The World According to Bertie 4ss-4

by Alexander McCall Smith

  36. What Exactly Is the Problem with Caroline?

  It had been a very satisfactory day for Bruce. His flat-hunting, which had taken less than three hours, had resulted in his finding a very comfortable room in Julia Donald’s flat in Howe Street.

  There had been no mention of rent – not once in the conversation – and Bruce saw no reason why the subject should ever come up. From his point of view, he was going to be staying with her as a friend, a close friend probably, and it was inappropriate for friends to pay one another rent, especially when the friend who owned the flat had no mortgage to pay. So that was a major advantage to the arrangement, he thought. And even if Julia should become a little bit trying – and she was a bit inclined to gush, Bruce thought – he was still confident that he could handle her firmly, but tactfully. Bruce knew how to deal with women; he knew that he had only to look at them with the look – and they were putty in his hands. It was extraordinary: the slightest smoulder from Bruce, just the slightest, seemed to make them go weak at the knees, and in the head too. Bruce smiled. It’s so very easy, he thought – so very easy.

  Before he went out that evening, Bruce took a shower in Neil and Caroline’s flat in Comely Bank. There were minor irrita-tions involved in this, as he did not like the multiple bottles of shampoo and conditioner which Caroline insisted on arranging on the small shelf in the shower. Bruce moved these every time he used the shower, shifting them to a place on top of the bathroom cupboard, but he noticed that they always migrated back 120 What Exactly Is the Problem with Caroline?

  to their position within the shower cubicle. He thought of saying something to Caroline about this, but refrained from doing so, as he was not absolutely sure if she appreciated him as much as most women did. He had tried giving her the look, but she had returned it with a blank stare, which thoroughly unsettled him.

  Normally, he would have put such a response down to a lack of interest based on lesbianism, but the fact that Caroline was happily married to Neil made that judgement unlikely. So what exactly is her problem? Bruce asked himself. Was it something to do with rent? He saw no reason why he should pay them anything when he was going to be there for such a short time, and they had, after all, invited him to stay, or almost. No, there was something more complicated at work here, he decided.

  And then it occurred to him exactly what this was. Bruce decided that Caroline was jealous of him. That must be it! Neil, her husband, was such a weedy specimen in comparison with Bruce, that it must be hard for Caroline to have somebody in the house who was so clearly at the opposite end of the spec-trum from him. So rather than resenting her husband for being puny, she was transferring her dissatisfaction onto Bruce himself.

  This insight made Bruce feel almost sorry for Caroline, and as a result of this he had said something to her in an attempt to make things easier.

  “Don’t judge Neil too harshly,” he remarked one evening when he found himself alone in the kitchen with her.

  She had looked at him in astonishment. “What on earth do you mean? Judge Neil harshly? Why would I do that?”

  Bruce had smiled. “Well, you know. Some men are a bit more

  . . . how shall I put it? Impressive. Yes, that’s it. Impressive.”

  She stared at him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  He winked. “Don’t you . . . ?”

  She had continued to stare at him. “I really have no idea what you’re going on about, Bruce,” she had said. “And, by the way, do you mind not moving my conditioner bottles from the shower?

  You know that little shelf in there? That’s where I like them to be. That’s where I put them.”

  What Exactly Is the Problem with Caroline? 121

  Bruce smiled. “Come and show me,” he said. “Show me when I’m in the shower.”

  She did not appreciate that, he decided, which was typical of somebody like her. There was a sense-of-humour failure there, he thought. A serious one. And she did not take well either to his next remark, which took the form of a good-natured question.

  “Are you interested in other women, Caroline?” he asked. “I just want to know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Bruce sighed. “I’m really having to spell it out,” he said. “I mean: are you, you know, interested in other women? Don’t look so cross. Lots of people are a little bit that way, you know, now and then. It’s perfectly understandable, you know . . .”

  “How dare you!” Caroline screamed. “I’m going to tell Neil when he comes back. I just can’t believe it. I can’t believe that I’m being talked to like this in my own kitchen.”

