Great art can make even the most powerful person seem insignificant – and I’m not important, by any means. Except, perhaps, to my dog, my mother and, occasionally, my clients. And to my best friend, John. Maybe that’s why I feel so small as I approach the low, semi-circular portal, punched in the side of the bluestone fortress that is the Melbourne International Museum of Art. The fact that MIMA’s trade entrance is known as the mousehole probably doesn’t help. Luckily, John is already there when I come round the corner and I lengthen my stride, trying for cool and confident.

‘You’d better have a picnic basket stashed around here some­where.’ I stop a few metres away. ‘We are doing lunch, right?’

He squints and shields his face. ‘We are. Once your mind has been completely blown. We’re going inside for half an hour tops and then I’ll wine and dine you in the finest, tax-deductible style.’ John buffs his nails on the front of his vintage red and cream bowling shirt.

I roll my eyes behind my dark Ray-Bans. ‘Lucky me. I think I might wait here.’

‘Sure. Meanwhile I’m off for a private view of an amazing, yet-to-be-opened exhibition. See you in a bit.’

‘Masterpieces of Victorian Britain?’

‘There’s some great stuff, according to Giles. Millais’ Mariana and something Arthurian by Burne-Jones spring to mind.’ John is doing his version of a discreet happy dance. It involves a lot of shoulder action while his feet are firmly rooted to the spot. Fortunately, we’re alone.

‘John.’ I realise my hand is squeezing the strap of my bag, and I force myself to take a breath and let it go. ‘I can’t.’ I look over his shoulder at the Museum and feel my stomach drop.

‘It’s only Giles. You like him, right? And did you hear me mention Burne-Jones? Besides, you come here all the time.’

‘Only through the public entrance and not when there’s a chance I’ll run into anyone.’

‘Your angst is totally misplaced, and anyway, this will be worth it. Trust me.’

‘After your false promises of lunch? It’s been ages since we caught up – so pleased you could squeeze me in, by the way – but I think I’ll leave the exhibition until it opens next week.’

‘Nuh-uh! You know this is your thing, and besides, you’ve got me to look out for you.’

I snort, but I can already feel the pull of that Burne-Jones. There’s a whole exhibition waiting for me, no crowds, and from the sound of it, some paintings I’ve only ever sighed over in books. I’ve been in the art business for more than a decade now and handled probably thousands of paintings, some good, some brilliant, and some truly abysmal. But each time I see a new work I feel something deep in my gut, almost on a cellular level. Emotions quickly follow, their trajectory depending on what mood the artist has tried to create and how well he or she has pulled it off, but it’s that initial frisson that keeps me chasing art. It’s like a drug, and right now, it’s quelling my anxiety. I step forward, closing the gap between John and me.

‘Let’s go.’ He moves to the door and reaches for the bell, but the guard sitting inside has already clocked our approach. The door lock buzzes and we push our way in, the sudden cool chilling my nervous sweat. No art here, just an expanse of polished concrete leading to the museum beyond. A reception desk is built into the wall on our right, the guard installed in the cubbyhole behind it. He watches as we approach.

‘John Porter and Alex Clayton to see Giles Westerman. We’re expected …’ John leans forward and reads the guard’s name tag, ‘Ray.’

The guard gives John a bit of a smirk and I wonder if he witnessed the awkward boogaloo moment.

‘Porter and Clayton?’ He runs a meaty finger down the brief list in front of him, then stabs the page. ‘Righto.’

I blink. I’m on the list. No one has objected or tried to kick me out.

We sign in and Ray slides two visitor tags across the desk to us. ‘Pop those on and I’ll let Mr Westerman know you’re here.’

John and I retreat a few steps and hang the lanyards around our necks as Ray gets busy on the phone.

‘He’ll be along directly.’

Nodding our thanks, we’re silent, occupying ourselves by pulling faces at each other. Thrilled that his strategy has worked and I’m here, inside, John’s faces are all smug, wide-eyed, what-a-great-surprise. A small part of me is still wondering how I let myself be suckered into this, so mine tend toward you’re-pathetic-grow-up sort of expressions. It passes the time quite satisfactorily.

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.

