She looked out of the window. She was sitting at her desk in the gallery, waiting for Matthew to return from his prolonged coffee-break at Big Lou’s, paging through the catalogue of an impending sale. Women, she thought, were generally the victims of masculine bad behaviour largely because men, for all that they affected to have absorbed the lessons of equality, had steadfastly refused to change their ways. Men wanted to be in control; to take the initiative; to determine the pace and circumstances of a relationship. Many women, of course, were perfectly content that this should be so, and quietly allowed men to assert themselves, or at least enjoy the appearance of being the dominant sex. But others were determined that men should not get away with this and battled to assert themselves. The word for this, Pat knew, was empowerment. Every time a man was cut down to size, a woman was empowered.
In a sudden moment of stark self-appraisal, there in the gallery, Pat reflected on her position. What was she? A middle-class Edinburgh girl, attractive enough, intelligent enough, but amounting to…to nothing. I make nothing happen. I do nothing unusual. I have never challenged anything. I am an observer. I lack…What do I lack? And the answer seemed to her to be so immediately obvious. Power.
She was disempowered–completely disempowered.
She let the catalogue slip out of her hands and down onto the floor. It seemed to her that if she was going to change, to make something of her life, she should start getting what she wanted in life. She had never done this before. She had let other people decide for her; she had deferred to those who already had what they wanted and tried to get still more. Why should she be worried about what Tessie thought of her? If she wanted Wolf, then she should go out and get him. And if Tessie resented that, then let her do so. She would not be bullied by a girl like that, with her split ends and her broken nose. For all she knew, Tessie, who was definitely empowered, had herself taken Wolf from another girl. Well, whether or not that had happened, now she would find out what it was to come up against a newly-empowered woman.
Of course, there would have to be some reparative work. She had told Wolf in the lecture that she was not interested, and then, when he followed her to the Elephant House, she had thrown him to the mercy of her new friend, Sister Connie. It had been an eye-opener to see how the otherwise gentle nun had succeeded in dealing with Wolf. She had stridden across to his table, sat down opposite him, and spoken to him in an urgent and confidential way. Pat had noticed Wolf’s reaction to this. He had listened intently and then, visibly backing off, he had risen to his feet and left the coffee house, barely looking back as he did so.
She had not managed to find out from Sister Connie what she had said to him. When the nun had returned to the table she had asked, but Sister Connie had merely smiled and raised a finger to her lips in a gesture of silence.
“Don’t you worry,” she said. “I warned him off. He won’t be troubling you again.”
She had not thought much more about it, but now that she might see Wolf again, she might have to undo Sister Connie’s work, whatever that had been. She took out the small red diary that she always carried with her. Wolf had given her his mobile phone number, and she had written it down in the notebook. She found the number and picked up the telephone.
Wolf answered almost immediately, with the lupine howl that he gave to identify himself. It was very witty, very clever.
“It’s Pat,” she said.
There was complete silence at the other end of the line, or almost complete, for Pat thought that she heard an intake of breath–not quite a gasp, but certainly an intake of breath.
Then Wolf spoke. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t talk now. Goodbye.”
“But Wolf…”
“I said that I can’t talk.”
There was a crackling sound, and Pat realised that somebody else had seized the phone.
“Is that you?” came Tessie’s unmistakable voice. “Is that you? You listen to me. I warned you. I warned you. You leave my Wolfie alone. Understand?”
43. Matthew Comforts Pat
Pat was still upset when Matthew returned from Big Lou’s. He noticed it immediately, and sat down beside her.
“There’s something wrong,” he said.
Pat shook her head; she could see that he was concerned, but she was not going to tell him.
“Yes, there is. There obviously is.” He reached out and took her hand. “Come on. You’re not very good at hiding things, you know. You’re upset.”
Pat felt the pressure of his hand upon hers. She had never had that degree of physical contact with Matthew, and it seemed strange to her. His hand felt warm and dry.
Matthew smiled. “That’s better. Come on. What is it?” He paused, fixing her with a searching look. She noticed the grey flecks in his eyes, which she had often thought about before–they were so unusual, so unlikely; she noticed the slight stain on the front of his sweater. He was not wearing his new distressed-oatmeal cashmere today, but had on the sweater that she had seen him wear at weekends, an old, navy-blue garment that had lost its shape.
“I suppose I’ve just had a bit of a shock,” she said. “I’ll get over it.”
Matthew raised an eyebrow. “It’s that boy, isn’t it?” he said gently. “That boy–the one with the name. Wolf. It’s him, isn’t it?”
Pat nodded miserably. “It’s about him, I suppose. Although actually it’s about his girlfriend.”
If Matthew felt relief, he did not show it. “So he’s let you down,” he said evenly. This was very good news. Wolf was a two-timer; of course he was! “You know, I was worried that something like this would happen. I never liked him.”
Pat looked up sharply. “You never met him,” she pointed out.
He waved a hand in the air. “You know what I mean. You can dislike people you’ve never met. I sensed that he wasn’t right for you. I sensed it.”
