The Revolving Door of Life

by Alexander McCall Smith

  Matthew returned to the rules. “Now, if you’re going to dinner in later life—and for these purposes later life starts at thirty-five, and your host is younger—say…”

  “Twenty-six?”

  “Yes, twenty-six—then you must take a bottle of wine. It’s obligatory. And it must be of a quality that your host could not normally afford. And if you’re going to dinner with some other person in later life…”

  “Thirty-five and above?”

  “Yes, then you can discuss in advance whether you bring anything. So you say: ‘Shall I bring a bottle of something nice?’ And they say, ‘Oh, that would be great. Don’t go to any trouble, though,’ which means that they hope you will go to considerable trouble. Now the difference here is that anything you bring in such circumstances will be drunk at that dinner. It would then be rude for the host to accept the gift and not serve it, unless…unless you say right at the beginning, as you present the bottle, ‘I’ve brought something for the cellar.’ In that case the wine can be put in the host’s wine rack—the cellar being metaphorical, you see.”

  Elspeth considered this. “But what about chocolates? What if somebody brings you chocolates and you don’t like them? Can you give them away? Can you take them to the next dinner party you’re invited to?”

  “Definitely,” said Matthew. “The rules are quite clear about that. Chocolates can be passed on—provided, of course, the box hasn’t been opened.”

  Elspeth laughed. “But naturally!”

  “You may laugh,” said Matthew. “But there is a recorded case of somebody passing on a box of chocolates from which she had eaten all the soft-centre ones.”

  “How odd.”

  “More than that,” went on Matthew, “there were one or two that she’d tried, discovered they were hard, and then replaced in the box.”

  “Unbelievable,” said Elspeth.

  “And here’s another thing,” said Matthew. “There’s a box of regifted After Eights doing the rounds in Edinburgh circles that has been passed on from guest to host for—believe it or not—eighteen years! There are people who actually recognize it. And if you look on the bottom it says: À consommer avant 1998, which means that it actually came from France in the first place. It must have done the rounds of Parisian dinner parties before being brought to Edinburgh.”

  “The Auld Alliance,” mused Elspeth.

  “The Auld Box of Chocolates,” said Matthew.

  “I rather like Après Huits,” said Elspeth.

  55. Celebs, Popes, Tattoos

  Bruce arrived next, and the moment she opened the door of her Marchmont flat to him Pat saw that he had made an effort. He was wearing exactly what he had promised to wear, but he looked very well-groomed.

  He took her hand and pressed it to his cheek. “Feel this,” he said. “A Turkish hot shave. There’s this barber guy near Tollcross who pushes you back in the chair and applies his cut-throat. You feel really vulnerable, of course—one slip and you’re a goner—but this guy’s amazing. Like the feel?”

  Pat blushed. At one level she was appalled, but at another she felt the sheer physical power of Bruce’s presence. What exactly was it about him? Was it that he had the disarming naivety of the little boy? Was that what made him irresistible to women?

  Bruce dropped her hand and leaned forward to kiss her. He rubbed his cheek against hers. “Nice, isn’t it?”

  Her blush deepened—a combination of anger, disgust, and discomfort over uninvited physical proximity.

  “Anyway,” said Bruce, straightening up. “Who’s here? Has your old man and What’s-her-face arrived?”

  “Anichka. She’s called Anichka.” Pat nodded in the direction of the kitchen. “Just Matthew and Elspeth.”

  “Good,” said Bruce. “Time for a quick smooch…” He laughed. “Only joking, Pat. Sorry to disappoint. You know, this barber guy was telling me his story while he did the shave. He’s got five kids back in Turkey, on some island or other. He has a restaurant there, he says—or it belongs to his mother-in-law, something like that. He’s very proud of it. He showed me a photograph of it—a ghastly looking place under some trees with fairy lights rigged up all round it—to attract the tourists. It’s called the Restaurant Sport Terrific. Can you imagine that? How tacky.”

  “It must mean a lot to him,” said Pat.

  “Oh yeah, oh yeah…Great place. Two Michelin stars, probably.”

  They moved into the hall. Bruce looked around him. “Who else lives here?” he asked.

  “I’ve got two flatmates.”

  “Boys or girls?” asked Bruce.

  “Girls.”

  “Nice!” said Bruce. “I love Edinburgh flats full of middle-class girls like you, Pat. Well-brought-up girls, maybe even Watsonians—at a pinch. No offence. Where are they? Are they here tonight?”

  “They’re both out. They’ve gone to a movie together.”

  Bruce winked. “Oh yes? Are they…are they an item?”

  Pat struggled to control herself. Bruce, after all, was doing her a favour and she should be civil. “No,” she said. “They both have boyfriends.”

  “Pity,” said Bruce. “Where are the boyfriends? Have they gone to a movie together as well?”

  Pat ignored this. “If you go and sit in the living room,” she said. “I’ll bring Matthew and Elspeth through.”

  She led Bruce into the living room, which had been tidied for the occasion. The room served as a dining room too, with a fair-sized table in the bay window at the far end. This had been set for dinner, with near-matching crockery and an assortment of glasses from the eccentrically stocked kitchen.

  Bruce moved over to look out of the window. “Good view,” he said, and then added, “of nothing.”

  Pat left him there and made her way back into the kitchen. “He’s arrived,” she whispered to Matthew and Elspeth.

  Matthew made a face. “I suppose we’d better go and talk to him.”

  Elspeth said, “You used to like him, didn’t you?”

  “We occasionally meet in the Cumberland Bar,” said Matthew. “But I don’t really like him.”

  “Does anybody?” asked Pat.

  Matthew turned to her. “You did. You used to go out with him, didn’t you?”

  Pat looked resentful. “And I used to go out with you,” she said.