Giles takes us through the gift shop (‘Easier to come in the back way when the place is full of people,’ he says) raising a hand to a black-clad girl with a walkie-talkie who is presumably policing new arrivals to the exhibition rooms. She barely glances at us as we breeze past.

We turn sharp left to navigate a newly installed temporary wall and enter what will be the last room of the Museum’s latest blockbuster exhibition. Despite Giles’ assertion that the hang is well underway, only a few paintings are in place, but a number of closed crates are dotted about, allowing the paintings within to slowly acclimatise to the museum environment. In here, the walls are a deep burgundy, the sort of colour you’d expect to find in an upper-class Victorian parlour, and the smell of paint is still heavy in the air. Pairs of museum-grade picture hooks are studded across the walls, and in a couple of places I spot L brackets, additional support for heavier paintings. The distribution of hooks suggests they’re going for a couple of salon-style clusters of smaller paintings, but mostly the works will hang alone, probably at a standard height of 147 centimetres on centre. Around the room people are working to fix placards low on the walls, full of detail about each painting: title, artist, medium and owner.

‘Nothing to worry about. Never missed a gala opening yet. Things are a bit further along in the other galleries.’ Giles sets off toward a portal that has been adorned with faux Victorian plasterwork to resemble a vaulted arch atop acanthus-leaf corbels.

John follows Giles, but I stop. My attention is caught by two packers who have a huge crate laid out on the floor. There’s nothing remarkable about the crate except for its size: it must be at least three metres long and it bristles with stickers proclaiming the fragility of its contents. The two men in their yellowy-brown dustcoats kneel at opposite corners of the travelling crate, almost as though they’re paying homage to the gods of art or involved in a primitive ritual to invoke colour. They murmur to each other and I catch the name ‘Tommo’. One of the packers raises an eyebrow at his colleague and receives a nod in response. Each man picks up a drill.

A small group of people, curatorial staff I guess, hovers nearby. I move closer to stand behind them, wanting to know what’s in the box. It could be something from the Royal Collection, and on the off chance it is something from Her Majesty’s private stash, I definitely want to be the first commoner to clap eyes on it. Of course, it’s just as likely to be the star piece from some small, regional gallery, which is even more thrilling. Everyone knows what HRH has – there are multiple volumes on the subject. But obscure collections founded on the largesse of wealthy graziers are frequently dusty repositories for long-forgotten masterpieces.

I look at the packers again. I’m jealous. Jealous of their uncomplicated working lives, but especially envious of their privilege: to be the first to behold what treasures lie within these crates, even before the curators or the most officious and overbearing director. To slide back the lid to reveal … What? Magic.

I’ve felt this way about art since I was four years old and ran away from Mum in the Fitzroy Gardens. She says she was frantic, looking everywhere and imagining me squashed on Wellington Parade, but all I remember is where she found me: in front of Fairies Tree. Ola Cohn’s beautiful carving was my first experience of art. Of course, it took me a couple of years to realise it was art, but that feeling of wonder, of being swept away by colour and beauty and imagination, has stayed with me ever since.

Their drills start with a whir and they work their way carefully around the edge of the crate, extracting screws and dropping each one into a small container. When the last screw is out, the drills are set aside. One of the men, the younger looking of the two, pauses and pats his chest, taking a few deep breaths. He has a black stubble beard and scalp to match, both contrasting sharply with his pale skin. Even from here I can see beads of sweat shining on his forehead.

‘Alright Tommo?’ asks the other guy. He’s all grizzled chops, swept-back leonine mane, and the sort of half-moon glasses favoured by jewellers and watchmakers. An artisan in his own right. He has one hand on the lid of the crate, his attention on his partner.

‘Yeah Wayne. Just feeling a bit crook. She’ll be right.’ He grasps the lid and opposite him, the other packer, Wayne, adjusts his grip, eyeballs his mate, then nods. The two of them lift the lid smoothly, straight up and away. As one, my little coterie of bystanders cranes forward, then settles back with a sigh. The painting is tandem riding so all we can see is a box within a box, held snugly in place by the foam bracers and corners of the outer shell. In front of me, a short guy with a grubby collar and a receding hairline makes a note on his clipboard.

The two packers carefully ease the inner box from its surroundings and lift it onto a low, wide table.

‘What is it?’ John asks as he and Giles come up behind me.