  “Temper! Temper!” said Bruce. “Most people these days don’t get all uptight about these things. We live in a very enlightened age, you know. I mean, hello!”

  Now, standing in the shower, Bruce poured on a bit of Caroline’s conditioner and rubbed it into his hair. His conversation with his hostess had not been an edifying one, and it was probably just as well that he was going out for dinner with Julia Donald that evening. He might even move out that very evening, which would give Caroline something to think about, but any decision could wait. For the moment, he had the sheer pleasure of the shower ahead of him; a shower first, then decisions, said Bruce to himself. That’s a good one, he thought. Just like Bertolt Brecht with his Grub first, then ethics.

  He turned his head slightly and caught sight of his reflection in the glass wall of the shower cubicle. His profile, he thought, was the real strength of his face, that straight nose, in perfect proportion to the rest of the features – spot-on. It was amazing, he thought, how nature gets it just right. And the cleft in his chin – how many women had put the tip of their little finger 122 A Little Bit of Bottle Bother at the Tower in there? – it was almost as if they could not resist it, a Venus fly-trap, perhaps.

  He pouted. “Drop-dead gorgeous,” he whispered, through the sound of the shower.

  37. A Little Bit of Bottle Bother at the Tower Bruce had suggested to Julia that they should meet in the Tower Restaurant, above the Museum. He had been there once before when a client of Macauley Holmes Richardson Black had invited him to discuss over lunch the purchase of a piece of land near Peebles. Bruce had made a mental note to return for a more leisurely meal, but then he had become occupied with his wine business – a “semi-success” as he called it – and that had been followed by his removal to London. Eating out in London, of course, was ruinously expensive and, unless invited, he had avoided it as far as possible. Now, back in Edinburgh, he contemplated, with pleasure, the variety of restaurants he would be able to explore with Julia. She was the sort of girl who would pay the bill without complaint, although he would reach into his own pocket from time to time if pressed; Bruce was not mean.

  The Tower Restaurant was above the new part of the National Museum of Scotland. As a boy, Bruce had been taken to the museum on several occasions, on school trips from Crieff, and had enjoyed pressing the buttons of the machines kept on display in great, ancient cases. The cavernous hall of the museum, with its vast glass roof, had been etched into the memory of those days, and could still impress him, but now it was the business of dinner that needed to be attended to.

  He was early. Perched on one of the bar stools, he nursed a martini in front of him while waiting for Julia. Bruce did not normally drink martinis, but tonight’s date justified one, he thought; and the effect, he noted, was as intended – the gin, barely diluted by vermouth, indeed possibly unacquainted A Little Bit of Bottle Bother at the Tower 123

  with it, was quickly lifting his spirits even further. How had Churchill made martinis? he asked himself. He smiled as he remembered the snippet he had read in The Decanter or somewhere like that – Churchill had poured the gin on one side of the room while nodding in the direction of the vermouth bottle on the other side. What a man, thought Bruce, a bit like me in some ways.

  Julia arrived ten minutes late.

  “Perfect timing,” said Bruce, rising from the ba
r stool to plant a kiss on her cheek. “For a woman, that is. And you look so stunning too. That dress . . .”

  Julia beamed. “Oh, thank you, Brucie! It’s ancient – prehis-toric, actually. I bought it from Armstrongs down in the Grassmarket. You know that place that has all those old clothes.

  Très retro!”

  Bruce touched the small trim of ostrich feathers around the neck of the dress. “It’s a flapper dress, isn’t it?”

  Julia was not sure what a flapper dress was, but it sounded right. “Yes,” she said. “It’s good for flapping in.”

  “Very funny!” said Bruce.

  They both laughed.

  “Let’s go to our table,” said Bruce. “That’s the maître d’ over there. I’ll catch his eye.”

  “You can catch anybody’s eye, Brucie,” said Julia playfully.

  “You’re eye candy.”

  “Eye toffee,” said Bruce, taking hold of her forearm. “I stick to people.” He smiled as he remembered something. “You know, we had a dog up in Crieff and he had a sweet tooth. I gave him a toffee once and he started to chew it and got his teeth completely stuck together. It was seriously funny.”

