The World According to Bertie (14 page)

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 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 bar 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–prehistoric, 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.

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 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.

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

Bruce nodded. “There are start-up costs,” he said. “There always are.”

Julia waved a hand dismissively. “How much?”

It was a fine calculation for Bruce. It was always difficult to decide just how much to ask for. The trick, he had read, was to try to put oneself in the shoes of the person with the funds and work out how much they would think reasonable. In this case, the start-up costs would be quite small–a few advertisements, a brochure, perhaps a press launch. But then there would be a salary for him, for, say, six months.

“Thirty thousand,” he said. “Give or take a couple of thousand.”

He watched her face. “Thirty thousand?” She hesitated. “All right. We're in business.”

She looked down at her plate. I'm buying him for thirty thousand, she thought. But if that's what it costs to get a husband, then that's what it costs. And her father, she knew, would not quibble over a small sum like that. He had been hoping that she would settle down with a suitable man, and he would certainly approve of Bruce. Dear Daddy! He had said to her once, when she was twenty or so: “When you eventually decide to settle down with somebody, darling, don't for God's sake go for some dreadful spiv or intellectual. Go for good stock. You know what I mean by that? Do you? Do I have to spell it out to you?”

He would like Bruce, she knew it. And that would complete her happiness. A husband, a contented father, and before too long a couple of children. For that's what her father had meant, and she had known it. Good breeding stock. And Bruce was definitely that. Just look at him.

She looked at Bruce and smiled. And as she did so, she thought: maybe I should just forget to be careful. It's so easily done, particularly if you want to forget.