Pat felt herself becoming irritated. She still felt defensive of Wolf, who had done nothing wrong as far as she was concerned–other than wanting to have two girlfriends at the same time. What worried her was Tessie, and the difficulty she would now face on going back to the flat. The animus in Tessie’s voice, the sheer vitriol, was such that she simply could not see herself going back to Spottiswoode Street. She could not imagine how she could possibly face that unpleasant girl, and she could hardly live under the same roof and not see her. They each had their own room of course, but there was the bathroom and the kitchen, which were shared, and the front door and the stair too. She wondered what she should do if they both came back at the same time and had to climb the stair together. Would they do so in tight-lipped silence, or would one rush ahead to get away from the other? No, it was impossible. She would have to move out. She would have to find somewhere else to live.
She looked at Matthew. She should not be offended that he had taken against Wolf as he had. It was flattering, really, to have about her somebody like Matthew, who at least liked her enough to feel jealousy. And if his fondness for her was sometimes awkward, then perhaps indifference would have been more difficult.
She gave his hand a squeeze. “I’m sorry, Matthew,” she said. “I’m sorry. I know that you…that you worry about me.”
Matthew smiled reassuringly. “I suppose I do worry,” he said. “I don’t want you to get hurt. That’s all.”
Pat moved her hand away from his, but did so gently. She began to explain to him about Tessie and her hostility, and she told him about her snatching the telephone from Wolf.
“She’s frightening,” she said. “She really is. It seems that she’ll do anything to keep him.”
Matthew’s expression was grim. “You can’t go back there,” he said. “Or you can’t go back there by yourself. Why don’t I go back with you and help you get your things?”
Pat looked relieved. Tessie would hardly try anything if Matthew were present, and then she could…She stopped. It was all very well planning to collect her possessions and move out of Spottiswoode Street, but where
would she move to? She could not go back to Scotland Street, and she could think of no particular friends on whose floor she could ask to stay. She would have to go home, and that, in spite of the comfort and security which it represented, would be an unacceptable admission of failure. Her father would be nice about it, she thought, and her mother, if she was there, would hardly notice. But it would be so demeaning to have to go home after trying so hard to establish her independence.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I really don’t know. I haven’t got anywhere to go, you see. I can’t think…” She looked around her, mentally sizing up the gallery for living purposes. She could have a bed in the back room–it was easily big enough–and she could keep her clothes in the walk-in cupboard they used to store paintings. It would be possible, just possible, particularly if one ate at Big Lou’s and did not have to bother too much about cooking.
Matthew reached forward and took her hand again. “Now listen,” he said. “I have a suggestion to make, and I want you to take it very seriously. I’m not just saying this–I’m not. You come and stay in India Street. I’ve got plenty of room and you can have the spare room at the back. It’s nice there. It’s very quiet.”
Pat looked down at the floor. There was no doubt in her mind but that Matthew was trying to be helpful. There was no ulterior motive in this invitation–she was sure of that–but it would be a major step to share a flat with him. What if he wanted to be something more than her landlord, more than her flatmate? And he would want that–of course he would; she was sure of that.
But in spite of this conviction, this certainty, she thanked him for his offer–and accepted.
“Good girl,” said Matthew, and closed his eyes at the thought.
44. Angus Lordie Prepares to Entertain
Angus Lordie felt disgruntled. He had woken early that morning–rather earlier than he had wanted to–and had found it difficult to get back to sleep. Now it was six o’clock, and still dark. In the summer, when the mornings were so bright and optimistic, he would sometimes make his way into his studio and paint for several hours. He loved those summer mornings, when the city was quiet and the air so fresh. Life seemed somehow richer in possibilities at that hour; it was like being young again; yes, that was what it was like, he thought. When you are young, the world is in better definition, clearer; it is a feeling not dissimilar to that which one had after the first sip of champagne, before the dulling effect of excess. But now, in the autumn, with the drawing in of days, the morning hours lacked all that, and painting could only begin much later on, after breakfast.
What produced this sense of disgruntlement on that particular day was the fact that Angus was due to entertain that night. He enjoyed dinner parties–in fact, he relished them–but in general, he preferred to be a guest rather than a host. It was such a bother, he thought, to have to cook everything and then to serve it. He found it difficult to relax and enjoy the conversation if he had to keep an eye on the needs of his guests. And at the end of it all, of course, there was the mess which had to be cleared up. Angus kept his flat tidy–it was rather like the galley of a well-run ship, in fact; somewhat Spartan, with everything neatly stacked and stored.
Of course, this preference for being entertained rather than entertaining had not escaped the notice of others. If records were kept of these things, in the same way in which certain denizens of London society kept lists of the season’s parties–and that was never done in Edinburgh–then Angus Lordie’s debit columns would heavily outweigh anything in his credit columns. In fact, his credit columns would be completely blank, unless one counted buying lunch for one or two friends in the Scottish Arts Club as a credit. And the friends for whom he had bought lunch were themselves noted more for the eating of meals than for paying for them. And as for those who had invited him to their large parties in places such as East Lothian, they did so in the sure and certain knowledge that their hospitality would never be repaid. Not that they minded, of course; Angus was witty and entertaining company, and nobody expected a bachelor to be much good at reciprocation.
