The World According to Bertie (30 page)

80. Julia's Father Comes Straight to the Point

Julia ushered her father into the flat. “Every time I come here,” said Graeme Donald, “I find myself thinking–they really understood the need for space, those Georgians. I was in one of those new flats the other day–you know those ones down the road there. Tiny. And quite a price, too. Ridiculously expensive.”

He was a tall, well-built man with an air of easy self-assurance about him. He kissed his daughter on the cheek, almost absentmindedly, and cast a glance towards the open door of the drawing room. “In there?” he whispered. “This young man of yours?”

Julia nodded. “Yes. And you will do what we discussed? Is that all right, Daddy?”

He looked at her. “Is that what you want? Are you sure he's the one? Because there'll be plenty of time to be sorry if…”

“Believe me, Daddy. We just click. He's lovely.”

He closed his eyes briefly. “Anything that makes my girl happy. Anything.”

Julia took him gently by the arm. “Just make sure that he won't say no,” she said, her voice still low.

“Well, as long as he's reasonably well-disposed, then I think I can make things attractive enough for him.”

“Good.”

They entered the drawing room, where Bruce was sitting by the window. As they entered, he rose and crossed the floor to shake hands with Graeme.

“So you're Bruce.” Graeme took Bruce's hand and shook it warmly.

“Sir.”

“Please call me Graeme.”

Julia moved to Bruce's side and linked her arm in his. “You two will have lots to talk about,” she said, gazing at Bruce. “Daddy, Bruce used to be a surveyor.”

“Macauley Holmes etc.,” said Bruce.

Graeme nodded. “Good firm. I've had dealings with them. Nice chaps, the Todds.”

“Yes,” said Bruce, less than enthusiastically.

“Why did you leave?” asked Graeme.

Bruce's answer came readily. “Challenge,” he said. “I needed to get my teeth into something new.”

Graeme nodded appreciatively. “Always a good idea.”

There was silence for a moment. Then Bruce spoke. “You're in commercial property yourself, Julia tells me.”

“Yes,” said Graeme. “Mostly here in Edinburgh. Shops. I prefer them to offices, you know. I felt that you're more at the mercy of the economy if you have office space on your hands. But if you have retail property in a good area, then there's always somebody prepared to take on a lease. Or that's what I've found. The triumph of hope over commercial experience.”

Bruce laughed. “George Street?” he asked. “Julia said something about George Street.”

Graeme nodded. “I have a wine bar there,” he said. “You may know it.”

Bruce did know it. It was one of the more fashionable wine bars. He and Julia had been there together and she had said something about her father, but he had paid no attention.

“A great bar,” said Bruce. “It must do very well.”

“It could do better,” said Graeme. “I need to get somebody to take it in hand. Somebody who…” He trailed off. He was watching Bruce, and he saw the slight movement of the brows. I can see what she sees in him, Graeme thought. And what a relief, with all that riff-raff around these days; at long last she's come up with a young man about whom I can be enthusiastic; somebody who shares my values. Bit dim, I suspect, but obviously capable of producing grandchildren, and nothing in the least artistic about him, thank heavens, unlike the last one: talk about barking up the wrong tree with him! No, she's quite right; this is more like it.

He looked at Bruce. “Would you mind if I had a frank talk with you?” he asked suddenly. “I've never been one to beat about the bush–I don't see the point. Man to man. Much better.”

Bruce froze. She's told him, he thought. She's gone and told him.

“You see,” said Graeme, “we're not a big family. I lost my wife, as you may know, some time ago.”

Bruce thought of Julia's mother, lost at the Iguazu Falls. He nodded.

“And so I'm very close to Julia,” Graeme went on. “And the one thing I want is her happiness. That means more to me than anything. Can you understand that?”

Bruce nodded. This was going to be very embarrassing.

