Love Over Scotland (28 page)

80. An Evening of Scottish Art

Neither Matthew nor Pat said anything about the unfortunate incident in the bathroom, although neither of them was quick to forget it. Both learned something from the experience. Matthew now knew to lock the door and to remember that he was no longer alone in the flat. This meant that he should be careful about breaking out into song–as he occasionally liked to do–or uttering the odd mild expletive if he stubbed his toe on the corner of the kitchen dresser or if he dropped part of an egg shell into the omelette mixture. For her part, Pat learned to assume that a closed door meant that the bathroom was not free, and she learned, too, that Matthew was a sensitive person, easily embarrassed and not always able to articulate the causes of his embarrassment. And for both of them, there was also the lesson that living together, even merely as flatmates, was a process of discovery. For although we are at our most secure–in one sense–in our own homes, we are also at our most vulnerable, for the social persona, the one we carry with us out into the world, cannot be worn at home all the time. That is where resides the real self, the self that can be so easily hurt.

There were things about Matthew that Pat had not suspected. She had not imagined that he was a member of the Scotch Malt Whisky Society and received its newsletters with all those curious descriptions of the flavour of whiskies. She had paged through one of these which she found lying on the kitchen table and had been astonished by the terms used by the tasting panel. One whisky was described as smelling of school jotters; another smelled like a doctor’s bag (or what doctor’s bags used to smell like). She had never seen Matthew drink whisky, but he later explained to her that he had been given the membership by his father, who was an enthusiast of whisky.

And then she had never seen Matthew reading
Scottish Field
before, but that is what he liked to do, sitting in a chair in the corner of the drawing room, paging through the glossy magazine. He liked the social pages, he said, with their pictures of people looking into the camera, smiling, happy to be included.

“I’ve never been in,” he said to Pat. “Or never been in properly. My left shoulder was, once, when there was a photograph of a charity ball down in Ayrshire. I was standing just to the side of a group who were being photographed and you could see my shoulder. It was definitely me. I have a green formal kilt jacket, you see, and that was shown. It was quite clear, actually.”

“That was bad luck,” said Pat.

“Yes,” said Matthew. “You have to be somebody like Timothy Clifford to get into
Scottish Field
. Either that, or you have to know the photographers who take these things. I don’t.”

Pat thought for a moment. “We could have an opening at the gallery. We could have a big event and ask all these people. Then, when they came, the photographers could hardly cut you out of your own party.”

Matthew thought for a moment. “Yes, that’s quite a good idea.” He paused. “I hope that you don’t think I sit here and worry about not being in
Scottish Field
. I have got better things to think about, you know.”

“Of course you have,” said Pat. “But should we do that? Should we have an opening?”

“Yes,” said Matthew. “We could call it An Evening of Scottish Art. Let’s start drawing up the guest list soon. Who should we have?”

“Well, we could invite Duncan Macmillan,” said Pat. “He’s written that book on Scottish art. He could come.”

“Good idea,” said Matthew. “He’s very interesting. And then there’s James Holloway from the Scottish National Portrait Gallery. He lives near here, you know. And Richard and Francesca Calvocoressi. And Roddy Martine. Are you writing this down, Pat?”

They spent the next half hour composing the guest list, which eventually included two hundred names. “They won’t all come,” said Matthew, surveying the glittering list. “In fact, I bet that hardly anyone comes.”

Pat looked at Matthew. There was a certain defeatism about him, which came out at odd moments. Defeatism can be a frustrating, unattractive quality, but in Matthew she found it to be rather different. The fact that Matthew thought that his ventures were destined to fail made her feel protective of him. He was such a nice person, she thought.

He is never unkind; he never makes sharp comments about others. And there he is trying to be a bit more fashionable in that awful distressed-oatmeal cashmere sweater, and all the time he just misses it. Nobody wears distressed oatmeal, these days; it’s so…it’s so yesterday. It’s so golf club.

Matthew needed taking in hand, Pat thought. He needed somebody to sit down with him who could tell him not to try so hard, who could tell him that all that was required was a little help with one or two matters and that for the rest he was perfectly all right. But who could do that? Could she?