“He’s such a charming man,” remarked one hostess to a friend. “Men like that are such fun.”
“But he’s absolutely no good,” said the friend. “A convinced bachelor. No use at all.”
“Such a waste,” said the first woman.
“Criminal.”
They were both silent. Then: “Remember when”–and here she mentioned the name of a prominent lawyer who, some years back, had become a widower–“Remember when he came on the market and there was that mad dash, and she got there first?”
The other thought for a moment. She shook her head. There were other cases too, though none as egregiously tragic for a number of hopefuls as that one.
“Of course, Angus is very friendly with that woman who lives in Scotland Street. That frightful blue-stocking…”
“Domenica Macdonald.”
“Exactly. The one who went off somewhere on some madcap project.”
“But there’s nothing between them, surely?”
“No. They gossip together. That’s all.”
“So sad.”
“Criminal.”
But now Angus was cornered and found himself committed to the holding of a dinner party in Drummond Place. This situation had come about as a result of an undertaking he had rashly given to Domenica shortly before her departure for the Malacca Straits. She had asked him to give her an assurance that he would invite to his flat Antonia Collie, her friend who was occupying her flat in her absence.
“She knows very few people in Edinburgh, Angus,” Domenica had said. “And she is an old friend. I don’t expect you to fall over yourself, but do at least have her round for a meal. Promise me that, will you?”
Angus felt that he could hardly refuse. He gave his word that he would invite her within a week of her arrival, and on the sixth day he had pushed an envelope through Antonia’s letterbox and walked down the stairs quickly in case she should come out and invite him in. He did not want to see much of her. She’s insufferably pleased with herself, he thought. And she has that arrogance of those whose modest amount of talent has gone to their head.
He considered how he might dilute her company. If he invited four other guests, then he could place her at the far end of the table, opposite his own seat at the head, and then he would have two guests on either side of the table between himself and Antonia. In this way, he would not have to listen to her at all and she would, in turn, find it difficult to condescend to him.
But it was not just the seating plan that Angus had been contemplating–there was also the menu to consider. His own taste tended towards uncomplicated fare–to lamb chops with mashed potatoes, to smoked salmon on brown bread, to venison stew with red cabbage. But he was aware that such dishes would not do for a dinner party of sophisticates–and Antonia would certainly consider herself a sophisticate. She may have drawn the conclusion that he knew little about fiction–but he would not allow her to draw a similar conclusion about his culinary ability. With this in mind, he had gone to some trouble to plan a meal of considerable complexity. He had consulted the book which he had received for his birthday from a female cousin some years previously, Dear Francesca, a book of memoirs and recipes, and had made a note of the ingredients he would need: pasta, extra virgin olive oil, anchovy fillets, Parmigiano Reggiano. His mouth watered.
“Come, Cyril,” he announced. “Time to go shopping.”
Cyril looked at his master. For some reason, he experienced a sudden sense of foreboding. But, being a dog, he had no means of articulating this, no means of warning.
45. A Memory of Milanese Salami
With Cyril trotting beside him, Angus Lordie made his way along London Street and turned up Broughton Street to complete his journey to Valvona & Crolla. Although he rarely bought anything more adventurous than a packet of dried pasta, he liked the authentic Italian feeling which he derived from browsing its shelves. On this visit, of course, the
re were more ambitious ingredients to be bought: fresh Parmesan cheese, for example; tagliatelle which were rich in eggs; olive oil from tiny, named estates in the Sienese hills; perhaps even a small jar of Moscatelli’s grated truffles, as a treat. He would choose these ingredients with care, so that when that opinionated Antonia Collie came to dinner he could subtly put her in her place (what would she know about truffles, or vintage olive oil?) He thought of her condescension, and bristled. Who did she imagine she was? Breezing into Scotland Street like that from Perthshire and implying–or even doing more than that–stating, in fact, that he did not understand the nature of fiction. Domenica, for all her faults–and he thought that one day he might present her with a list of them, just to be of some assistance–never condescended to anybody. Indeed, she went to the opposite extreme, and assumed that those to whom she was talking shared her understanding, which was generous of her, as they usually did not. That was such a courtesy, and it was so refreshing to see it in operation. Such people made one feel better by just being with them. One was admitted to the presence of a liberal intelligence and made to feel welcome; made to feel at home.
Outside the shop, Angus looked down at Cyril, who gazed back up at him in expectation. Cyril loved going to Valvona & Crolla, but Angus had been reluctant to take him inside ever since Cyril had lost control of himself and snatched a small but expensive Milanese salami from the counter and gobbled it up before Angus had a chance to snatch it from his jaws. Nobody in the shop had noticed a thing, and Angus had felt torn over what to do in such circumstances. There were many different responses to such a situation. On the one hand, there were those who felt no compunction over eating in supermarkets and then walking out, replete, and not paying for what they had consumed. Angus himself had once witnessed a woman feeding processed cheese to her child in the dairy-products section of his local supermarket. He had stopped and stared at her in astonishment and their eyes, for a few instants, had met. What he had seen was not shame, as he had expected, but something quite else: the look of challenge of those who believe that they are doing nothing wrong.
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