‘Just about to find out.’ I turn and smile at the two of them, then quickly turn back. I don’t want to miss the big reveal.

Tommo passes a chisel to Wayne, who adjusts his glasses and then begins to work his way around the edge of the box, carefully inserting the tip of the chisel and easing the lid from the base. The way he leans in as he works makes it seem like he’s listening to the sound of the wood, interpreting its creaks and groans so he knows when to apply pressure and when to relent. It’s delicate. Finally, with more of a pop than a crack, the lid is free and the two men smoothly lift it clear, this time carrying it a few steps from the table and placing it back with the other packing material. One of the curators steps forward but is halted in his tracks by a look from over the top of those half-moon specs.

‘Hold your horses,’ Wayne says. ‘Let me and my blokes finish, then she’s all yours.’ He turns and beckons to two more dust-coat clad men, who step up to the table. All of them pull on white cotton gloves.

I can now see a tantalising glimpse of the canvas between the packers’ shoulders. Nestled in the bottom half of the enormous box and surrounded by an ornate gilt frame, its proportions suggest it’s some sort of landscape, but we’re too far away and the table is too high to make out more than a small splash of red, patches of cream and vast swathes of white, grey, and inky black. Even that is enough to send a thrill of adrenaline through me, making my stomach flip. There were probably hundreds of snowy landscapes and more than a few Arctic scenes painted during the Victorian era, but something I’ve glimpsed has triggered an alarm in my mental library of paintings. I’m almost certain this is Man Proposes, God Disposes.

‘Righto lads,’ Wayne gives the signal.

The four men settle in to their well-choreographed routine, stationing themselves around the painting and extending their hands. With a swish they lift it clear, shuffle sideways, and deposit it gently on the free end of the packing table.

I look at the people in front of me, trying to gauge when it’s okay to step forward, then I hear Wayne.

‘Tommo? Thomas? Are you right mate?’ Wayne is staring across the table at Tommo, who has gone quite pale. Tommo has removed his gloves, which now lie like melting snow on the floor. One hand is braced on the table, veins popping, the other is clamped around the discarded chisel.

‘C’mere. Sit down.’ Wayne barrels around the table and puts an arm around Tommo’s shoulder, tries to ease him away from the table. ‘Bit of bloody help here!’ He shouts the last to the other two packers, who have moved on to another crate. They turn and start to hurry back.

Tommo straightens and half-turns under Wayne’s guiding arm, but then stops. Wayne must feel something change, because his eyes go wide.

‘Hey!’ The other packers start running and a couple of the curators step forward, but Tommo is already pitching forward. His face has gone blank, eyes rolling up. Even as more hands reach to support him he goes down, slumping forward across the newly exposed painting.

‘Shit!’ someone yells. It might be Giles.

Tommo is laid out on the floor, lips blue. Why is no one moving? Without thinking I push my way between the museum staff, who remain riveted in place. I drop down next to Tommo and look at Wayne, who is feeling for a pulse. He shakes his head.

‘Ambulance!’ I yell over my shoulder, then look at Wayne. ‘Do you know what to do?’

He nods. ‘Go!’

I start compressions, punctuated by mouth-to-mouth from Wayne. The world goes quiet except for our counting. It seems like an eternity before the ambulance arrives and the paramedics take over, but by then, Tommo has a pulse. Faint and thready, but it’s there. They work quickly and efficiently, setting up an IV, administering meds and finally wheeling Tommo away to bundle him into the back of an ambulance. The entire time, no one speaks. Not the blokes who helped Wayne and Tommo. Not the curators who have retreated into their tight group like a flock of frightened chickens. Not Giles and John who are standing off to one side, faces taut. Not Wayne and I, standing together but too exhausted to do more than give each other a nod.

I learnt CPR after a visit to the College of Surgeons’ Museum to see Daryl Lindsay’s watercolours. Painted in England between 1917 and 1921 when he was official medical artist at the Queen’s Hospital, Sidcup, Lindsay’s images document horrific war injuries and the hospital’s pioneering but often confronting facial reconstructions. The details were amazing, but the works also made me realise that I never wanted to be in a position where someone was hurt and I didn’t know what to do.

