Doors Open Read Online Free

as though holding a tiny brush. ‘They belong to us all, part of our collective consciousness, our nation’s narrative . . . our history.’ He was in his element now. Mike caught Laura’s eye and offered a wink: they’d both heard the speech - or variations on its central theme - plenty of times in the past. ‘They don’t belong in boardrooms,’ Gissing went on, ‘where only a security pass will get you into the building. Nor do they belong in some insurance company’s vault or a captain of industry’s hunting lodge . . .’

    ‘Or a self-made millionaire’s apartment,’ Allan teased, but Gissing wagged a finger as fat as a sausage at him.

    ‘You lot at First Caly are the worst offenders - overpaying for undeveloped young talent that then gets too big for its boots!’ He paused for breath, and slapped a hand down on Mike’s shoulder again. ‘But I won’t hear a word said against young Michael here.’ Mike flinched as Gissing’s grip tightened. ‘Especially as he’s just about to buy me a pint-pot of whisky.’

    ‘I’ll leave you boys to it,’ Laura said, fanning out the fingers of her free hand as she waved goodbye. ‘Sale’s a week today . . . make sure it’s in your diaries.’ There was, it seemed to Mike, a final smile just for him as she moved away.

    ‘The Shining Star?’ Gissing was offering. It took Mike a moment to realise he was talking about the wine bar along the street.

2

    It was a low-ceilinged, windowless basement with mahogany slats on the walls and brown leather furnishings. In the past, Gissing had complained that it felt like being in a well-upholstered coffin.

    After private viewings and the auctions themselves, it had become their custom to drop into the Shining Star for what Gissing called ‘post-match analysis’. Tonight, the place was half full - students by the look of it, albeit of the well-heeled variety.

    ‘Living in daddy’s Stockbridge pied-à-terre,’ Gissing muttered.

    ‘But still your bread and butter,’ Allan teased him.

    They found an empty booth and waited for the staff to take their order - whisky for Gissing and Mike, the house champagne for Allan.

    ‘Need a glass of the real McCoy to wash away the memory,’ he explained.

    ‘I mean it, you know,’ Gissing was saying, rubbing his hands together as if soaping them. ‘About all those paintings in purdah . . . meant every bloody word.’

    ‘We know,’ Allan told him. ‘But you’re preaching to the converted. ’

    Robert Gissing was head of the city’s College of Art, but not for much longer. Retirement was only a month or two away - at the end of the summer term. It seemed, however, that he was determined to argue his various points to the very last.

    ‘I can’t believe it’s what the artists themselves would have wanted,’ Gissing persisted.

    ‘In the past,’ Mike felt obliged to ask, ‘didn’t they all crave patrons?’

    ‘Those same patrons often loaned out important works,’ Gissing shot back, ‘to the national collections and elsewhere.’

    ‘First Caly does the same,’ Mike argued, looking to Allan for support.

    ‘That’s true,’ Allan agreed. ‘We send paintings all over the place.’

    ‘But it’s not the same,’ Gissing growled. ‘It’s all about commerce these days, when it should be about taking pleasure in the works themselves.’ He balled one hand into a fist, thumping the table for effect.

    ‘Steady there,’ Mike said. ‘Staff’ll think we’re impatient.’ He noticed that Allan’s gaze was fixed on the bar. ‘Good-looking waitress? ’ he guessed, starting to turn his head.

    ‘Don’t!’ Allan warned, lowering his voice and leaning across the table, as if for a huddle. ‘Three men at the bar, necking a bottle of what looks suspiciously like Roederer Cristal . . .’

    ‘Art dealers?’

    Allan was shaking his head. ‘I think one of them’s Chib Calloway.’

    ‘The gangster?’ Gissing’s words coincided with the end of a