  Julia laughed. “When I was at Glenalmond, we gave our housemistress a piece of cake with toffee hidden in the middle.

  It stuck her false teeth together and she had to take them out to get rid of it!”

  “The things one does when young,” said Bruce.

  “A scream,” said Julia.

  124 A Little Bit of Bottle Bother at the Tower They moved to the table. “You must let me treat you,” said Bruce as they were handed the menu.

  “Oh, please let me,” said Julia.

  “All right,” said Bruce quickly. “Thanks. What are you going to have?”

  If Julia was taken aback, it was only momentarily. “I love oysters,” she said. “I’m going to start with those.”

  “Make sure that you put a bit of Tabasco in,” said Bruce.

  “And lemon. Delicious.”

  “What about you?” asked Julia.

  “Lobster,” said Bruce, examining the menu. “Market price.

  That’s helpful, isn’t it? Everything is market price if you come to think of it. Anyway, I’ll start with lobster, then . . .” he examined the menu. “Which do you think would win in a fight? A lobster or an oyster?”

  Julia looked out of the window. “That’s a very interesting question, Brucie. I’ve never thought about that, you know.”

  “The lobster would have the advantage of mobility,” said Bruce. “But the oyster has pretty good defences, I would have thought. It would probably be a stand-off.”

  “Yes,” agreed Julia. “Interesting.”

  The waiter came and took their order. “And wine?” he asked.

  Bruce looked at the list. “You know, I was in the wine trade for a while,” he said to Julia, but loud enough for the waiter to hear.

  “I’ll fetch the sommelier,” said the waiter.

  “No need . . .” Bruce began. But the waiter had moved off and was whispering something into the ear of a colleague. The sommelier nodded and came over to Bruce and Julia’s table.

  “So, sir,” he said. “Have you any ideas?”

  Bruce looked at the wine list. “Bit thin,” he said. “No offence, of course. No Brunello, for instance.” He smiled at Julia as he spoke. She made a face as if to mourn the absence of Brunello.

  “Oh, but I think there is, sir,” said the sommelier. “Perhaps you did not register the name of the producers. Look, over there, for example. Banfi. We don’t always feel it’s necessary to describe Anyway, What Are You Going to Do, Brucie? 125

  exactly where a wine comes from. We assume that in many cases people know . . .”

  “Where?” snapped Bruce. “Oh, yes, Banfi. Wrong side, of course.”

  “Of what, sir?”

  “The river,” said Bruce.

  “But there isn’t a river in Montalcino,” said the sommelier gently. “Perhaps you’re thinking of somewhere else. The Arno perhaps?”

  Bruce did not respond to this; he was peering at the list.

  “What about a Chianti?” he said. “What about this one here?”

  The sommelier peered over his shoulder. “Mmm,” he said.

  “I find that a bit unexciting, personally.”

  “Well, why do you have it on the list, then?” Bruce said. His tone was now defensive, rattled.

  “Well,” said the sommelier, smiling, “we like to have one or two – how shall I put it? – pedestrian wines for some of our diners who have . . . well, not very sophisticated tastes. We don’t actually carry Blue Nun, but that’s pretty much for the diner who would go for a bottle of Blue Nun. I would have thought that you might be interested in something much more . . . much more complex.”

  Bruce kept his eyes on the list. “We’ll have a bottle of this,”

  he said, pointing wildly.

  “Oh, a very good choice,” said the sommelier. “And well worth the extra money. I always say that when you pay that much, you’re on safe ground. Well chosen, sir.”

  38. Anyway, What Are You Going to Do, Brucie?

  Bruce ate his lobster with gusto, watched by Julia, whose oysters had slipped down with alacrity. He offered her a claw, but she declined, a small appetite for one so curvaceous, Bruce thought.

  126 Anyway, What Are You Going to Do, Brucie?

  “I prefer really small courses,” she said. “We went to a restaurant in New York once, you know the one near the new modern art thingy. Mummy, or whatever it’s called.”