There is a moment of stillness when the paramedics leave, then Giles steps up to the abandoned painting. ‘Oh my God.’ His hand flies up to cover half his face. He groans. Suddenly the room bursts to life as we all converge on the packing table and stare down at the painting. It has a chisel in it. A chisel, at the end of a long, ragged gash that traces the path of Tommo’s collapse.

***

‘Well this is a fuck up of monumental proportions.’ Robert Swindon, director of the Melbourne International Museum of Art, stares down at the torn canvas. He’s already loosened his lavender tie and now he clasps his hands tightly behind his back, as though afraid any more contact will cause the painting to explode in a cloud of dust. John and I stand near one of the blank walls while Giles, the gaggle of curators, and Wayne, who I’ve now discovered is head of the packing and handling crew, cluster behind the director in a frozen tableau. The scene reminds me of Rembrandt’s The Anatomy Lesson of Dr Nicolaes Tulp, where a surgeon probes the sinews of a corpse while black-clad devotees look on with varying degrees of horror and fascination. One of the curators even has the right beard and upturned moustache, and in the painting before them, the white-toned Arctic landscape seems to glow with the same otherworldly pallor of Rembrandt’s waxen-skinned cadaver.

‘It was an accident, Mr Swindon. Thomas went down like a ton of bricks. We tried to grab him.’ Wayne looks distraught.

‘Yes and of course our thoughts are with him. We’re all terribly concerned.’

His tone suggests all the concern is for the painting.

‘Giles, you and your people best write a report immediately. I’ll phone the director at – where did we borrow this from?’

One of the curatorial staff steps forward, a short-haired girl all mannishly tailored in navy trousers, brogues and a white shirt. ‘Royal Holloway College.’ She offers up her clipboard. ‘In London.’

The director quirks an eyebrow at this. ‘Did they send their own person?’

‘No.’

‘Right. Move the painting to conservation but don’t do a thing to it until I find out if Royal Holloway will let us do the work or not. Giles, I’ll let you know the minute I get the go-ahead.’ Swindon fixes the curators with a hard eye. ‘I want an alternate plan for the exhibition hang in case we have to pull the painting. Make sure I see a copy by the end of the day. The rest of you, get back to what you were doing.’ He starts to turn. ‘I’m sure you all realise this fiasco will have massive repercussions for the Museum’s insurance, not to mention the blow to our credibility and ability to borrow works in the future. So naturally I don’t need to mention that if anyone breathes a word of this outside this room, most specifically but not exclusively, to the media, the perpetrator will be starring in a re-enactment of Ribera’s Martyrdom of Saint Bartholomew. Check the print collection if you’re confused. Is that crystal?’

Swindon stands there, presenting his rigid back to most of the staff. When the murmur of assent reaches a satisfactory volume, he nods once and strides off. The room seems to exhale when he’s gone.

Giles and Wayne bend their heads together, murmuring and pointing, then break apart. Wayne heads toward his men while Giles scans the room. He spots us and starts in our direction, and we meet him halfway.

‘That’s going to be a big job,’ John says.

Giles presses the heels of his hands into his temples, as though trying to stop his head from exploding.

‘Good luck. We’d best let you get on with it.’ I look at John and tip my head toward the door.

Giles still has his hands on his head. ‘I should have retired last year. My blood pressure can’t take this sort of thing anymore.’

‘Your people didn’t cause the damage, Giles, and if your department does a brilliant repair you’ll be the Museum’s hero. Besides, much as I hate seeing paintings hurt, the main thing is the packer who collapsed is okay.’ I smile weakly.

‘Goodness Alex, we should be thanking you for what you did.’ Giles grabs my upper arms as though he’s about to pull me into a hug but settles for a bracing squeeze. He inhales, opens his mouth to say something else, but then just shakes his head.

‘I just got there first. No thanks necessary.’ The last thing I want is anyone at MIMA making a fuss. ‘You should get on and see what you’re going to do with that painting.’ I look across to where Wayne and his crew are carefully manoeuvring the large canvas onto a trolley. ‘Will you do the work yourself?’

‘My God no. I’m an administrator these days. The only thing I repair is the relationship between my department and the board.’

‘We can see ourselves out.’ John takes my arm. The three of us start toward the exit, same way we came in.