“So if there's a young man who's keen to marry her,” said Graeme, “then that young man…” he paused for a moment, fixing him with a direct stare, “whoever he might turn out to be, will find himself very…how should I put it?…very well provided for. In fact, he would find himself in the business, as a director. And Julia, of course, would end up with a very nice share of the business, too–the whole lot, eventually. For instance, that wine bar in George Street. The young man would probably rather like being the…being the owner of that. And there are two parking garages that go with it, you know. He would need somewhere to park the little run-about that would go with the job. Not that a Porsche needs all that much space, of course!”

For a few moments, there was complete silence, at least in the drawing room. In the kitchen, there was the sound of a mixer whirring and then a metal spoon scraping against the side of a pot.

Bruce had been taken aback by the directness of the approach, but at least Graeme had made his position clear. And why shouldn't he? Bruce asked himself. He was making an offer, and what point was there in making the offer less than clear?

Bruce did a rapid calculation. A wine bar in George Street would be worth well over a million. And that was without the other things that Graeme had hinted at. Life was a battle, Bruce thought, and here was he with nothing very much to show for the last six years. Look at Neil in that flat in Comely Bank, stuck there for the foreseeable future, struggling to make ends meet on what was probably a perfectly good salary. How long would that mortgage be? Twenty-five years? Anything would be better than that, anything.

He looked at Graeme, who was smiling at him nervously. “You…you've spelled it out,” said Bruce. “Nobody could excuse you of…”

“Being oversubtle?” supplied Graeme.

“Well…” said Bruce.

Graeme raised a hand. “Julia seems very fond of you.”

“And I'm fond of her,” Bruce said, which he was, in a way. He was reasonably fond of her, for all her…all her empty-headedness. No. Time to call it quits. Every bachelor has to face it, he thought. And this was, after all, a magnificent landing.

“All right, if I have your permission,” said Bruce, “I'd like to ask Julia to marry me.”

“You have it,” said Graeme quickly. He reached out for Bruce's hand and shook it. “I think she'll be very pleased.”

“Good,” said Bruce. “I'll…”

“Go through now,” said Graeme. “Go and speak to her. I'll stay here. But you go and pop the question.” He paused, rubbing his hands together. “And tell me, when's the happy day to be?”

“The wedding? Well, I don't know…”

“No, not that,” said Graeme. “You know what I mean.”

81. A Clean Break–Not Without an Argument

On the day on which Bruce's situation became so dramatically better, Matthew, whose long-term prospects had improved markedly on his meeting with Miss Harmony, now faced short-term discomfort in his relationship with Pat. He had decided to make a clean break with Pat even before he had so fortuitously met Elspeth Harmony, so nobody could accuse him of trading one woman for another. But even if he had not been disloyal, he still felt uncomfortable about the actual process of ending the relationship. On several occasions, he had rehearsed what he would say, trying various scripts, fretting over the degree to which each might be thought either too heartless or too ambivalent. Nothing sounded quite right.

And when the time came, it sounded flat, sounded phoney. “Pat,” he began. “You and I need to talk.”

She looked up from a letter which she was in the process of opening. “Talk? All right. But about what?”

“Us,” said Matthew. “That is, you. Me. Us, as a…a couple.”

She saw that he was blushing, and this worried her. She had hoped that he would have forgotten what he had said that evening, at the Duke of Johannesburg's party, but he evidently had not. Oh dear, she thought, I'm going to have to hurt his feelings. Poor Matthew! And he's wearing his distressed-oatmeal sweater too.

“Yes,” Matthew went on, averting his gaze. “I've been having a serious think about us, and I think that we need to go back to being friends. Just friends. You know that I'm very fond of you, you know that. But I think that we're in different places. We have different plans. I want to settle down and you…you, quite rightly, don't really want that, do you? You're younger. It's natural.”

Pat listened attentively. Her reaction was one of immense relief, but she did not want Matthew to see that. She hoped that she sounded sufficiently concerned.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Yes, I think so.”

She sighed. “You've been very kind to me, Matthew. And always thoughtful.”

Matthew blushed.

