looks confused,” I said.
    Geoffrey glanced at me. “The finding of the infant Paris,” he said. “And yes, infants often look confused, not to say miserable, in art. They’re usually wondering why they’re there.”
    “A good question for all of us,” said Eleanor.
    Geoffrey raised an eyebrow. “Very Delphic this morning, aren’t we, my dear?”
    There was an undercurrent between them, but I was not sure what it was. Professional jealousy? Or was it something else—something more personal?
    Eleanor turned to me. “Do you like it, Andrew?”
    I hesitated. I was feeling a bit more confident now, but I was still aware of the fact that they knew everything, it seemed, and I knew next to nothing. I ventured an opinion on the technical skill of the artist and on the composition, which I said I found very pleasing. The shepherds balanced the centurions, I suggested.
    Eleanor nodded encouragingly. “Always trust your judgement,” she said.