‘Why don’t you come to the conservation studios now?’ Giles says as we walk. ‘I don’t think I’m ready to face that painting without moral support. And you could have a look at the other things we’re working on.’

John and I exchange a glance. I shrug. What else could happen?

‘If you’re sure it won’t be a bother, what with every­thing.’ John’s eyes have lit up at the renewed hope of talking shop.

Giles shakes his head. ‘I might even get your advice on what to do. We don’t usually deal with that level of … I remember you telling me about the repair you did on the painting that got caught in a clock mechanism.’

‘That was nothing. My favourite was the one the cat tried to climb.’ John puts up his hands and mimes claws raking through the air.

‘God help me.’ Giles shakes his head.

We follow Giles into the utilitarian heart of the Museum, pacing along hallways and up a flight of stairs oddly devoid of life. The reason becomes obvious the moment we enter the painting conservation lab; everyone seems to be here, clustered in a far corner. The room itself is vast and high-ceilinged, scattered with easels and work benches, lined with shelves and heavy with the reek of paint and solvents. As we cross the room John rubs his hands together, his head swivelling from side to side. Giles leads us forward and the cluster of people parts as they become aware of his presence. John gets a couple of nods of recognition and I get a few curious looks which I return with what I hope seems like a modicum of equanimity.

The damaged painting is propped on an easel, the tear all the more shocking now the canvas is upright, and the torn fragment flops forward. Standing in front of it and blocking the rest of my view is a woman with spiky bleached-blonde hair, accented with a streak of blue. She’s tiny but perfectly proportioned, like a pixie drawn by Ida Rentoul Outhwaite in one of her 1920s children’s books. When she spots John her eyes narrow for a moment and the pixie thing slips, then she breaks into a wide smile.

‘Porter. What are you doing here?’ Her tone is light but I notice she shifts almost imperceptibly to block John’s view of the painting.

Tilting my body sideways a bit, I try to see more of the canvas. I glimpse an iceberg near the top right corner. Definitely Arctic.

‘Surprise! Hi Meredith, long time no … Never mind. Giles asked me to pop in.’ John nods toward the painting. ‘Have a look at what you’re working on. Offer some suggestions.’

She rounds on Giles. ‘You’re kidding. I’m the senior painting conservator here.’

‘But you know me; I’m more than happy to help.’ John earns a dirty look from both Giles and Meredith.

‘Coincidence, Meredith. John was just visiting.’ Giles sounds like he’s trying to coax a feral kitten to come closer.

‘Sure, Giles is right, just visiting.’ John holds up both hands, showing he’s unarmed.

Meredith stares at him with flinty eyes for a moment, then relaxes and visibly expands. ‘All right then.’ She turns to me and sticks out her hand. ‘Meredith Buchanan, senior conservator.’

‘Alex Clayton.’ I take her tiny hand, expecting a bird-like delicacy, but get a firm shake instead.

Most of the people start to drift off, back to their own work in the conservation labs, or heading out the door to other duties. Giles is still here, and I’m aware of a couple of other people in lab coats hovering behind us as Meredith steps aside and beckons John and me closer to the painting.

‘You two know each other?’ I look between Meredith and John.

‘We’ve met in a professional capacity,’ Meredith says in a tight voice. Behind her back John shakes his head at me, eyes wide. I’ll get the story later, so I turn to the canvas. And puff out a heavy sigh.

‘Yeah, the tear is pretty bad, isn’t it?’ Meredith says. ‘It’s going to be a rush to get it fixed in time for the exhibition.’

‘No, I mean, yes, the damage is bad, but that’s not … Do you know what this is?’

‘Well, it’s obviously by Edwin Landseer.’ Meredith consults a clipboard. ‘And according to this it’s called Man Proposes, God Disposes.’

