LITMIR.BIZ

      ‘You’ve been gazing at that painting for at least ten minutes.’

      Liam appears at my side, head tilted in front of Vincent Van Gogh’s Sunflowers. It’s a Tuesday in November, and we’re in the National Gallery on a school trip. ‘You’d think it had one of those hidden pictures in it, the way you’ve been staring at it,’ he continues. ‘You know – the sort you can only see if you look at it for long enough?’

      ‘It’s just my favourite, that’s all,’ I say, smiling at him.

      ‘I can tell!’

      ‘Mum loved it too. She used to bring me to see it whenever we were passing this way.’

      ‘How many times have you visited this place, just to behold its beauty?’ He says the last bit dramatically, sweeping his arm round with a flourish, as if he’s reciting a very corny poem.

      I laugh. ‘Quite a lot!’ Then I pause. ‘It looks different today, though.’

      ‘How do you mean?’

      I point to the vase, where the name ‘Vincent’ appears in blue script. ‘Well, that bit’s the same shade as normal, but the flowers –’ I gesture to the yellow petals – ‘they’re paler and clearer, if that makes sense.’

      ‘Less orangey-brown?’ suggests Liam.

      ‘Exactly!’ I smile at him. Nobody gets me like Liam.

      Liam shrugs. ‘Perhaps they’ve had it cleaned.’

      ‘That would make sense … although I was actually wondering if it was more to do with where it’s hanging now. I mean, they’ve moved it from its usual spot, to make it part of the Van Gogh exhibition, so maybe the lighting’s different.’

      My

Скачать книгу