Pat was thinking of that possibility when Matthew looked at his watch, rose to his feet, and remarked that they only had half an hour to get ready for dinner. Pat had forgotten, but now she remembered.

That night they were due to go out for dinner with Leonie, the architect, and her friend, Babs. She had been invited as well, on the insistence of Leonie, although Matthew seemed a little bit doubtful about this.

“She’s a rather unusual person,” he said hesitantly. “She has all these ideas about knocking down walls and open spaces. You know what architects are like. But I suspect that she’s a bit…well, I suspect that she’s a bit intense.”

He paused, and looked up at the ceiling. “You may find that she’s a bit intense towards you. I don’t know. Maybe not. But you may find that.”

“Intense, in what way?” asked Pat.

“Just intense,” said Matthew. “You know what I mean.”

Pat shook her head.

“Well, anyway,” said Matthew. “I’m going to go and have a shower.”

Pat blushed.

81. At the Sardi

The Caffe Sardi, an Italian restaurant on Forrest Road, was already quite busy when Pat and Matthew arrived for dinner. He had chosen the restaurant, which he particularly liked, and had left a message on Leonie’s answering machine telling her where they would meet.

“I hope that she picked it up,” he said. “Some people don’t listen to their answering machines, you know.”

“I do,” said Pat. “I listen to my voicemail every day. Once in the morning and then again at night.”

Matthew looked thoughtful. “And do you get many messages?” he asked.

“Quite a few,” said Pat. “Most of them aren’t very important, you know. ‘Meet me at six.’ That sort of thing.”

“Meet whom?” he asked.

Pat shrugged. “Oh, nobody in particular. That’s just a for instance.”

“But sometimes there will be a message saying ‘Meet me’ or something like that?” persisted Matthew.

Pat thought that there was no real point to Matthew’s questions. Sometimes he surprised her, with his opaque remarks, or with those Macgregor undershorts. That was odd. She wondered whether he was wearing them now; it was a disconcerting thought. “Yes,” said Pat. “Sometimes people ask me to meet them.”

Matthew looked down at the tablecloth. He was about to say “Who?” but at that moment they were joined by Leonie and her friend Babs.

“Have you guys been waiting long?” asked Leonie, as she took off her jacket and hung it over the back of a chair. “Babs and me walked.”

Matthew thought: why can’t people distinguish between nominative and accusative any more? He wanted to say to Leonie: “Would you say me walked?” But he realised that he could not. People did not like being corrected, even when they were obviously wrong.

He looked at Babs, who was now being introduced by Leonie. She was about the same age as Leonie, perhaps slightly older, but was more heavily-built. She had an open, rather flat face, but she was still attractive in an odd sort of way.

Babs shook hands with Matthew and Pat. “How are you doing?” she said, glancing first at Matthew and then at Pat. She was thinking of something, thought Matthew. She’s wondering whether Pat and I are together. That’s what people do when they meet others, he thought. There’s an instant judgment, an instant assessment. In this case, the question was: is he? Is she? Perhaps I should say to her right now: “I’m not and she isn’t either.” What would be the result of that?

The waitress gave them menus and they looked at them closely.

“Babs doesn’t like anything with garlic in it,” said Leonie.

“And Leo doesn’t like anything with capers,” said Babs, staring at the menu as if scrutinising it for offending items. “Nor mashed potato nor veal. In fact, little Miss Fussy is just a little on the picky side.”

“Picky yourself,” retorted Leonie. “Oh, I like the look of that! That’s what I’m going to have.”

Babs stared over Leonie’s shoulder. “Me too. Well spotted, Leo. And no garlic! No! No! No! Naughty garlic!”

“What about you, Pat?” asked Matthew. “Why don’t you have one of those nice pizzas?”

Leonie and Babs looked at Pat. Then Leonie turned to Matthew. “Let the poor girl choose,” she said in a mock-reproachful tone.

“But she likes pizza,” said Matthew. “She always has.”

“Okay,” said Babs. “But she can say that herself, can’t she?”

Leonie nodded her agreement. “Men sometimes think that women can’t make their own choices in life. I’ve noticed that quite a lot, actually. Particularly in this country.” Matthew felt his face becoming warm. “Why do you say that?” he asked. “And why this country?”