‘Yep, that’s it all right.’ I take in the whole painting, nearly two and a half metres long. Artistically, it shows all of the bravura you’d expect from one of Landseer’s more graphic animal subjects. This particular work is even more dramatic because of the fairly restricted palette. And calling it an Arctic landscape doesn’t even begin to convey how sensa­tionally wonderful this painting is. I can actually feel my heart beating faster as I stare at it. Those greys and whites I’d glimpsed earlier, together with some steely blues, combine in myriad ways to depict the tundra: snow, jagged icebergs – some highlighted with just a tip of orange-pink as though kissed by a feeble sun – a grey, lowering sky and black, black water. It’s a vast, empty wilderness except for the two polar bears filling the foreground. Not the sort of cute things you see frolicking behind David Attenborough, but aggressive, with jaws wide and steaming breath: blood-lusting beasts. Between the bears lie the last traces of a shipwreck: a mast, some tattered sailcloth and human bones, one of which, a rib, is clamped between slavering polar bear teeth. It’s awful and fabulous all at the same time and I love it.

‘What, Alex?’ John’s voice breaks into my thoughts and I jump a little. I glance around and see Meredith and Giles are looking at me curiously. There’s a grin on my face that’s probably not appropriate for viewing a newly-ripped artwork and I try to rearrange my features into something more appropriately sombre.

‘Just that I’ve heard about this painting.’ I hope John doesn’t push it, but he knows me too well.

‘What?’

‘Um, it’s cursed.’

Meredith snorts. ‘It sure as hell is now that there’s a massive tear in it.’

‘No,’ I sigh. ‘Your standard issue “bad things will happen if” type of curse.’

Meredith shoots Giles a grin. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got this, boss. I’m prepared to battle on with the repair in the face of evil. But I hope you’ll remember my grit and dedication when a more senior spot opens up.’ Both of them turn and look at me like I’m nuts, and I hold up both my hands in a not-guilty gesture.

‘Just saying. The polar bears rampaging through a shipwreck reference an Arctic expedition that went horribly wrong and apparently ended in cannibalism. So that’s meant to be a human ribcage there.’ I point to a section of the painting. ‘And that’s why the bear on the left is destroying the British ensign, the naval flag.’

John nods. ‘I get it. So that sort of signifies the destruction of British values.’ John is always good at picking up on symbolism in art.

‘Because we all know that a real Englishman would never eat one of the chaps.’ I catch the look on Giles’ face and shrug. ‘Sorry, but that was the consensus. Eaten by the heathen natives? Sure. But not by one of Her Majesty’s subjects.’

‘How ridiculous,’ Meredith murmurs, shaking her head.

‘Look, it’s just a silly story – a nice bit of history but not something you probably want to advertise in light of today’s events.’ Suddenly I want to get out of here. I catch John’s eye.

‘We should go, Alex. Let these people get on with it, whatever it may be.’ He smiles broadly at Meredith.

‘Sorry things turned out like this,’ Giles says, but he’s shifting from foot to foot and glancing at his watch as he says it.

‘Alex and I were catching up anyway, so it’s no trouble. But feel free to call me next time you have a cursed artwork that needs attention and no one expendable for the job.’ He grins at Meredith again, then turns to me. ‘Shall we get going now and have a look at the exhibition on opening night? I’m sure we must be on the VIP list after today and besides, looking at those polar bears chowing down has made me really hungry.’

I wrinkle my nose and Meredith whispers a quiet, ‘Ew.’ Giles looks at his watch again.

‘Lunch then,’ I say. ‘I know a great vegetarian place not far from here.’ I don’t, but I wish I did.

I glance over my shoulder as we pass into the corridor and see Meredith back in front of the canvas, magnifying loupe on her head, peering intently at the damaged area. Then the door swings shut and she’s gone.

***

John and I make our way back to the mousehole. Ray appears not to have moved since we first arrived but stirs himself enough to take our visitor passes and buzz us out. I head straight for Southgate.

‘So where are we having lunch?’ John is one of those frustratingly skinny people: perpetually hungry and with an ability to pack food away like it’s Christmas and yet never putting on so much as a single gram of fat.

‘You’re paying, right? ’Cause it’s been a lean month.’

John nods.

‘Well, in that case, I definitely need a drink. Walter’s Wine Bar it is.’

The sun is in our faces so I put on my Ray-Bans as we head along St Kilda Road and past the Arts Centre before turning into the Southgate complex. Even with a backdrop of modern skyscrapers, I can appreciate what has drawn countless artists to this perspective since the 1800s: sweeping into marvellous Melbourne, Princes Bridge is flanked at its far end by the triumphant architecture of Flinders Street Station and the neo-Gothic glory of St Paul’s Cathedral, and the whole vista forms a vision of progress and timelessness.