  “MoMA,” muttered Bruce, wiping mayonnaise from the side of his mouth.

  “That’s the place. Strange name.”

  Bruce reached out and patted her gently on the wrist.

  “Nothing to do with mother,” he said. “It stands for the Museum of Modern Art.”

  Julia thought for a moment. “I don’t get it. Anyway, this place, you wouldn’t know that it’s a restaurant, as there’s nothing on the door. Just a glass door. It’s really cool.”

  Bruce nodded. “That’s to keep the wrong sort out,” he said.

  “They have to do that. It’s the same in London. There are no signs outside the really good clubs. Nothing to tell you they’re there. You could spend weeks in London and not see any of the really good places because you just wouldn’t know.”

  Julia looked at Bruce. She was studying his chin, which had a cleft that she found quite fascinating. She watched that and she noticed, too, how when he smiled the smallest dimple appeared in each of his cheeks. It was unfair, she thought, it really was that a man should have a skin like that and not have to worry about moisturisers and all the expensive things that she had to use. Unfair, just unfair. He put something on his hair, though, something with a rather strange smell. What was it?

  Cloves? Perhaps she should ask him. Would he mind? Or she could find out by going through his things in the bathroom, that would be easy, and interesting. Julia liked going through men’s things in the bathroom; it was a sort of hobby, really.

  She brought herself back to the present. “Yes,” she said. “That restaurant in New York served tiny portions. Tiny. This size.”

  She made a tight circle with her thumb and forefinger.

  Bruce speared a piece of lobster meat. “Really?”

  “Yes. I filled up on olive bread and Daddy asked for a banana.

  Everything cost thirty-six dollars. Except for the banana, which was free.”

  Anyway, What Are You Going to Do, Brucie? 127

  “There you are,” said Bruce. “Every cloud . . .”

  Julia interrupted him. “Anyway, Brucie, what are you going to do, now that you’re back?”

  Bruce, the lobster finished, pushed his plate to one side. “Well, I’m not going back to being a surveyor. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt. Pas plus de ça pour moi. So I’ve been thinking and I’ve had one or two ideas.”

  “Such as?”

  Bruce
sat back in his chair. “Personal training,” he said. “I think I’ll be a personal trainer.”

  A shadow of disappointment crossed Julia’s face. She had not envisaged settling down with a personal trainer. “You mean one of those types you see in the gym?” she said. “The ones who hold their stopwatches and tell you how long to spend on the treadmill?”

  It was clear to Bruce that she did not think much of his plan.

  He would have to explain; Julia was a bit – how might one put it? – limited in her outlook, poor girl. Rich, but limited.

  “Personal trainers do much more than that,” he said. “Getting people fit is one part of it, but there’s much more to it. Lifestyle advice, for example. Telling people how to dress, how to deal with anxiety, stress and all the rest. Sorting out relationships.

  That sort of thing.”

  Julia’s reservations evaporated. “Brilliant!” she said. “I’m sure that there’ll be a demand for that sort of thing. Lifestyle coach.

  Style guru. That sort of thing.” She paused. “And personal shopper?”

  Bruce looked doubtful. “I’ve heard of them. But I’m not sure what a personal shopper does.”

  Julia knew. “They usually have them in big shops,” she said.

  “If you go somewhere like Harrods or Harvey Nicks, they have these people who will get you what you need. You tell them your general requirements and they find it for you. But one could do it as a freelance. Then you could shop all over the place.”

  “I don’t know if I could do that,” said Bruce. “I don’t know enough about shopping.”

  128 Anyway, What Are You Going to Do, Brucie?

  “I do,” said Julia quickly. “I’ve done a lot of shopping.”

  Bruce smiled. He had no doubt about that; Julia was certainly a shopper. Then a possibility came to him. He and Julia could enter into a . . .

  “Partnership?” said Julia. “Do you think it would work, Brucie?

  You do the personal thingy and I’ll do the personal shopping.

  We can offer a complete service.”