Matthew looked over Angus Lordie’s shoulder. They were sitting in Big Lou’s coffee house during this conversation and he was watching Big Lou wiping the stainless-steel counter with her cloth, or cloot as she called it. Had he seen eye to eye with Pat on matters artistic? He thought that he had, but then that was before he knew very much about anything, and he had probably not been in a position to challenge her views. It would be different now; Matthew had opinions, and some knowledge of art to back them up. He watched Big Lou at work. She was a handsome woman, in a big-boned, rather rural sort of way (Big Lou, of course, came from Arbroath, a part of Scotland noted for its handsome people). Now, as she polished away at the counter, a seemingly Sisyphean task, he saw her as she might appear in a painting by Bonnard, or possibly Vuillard.

Those artists were exponents of intimism, in which small domestic scenes were captured and placed at the heart of a painting: interiors showing a woman sewing, or arranging flowers; a girl picking up a soup spoon at a table; a woman lying in the bath. Bonnard would have loved Big Lou, and had he been there would have depicted her in the act of polishing, her head down, intent on her task. And he would have caught the sun that filtered in through the window – the cold, Edinburgh sun, so unlike the light that he found in the south of France – and the colour of her dress, and the faded apron that she had tied carelessly about her waist. Bonnard would have captured all that and in so doing would have portrayed Big Lou in all her essential Arbroathheit.

‘No,’ Matthew said to Angus Lordie. ‘Pat and I did not dis agree. Not then. It might be different now.’

‘You’ll find somebody else to help you,’ said Angus. ‘There must be plenty of people looking for a job like that. You’d probably not even have to pay them.’

Matthew looked doubtful. ‘I couldn’t take advantage of somebody,’ he said. ‘I know people do it, but …’

‘You’re right,’ said Angus. ‘They do it all the time. They call it the internship system. Interns are usually unpaid labour.’

‘A grand name for an old system,’ said Matthew. ‘It used to be called slavery.’

Angus laughed. ‘Slaves were never volunteers. Interns are.’

‘I still disagree with it,’ said Matthew. ‘I would always pay.’

Angus thought for a moment. ‘How about Domenica? How about asking her whether she’d like to help?’

Matthew did not warm to this suggestion. ‘I know you like Domenica,’ he said, ‘but do you really think she’d be easy to work with?’

‘No, I suppose not,’ mused Angus.

Matthew looked at him quizzically. ‘Could you work with her?’