“But you're probably right,” Pat went on quickly. “You need something I can't give you.”

“I'm glad you understand.” He paused. “So you're not too upset?”

“No…I mean of course I'm sorry, but I'll get over it. And I really think it's for the best.”

His relief was palpable. It had been far easier than he had imagined.

“And I hope that you find somebody else, Matthew. I really hope that. You deserve somebody nice, somebody who wants what you want.” She looked at him. Poor Matthew. He would find it hard to get somebody else.

Matthew hesitated. He had not been sure whether he should mention Elspeth to her, but now it struck him that it would be almost dishonest not to do so, now that she had mentioned the possibility. “In actual fact,” he ventured, “I've met somebody. Just a few days ago.”

Pat gave a start. “You've met another girl?”

“Yes. She's a teacher. She came into the gallery, and, well, it just happened. We fell for each other.”

Pat said nothing for a moment. For each other? Or was it more a case of Matthew doing the falling? The problem, she thought, was that nobody would fall for Matthew just like that. He was very kind; he was very gentle; but he was not the sort for whom women fell–they simply did not. The thought was a disloyal one, and she tried to put it out of her mind. So she asked Matthew who she was.

“She's older than you are,” said Matthew. “She's about my age, or even a year or two older. I don't know exactly. And she's called Elspeth Harmony.”

Pat nodded. “Go on.”

“Well, I don't really know too much about her,” Matthew continued. “Except that she likes china. I bought her a Meissen figure, in fact. From The Thrie Estaits down the road.”

Pat stared at him. “You bought her a Meissen figure?”

“Yes. She loved it. And it was really special.”

Pat's voice was now considerably quieter. “And me?” she asked. “What did you ever buy me?”

Matthew was taken aback by this question. “Look,” he said, “I didn't know we counted presents.”

“No, we don't,” she said. “But if I did count…well, it wouldn't come to much. It would come to nothing, actually.”

“Don't be ridiculous…”

“Oh, you think that's ridiculous?” There was new spirit in her voice. “I'm being ridiculous in thinking that it's a bit strange that you know her for–how long?–two days, and you buy her a Meissen figure. You know me for over a year, two years really, and you buy me nothing. Nothing. When's my birthday, Matthew? Go on, tell me when my birthday is.”

“You mean you've forgotten?”

“Don't try to be funny,” she said, her voice now raised. “You can't pull it off, Matthew. Sitting there in that beige sweater, trying to be funny.”

“It's not beige,” said Matthew sharply. “It's distressed oatmeal.”

“Distressed oatmeal!” Pat countered. “Distressed beige. That's your trouble, Matthew. I'm sorry, but your clothes…” she paused, seeming to search for the right term. “Your clothes, Matthew, are tragic, really tragic.”

Matthew looked away. “You think I'm tragic, do you?”

Pat did not think about what she was saying. But she was smarting over the question of presents. “Yes, I do. And she must be really tragic, this Elspeth Meissen.”

“She's not called Meissen,” he said. “The figure was Meissen. And if I'm tragic, then what does that make you? The girlfriend of a tragedy?”

“That's really childish!”

Neither said anything. Both were surprised by the sudden exchange of insults. And both regretted it. Suddenly, Pat reached out and put her hand on Matthew's arm. “I'm sorry,” she said. “We're being really silly about this. It's my fault.”

Matthew turned and gave her hand an affectionate squeeze. “No, it's mine. And I'm sorry too.”

Pat smiled. “I'll never say anything like that to you again. I promise.”

“Me too,” Matthew responded. “And I'd like to give you something to…to make up for my insensitivity.”

He rose to his feet and looked about the gallery. On the wall opposite him was a painting that Pat had admired. He walked across the room and took it off the wall. He gave it to her.

She said, “This is far too expensive. You can't give this to me.”

He shook his head. “Yes I can. I want you to have it.”

She took the painting from him. It was heavier than she had imagined it would be–heavy in its expansive gilt frame. Guilt frame, she thought, his–or mine?