Leonie smiled. “It’s just what I’ve picked up,” she said. “I see a lot of men giving orders to women–telling them what to do.”

“And you didn’t see that in Australia?” asked Matthew. He was aware that Babs was watching him as he spoke. She seemed vaguely amused by his response, as if he was behaving exactly as she had imagined he would.

“Oh, bits of Australia are like that,” said Leonie. “There are places out in the boondocks where you get the real ockers, but things are very different in Melbourne and Sydney.”

“I see,” said Matthew.

“I haven’t found that many men have tried to tell me what to do,” said Pat suddenly. “And Matthew certainly doesn’t. Even though he’s my boss, he doesn’t do that.”

Babs turned her gaze from Matthew to Pat. “Well, that’s very good to hear,” she said.

“Yes,” said Pat. “And actually, if you come to think of it, there are plenty of women who tell men what to do. I think it’s men who have got the problem these days.”

“You can say that again,” said Leonie. “Or, rather, you can say the last bit again.”

Matthew now decided that it was time to move the conversation forward. He turned to Babs. “Are you an architect too?” he asked.

Babs shook her head. “I used to be a designer,” she said. “I was a designer when I lived in Milan. But I was one of those people whose hobby rather took over and became their job. So I changed.”

“Babs has always been good with cars,” said Leonie. “She has a real talent.”

Babs acknowledged the compliment with an inclination of the head. “Well, put it this way, I can talk to cars,” she said. “Cars and me–we’re on the same wavelength.”

Cars and I
, thought Matthew.

“So now I’ve opened a new business,” Babs went on. “I’ve started a small panel-beating shop–you know, car bodywork repair. I fix cars up.”

Leonie raised a finger in the air. “But it’s a very special business, this one,” she said. “It’s just for women who have dented their car. They can take it to Babs for confidential repair. Men needn’t even know about it.”

“Yes,” said Babs. “It’s called Ladies who Crash. And I can tell you something–I’m busy. Boy, am I kept busy!”

Matthew was very wary. “But this implies that women are worse drivers than men,” he said. “Whereas all the evidence goes the other way. Women are safer drivers than men. All the accident statistics show that.”

“But they can’t reverse,” said Babs. She spoke in a matter-of-fact way, as if enunciating an uncontroversial truth. But then she added: “Well, I suppose, neither can Jim.”

“Who’s Jim?” asked Matthew.

“My husband,” said Babs. “Bless him!”

82. Misunderstandings

Dinner that evening at the Caffe Sardi was not a protracted event. Matthew tried valiantly to keep the conversation going into a second cup of post-prandial coffee, but Leonie announced that she had an important site meeting the next day with a demanding client and she wanted an early night. And Jim, Babs announced, did not like her to be too late.

“He worries about me,” she explained, looking at her watch. “He worries when I go out.”

“I’m sorry,” said Matthew apologetically. “I would have asked him, too. It’s just that I thought…” He left the sentence unfinished. Both Leonie and Babs were staring at him, and Pat, embarrassed, was looking up at the ceiling.

“You thought what?” asked Babs.

Matthew swallowed. “I thought that you and Leonie were…were friends.”

“But we are,” said Babs. “We’ve been friends for ages, haven’t we Leo?”

“Yes,” said Leonie, still glaring at Matthew. “Did you think…”

“You didn’t!” said Babs, seemingly amused.

Matthew laughed nervously. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I suppose I did rather assume that. It’s just that when you came into the restaurant…” He glanced at Pat, but she was still looking up at the ceiling.

“Yes,” pressed Babs. “We came in. So what?”

“Perhaps he thought that you looked a bit…” offered Leonie.

Babs leaned forward and pointed a finger at Matthew’s chest. It was an aggressive gesture, but she was smiling as she spoke. “It’s because I fix cars. Is that it? Well, you work in a gallery, don’t you? That’s a job for a sensitive man. And you don’t get many sensitive men playing rugby, do you?” She laughed, and was quickly echoed by Leonie.

“No,” said Leonie. “Can you imagine it?”