At Walter’s the lunch rush is tapering off, so we decide to sit inside where it’s cool and dim, the background volume a convivial hum. I order a glass of pinot grigio from the guy who seated us, and after a moment’s deliberation John opts for the same. He always makes a show of knowing something, but at heart he’s a wine philistine. Our waiter quickly returns with the drinks and takes our meal order. Naturally, John goes for fish and chips. I consider calories and prices and slap the menu closed. Salad.

‘Well that was a pleasant visit to MIMA.’ I give John a mock toast. ‘You’re right, I should go there more.’

John takes a sip of his wine, staring at me over the rim of the glass. ‘That was just bad luck.’

‘Well for Tommo the packer it sure was.’ I swallow a large mouthful of pinot.

‘You were amazing, Alex. I have no clue about CPR and you just jumped right in.’

I wave him off. ‘Can we talk about something else please?’

John stares at me.

‘You know my thoughts on MIMA. Whenever I stick my head above their parapet, bad things happen. Please, let’s talk about the painting. Or why I haven’t seen you for a couple of months.’

‘Busy with work and Sue’s had me doing a lot of odd jobs at home.’

I swirl the wine in my glass, debating whether to push the point.

‘Tell me more about the curse.’ John offers me the bread basket but I shake my head. He helps himself to a generous chunk of ciabatta and dunks the end in a dish of olive oil before taking a bite.

‘You’re not going to double-dip, are you?’

John is still chewing, but he bugs his eyes and reaches toward the oil with the remains of his ciabatta, hovering it just above the surface.

‘Do you want to hear about the curse or not?’

He pulls his hand back, which I take as a sign to talk.

‘Where did we get to? Ill-fated voyage, cannibalism blah, blah.’

‘Can’t say I noticed anything much about the painting except the large gash in the canvas, but I didn’t see any people actually getting eaten.’

At that moment the waiter arrives with our lunch and from the expression on his face, he clearly heard the end of what John just said. He places fish and chips between John’s cutlery before carefully lining up a beetroot and feta salad in front of me.

‘Can I get you anything else?’ He tops up our water and gives John a cool stare. When we shake our heads he forces a smile and flounces off.

‘Should I have reassured him I was only talking about a painting?’ John asks, spearing four chips on his fork.

‘Where’s the fun in that?’

‘True.’

John tucks into his fish and I play with my salad, forking up a few mouthfuls but mostly rearranging the ingredients into colour-blocked patterns. After what seems like only a few minutes, I hear the scrape of cutlery on china and I look up. John’s plate is half empty.

‘So it’s quite an important painting, then?’ he asks.

‘Well it’s not really famous or even really well-known, but –’

‘Help yourself to chips,’ John interrupts.

‘There was this whole swathe of Arctic painting during that period that sort of turned the artistic notion of the “Sublime Wilderness” on its head. For the first time, I think people were starting to feel they were violating a pristine world, and then Landseer comes along to show them there may be consequences.’ I take a couple of chips. ‘So in many ways, it is an important painting.’

‘So Landseer was like a nineteenth-century greenie. Swindon can expect Royal Holloway to be pretty pissed then.’

‘I think that’d be a given regardless of the painting’s subject, don’t you? I mean, even though the whole thing was an accident and someone almost died, how mortifying for MIMA.’

‘And of course if Royal Holloway had sent a courier with the painting, there’d have been one of their own here to verify the story. As it stands …’

‘Still, it’s a fabulous painting.’

‘How do you even know all this?’ John is staring at me while still managing to convey a continuous series of chips to his mouth.

I shrug. ‘It’s my time period and Landseer has always been an artist who interests me.’

‘You really should have become a tweedy academic.’

‘I already have my mother to remind me of my failure in that regard, thanks very much. And, you did ask.’

‘Sorry. It was actually a compliment. What else?’

‘What else is there?’ I catch our waiter’s eye and raise my eyebrows. ‘My meter is going to run out, so let’s go.’

‘But when do we get to the curse?’ John grabs the last few chips from his plate.

‘Pay the bill and I’ll give you the next thrilling instalment while we walk.’