May 2026

Set in 80s Edinburgh, The Private Side of Friendship is the stunning new standalone novel from Alexander McCall Smith. On the verge of a reunion with friends she hasn’t seen since graduation, Julie recalls her halcyon student days of 1984 and the strange tumultuous time they lived through.

The Private Side of Friendship

I’m staring into space, Julie thought. It’s my twenty-fourth birthday; I’m single; I have a job; I’m sitting at a desk and staring into space. The problem was the music. Andrew, who was her employer and who ran the gallery, liked to have music playing in the background, whatever was happening. It was not obtrusive – he always kept the volume low – but when, as now, she stopped to think about it, it distracted her from whatever she was doing. Andrew said the clients appreciated it; he said there were studies that showed that people felt more comfortable spending money if there was music in the background. Julie had been doubtful.

“What studies?” she asked. People were always invoking the support of studies, many of which, she was convinced, were apocryphal.

He grinned. “Don’t you believe me?”

“I’m not saying that I don’t believe you, it’s just that there seem to be studies for everything. There are studies that say eggs are bad for you, and then there are studies that say we should eat at least one egg a day.”

“That’s for the iron,” he said. “You need to keep up your iron levels, Julie.”

She persisted. “But these music studies?”

He waved a hand airily. “I read about them. They exist. Apparently, music makes you feel less anxious, and if you’re less anxious, you’re more inclined to spend money.”

She sighed. “Even if you know you shouldn’t?”

He became serious. “Julie, we’re a business – remember. We sell paintings. That’s why we’re here. Paintings are often a real impulse purchase. That’s just the way it is.”

She said that she understood. She told him that she did not mind the music too much. It was always discreet. She had no argument with his taste, which was light classical. But on days when Andrew did not come into the gallery – when he was at an auction, or visiting his girlfriend in Edinburgh – she was tempted to turn off the music. It was only her innate honesty that stopped her from opting for silence.

That day she was on her own. Andrew, who was conducting an affair with a woman ten years his senior, had gone off to Edinburgh to meet his lover for lunch, leaving Julie in sole charge of the gallery. She was undaunted by this, even if she found that days spent by herself in the gallery tended to drag, especially when it came to late afternoon. On this occasion, there were a couple of appointments that would break up the day and give her something to do, other than prepare copy for future catalogues.

The first appointment was with an artist. These were meetings that Andrew was keen to delegate to her – at least in the first instance. “You can be the gatekeeper, Julie,” he said. “If you find anything remotely interesting in their work, then I’ll see them. But in most cases . . .” He sighed.

There were too many would-be artists who were convinced that they had talent but who in reality had none – or none that would interest the public, let alone persuade them to make an impulse buy. And it was getting worse, he said.

The art schools had signalled their unwillingness to teach traditional drawing and painting skills, and the results were only too evident. “Conceptual art is all very well,” Andrew had said to her. “But it’s bad news for galleries. You can’t hang a concept on a wall.”

They had worked out a system. Julie would respond to the artists’ first approach. She would ask them to submit photographs of their work. If she thought they were worth a closer look, she would invite them to bring a portfolio to the gallery. If she liked what she saw, she would arrange for the artist to meet Andrew.

In most cases, that led to a serious conversation about a future show. It was slow, painfully so at times, and she felt sorry for the artists.

She looked at the diary. Ralph Macauley. Glasgow School of Art. 11 a.m.

And now he was there, appearing on the other side of the gallery’s glass front door, a young man of about her age, possibly a year or two older. He was neatly dressed – for an artist – and she noted his corduroy trousers, which lent an old-fashioned look to his appearance. That boded well for his ability to paint. Painting was an old-fashioned skill – especially figurative painting of the sort she had seen in the photographs he had sent.

He entered hesitantly. “Am I early?” he asked. There was a note of anxiety in his tone.

She made an effort to put him at his ease. “You’re exactly on time.”

______________________________________________________________________________________
The Private Side of Friendship is being published in paperback from Polygon on 4th June.