Matthew bit his lip. “Plenty of sensitive men play rugby,” he said wildly. “Plenty.”

“Oh yes?” challenged Babs. “Name one.”

Matthew thought. He could not think of any sensitive men who played rugby–not a single one. “Oh well,” he said. “I don’t think we should speak about stereotypes. Men who work in the arts are just the same as anybody else. Some play rugby, some don’t.”

“None play rugby,” said Leonie. “I’m telling you.”

“Does it matter?” interrupted Pat. “Does anybody really care any more at all who plays rugby and who doesn’t?”

“Is rugby some sort of metaphor?” asked Babs.

Matthew shook his head. “It’s a game.”

“Which is not played frequently by sensitive men,” interjected Leonie.

There was a silence. Then: “Let’s not argue,” said Babs pleasantly. “It’s been such a nice evening and it would be a pity to ruin it with an argument, wouldn’t it? I suppose that I am a bit of a direct speaker. And I know that these days you can’t speak freely about anything. I’ll try to be a little bit more politically correct, I really will.”

“Good girl!” said Leonie, putting an arm around her friend’s shoulder.

They sat together for a few moments, with nobody saying anything. Then Matthew signalled to the waitress for the bill and the party began to break up.

“You don’t have to pay just because you’re a man,” said Babs. “Leo and I can pay our share.”

“Well….” Matthew began.

“But thanks anyway,” said Leonie hurriedly. “Thanks very much for the evening, Matthew.”

Afterwards, when Babs and Leonie had disappeared together in a taxi, Matthew and Pat walked over the road to the pub on the opposite side of the road. Sandy Bells Bar was known for its folk music, and as they made their way to the broad mahogany bar they saw a fiddler at the other end of the bar rise to his feet.

Matthew stopped where he stood. “Listen,” he said. “‘Lochaber No More’.”

The long, drawn-out passages of the heart-rending lament largely silenced the drinkers present. An elderly man, seated by the window, clutching a small glass of whisky in both hands, started to sway gently in time with the music. The fiddler, glancing up, saw him and smiled.

“I love that tune,” Matthew whispered to Pat. “It makes me so sad.”

Pat stole a glance at Matthew. It had been a confusing evening. She had not known how to take their fellow-guests over dinner; things were not as they seemed, she realised, but then, it still seemed a bit strange.

“Leonie and Babs,” she said quietly to Matthew. “Do you think that…”

“That they’re an item?” whispered Matthew. “No, I don’t. And anyway, it doesn’t matter.”

He looked at Pat, and suddenly, with complete clarity of understanding, he realised that he was in love with her and that he had to tell her that. He had not been in love with her half an hour ago. He had liked her then. He felt a bit jealous of her. But now he loved her. He simply loved her.

He moved very slightly towards Pat, who was standing a few inches away from him. Now they were touching one another, his right leg against hers. She did not move away. Emboldened, he reached out and took her hand in his, squeezing it gently. She returned the pressure. “Let’s sit down,” she said. “Over at the table. Over there. I want to talk to you, Matthew.”

Matthew followed Pat to the table. He felt that he had misjudged the situation, and now his fears were to be confirmed. She would tell him that she thought of him as a brother; he had heard that sort of thing before. Or, worse, she might say that she thought of him as an employer.

“Matthew,” she said. “We’re friends, aren’t we? No, don’t look so down-in-the-mouth. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” said Matthew, flatly. “We’re friends.”

“And friends can speak their minds to one another?”

Matthew sighed. “Yes, I suppose they can.”

Pat lowered her voice. “I feel very awkward about this,” she said. “But I think that I know you well enough to talk about it.”

Matthew said nothing. It was all so predictable.

Pat reached out and took his hand. “I’m rather keen on Babs,” she said.

Matthew remained quite immobile. He opened his mouth, and then closed it. His mouth felt dry.

“Only joking,” said Pat. “But the point is this, Matthew. I know that you want to find somebody. I know that you want to find a girlfriend. But you don’t seem to be able to do it, do you?”

Matthew looked down at his feet. He said nothing.

“Well, why don’t you let me help you?” said Pat quietly. “Let me help you find somebody.”