I hear the measured thump of footsteps moments before Giles Westerman rounds the corner. He heaves into view like a ship under full sail, scudding before the wind: large yet graceful at the same time. Giles smiles and raises a hand as he spots us, but even from here I can see lines etched deep in his forehead. I’m sure they weren’t there last time I saw him, only a couple of years ago. Being head conservator at the most prestigious art museum in the country is clearly not all rainbows and unicorns. He’s wearing corduroy pants and paint-splattered loafers, and his shirt is rumpled and coming untucked. Under his arm is a veritable accordion of clipboards. It’s a far cry from his normal fastidious turnout.

He shakes hands with us both but gives my hand an extra pat before releasing it. My throat feels very dry.

‘Good. Excellent. Great you could both come. Alex, lovely to see you – it’s been far too long. We’re receiving as we speak, unpacking everything in the exhibition space. Good in theory, but it means I’m dashing about like a madman – exhibition galleries to conservation department and back again – condition reports to cross-check, documentation to file in triplicate. Glasses! Where are my glasses?’ He thrusts the clipboards into my arms and pats down his pockets.

‘They’re on your head,’ John says.

Giles reaches one hand up. ‘So they are.’

‘Giles,’ I say, ‘surely your staff could handle it?’

‘Oh, of course! The registrars are more than capable, but I do like to keep an eye on these things myself. Around fifty million dollars’ worth of irreplaceable masterpieces, no pressure. My doctor told me I needed to either slow down or become a martyr to art.’ Giles takes a deep breath before extending both hands out sideways, wrists angled skyward. ‘So here we are! It seemed like an opportune time to lure you in for a bit of shop talk, John.’ Giles converts his crucifixion into a sweeping gesture, sending John and me ahead of him toward the main galleries of MIMA, collecting his clipboards as I pass. ‘The hang is well underway and it’s due to open next week, so there’s plenty to see.’

All that great art is only a short walk away. Just the thought of getting my nose right in front of some of the best paintings of the nineteenth century has completely overridden my trepidation.

Giles is still talking. ‘If you’ve got time we can also pop down to the conservation labs and you can see what we’re working on.’

‘This is going to be amazing,’ I say to John.

‘When is great art not amazing?’

Fair point.