  “Oh really?” said Elspeth.

  Matthew frowned. “You knew that,” he said to Elspeth.

  “We didn’t go out for all that long,” said Pat. “And it was a long time ago.”

  “Yes, ages,” said Matthew hurriedly. “Let’s go and see Bruce.”

  They made their way into the living room, where Bruce, standing near the window, was paging through a magazine.

  “Look at this,” he said. “Have you seen this mag?”

  “It belongs to one of my flatmates,” said Pat. “She gets it, I don’t.”

  “But I bet you read it,” said Bruce, “Cover to cover. All the celeb news that’s unfit to print. There’s this article here about who’s got a tattoo and who hasn’t. And where. You wouldn’t believe it.”

  “So,” said Matthew. “Who’s got a tattoo then?”

  “The Pope,” said Bruce. “For one.”

  “I don’t believe that,” said Elspeth. “The Pope would never get a tattoo. He just wouldn’t.”

  “They must have interviewed him,” he said. “Maybe they said: Hey, Frank—you got a tattoo?”

  The doorbell rang, and Bruce replaced the magazine on a side table. “That’s them?” he asked.

  “Probably,” said Pat. “I’ll go and let them in.”

  Matthew looked sideways at Bruce. “Nervous?” he asked.

  Bruce shook his head. “Why should I be nervous, Matt, old chap? This is all in a day’s work.”

  Matthew smiled. “I hope it doesn’t misfire. What if she takes against you at first sight?”

  Bruce grinned. “Never happened before,” he said.

  There was the sound of voice
s in the hall. Then the door, which Pat had closed behind her, was opened. She came in first, followed by Anichka and Dr. MacGregor.

  “You know everyone here, don’t you, Daddy? But Anichka, you’ve not met Elspeth and Matthew…and Bruce.”

  Anichka’s eyes moved from Matthew to Elspeth and then to Bruce, where her gaze stopped—and was held. “I’ve always liked meeting new people,” she said. “It keeps life interesting.”

  Pat exchanged a glance with Matthew. “Matthew—come and help me get drinks for everybody.”

  Matthew stepped forward, but stopped. Dr. MacGregor held up a hand. “Let me help you, Pat. I know your kitchen.”

  Once in the kitchen, Dr. MacGregor closed the door and looked at his daughter with concern. “Darling, why have you invited that boy?”

  “Bruce?”

  “Yes, him. You aren’t together with him again, are you? I couldn’t bear the thought if you were.”

  Pat shook her head. “No, Daddy, I promise you—I’m not. I’m really not.”

  “Well, that’s a great relief. You remember what I told you about him way back. Remember?”

  “That he’s a narcissist. You said he was a narcissist.”

  “Yes, I did. And I told you, didn’t I, that people like him are a terrible danger to others. They may not know it, but they are.”

  Pat looked away. Of course Bruce was a danger to others, and here he was, aimed at the woman whom Dr. MacGregor loved, but who was clearly planning to deprive him of everything.

  “Daddy, I promise you: I’m not involved in any way with Bruce. I’ve invited him here because he’s lonely—that’s all. I bumped into him and invited him on impulse.”

  Liar, she thought; but it was too late, far too late, for self-reproach.

  56. I’m Going to Try Now

  Dr. MacGregor lined up the glasses on the kitchen table while Pat retrieved a couple of bottles of wine from the fridge.

  “Now,” he asked, “how many are we?”

  “Matthew and Elspeth, Bruce, Me,” she said. “That’s four. And then there’s you and…Anichka.” She stumbled on the name, not for its unfamiliarity to the Scottish tongue but because of a psychological barrier: the names of those we dread may not always be easy to say.

  She realised immediately that her father had noticed. He looked up sharply, and their eyes met: his probing, hers guilty. He was holding a glass, and he dropped it.

  “Oh, no…” He went down on his haunches to pick up the pieces.

  “Careful,” she said. “You’ll cut yourself. I’ll get a pan…”

  But it was too late. He stood up, and sucked quickly at his right hand.

  “Oh, Daddy…”

  “It’s nothing.” He was, after all, a doctor, although it was decades since he had ministered to a physical injury. “It’ll be all right if I stick a plaster on. Have you got one?”

  “Of course.” She opened a drawer beside the fridge and took out a small box of sticking plasters. “One of these.”

  He came towards her, and held out his hand. “You know, I was always rather squeamish. I hated the sight of blood, would you believe it? But you never seemed to mind, did you? Even when you were very small you never seemed to bother.”

  Peeling off a protective strip, she applied the sticking plaster to the cut. “There, that should do it.” She paused. “Surely being squeamish must have made medical school a bit of an ordeal for you?”

  “I coped. I rather enjoyed dissection, as it happens, but actual cuts were different.” He looked at the plaster on his finger. “Thank you, darling. I’m sorry I dropped that glass, it’s just that…Well, I can tell that you’re finding this difficult. You are, aren’t you?”

  She protested her innocence. “Finding what difficult?”

  “Oh come on, darling. I can tell. You find it difficult to accept Anichka.”

  She bit her lip.

  “It’s probably better for you to express your feelings,” Dr. MacGregor continued. “Bottling up hostility rarely helps.”

  Pat looked away. “I’m not hostile.” The words—the direct opposite of her true feelings—were glibly uttered.

  “But you are, you know. I can tell.”

  She felt torn. She had never been able to hide her feelings from her father; it was hard as a child, and it was impossible as an adult.

  Her father took her hand. “You see, darling, once you begin to lie, it becomes terribly easy. Like running downhill.”

  She struggled to control herself. She could sense that tears were not far away. “I’m concerned about you, Daddy. I want you to be happy, and yet I think that woman…”

  “Anichka,” he corrected her. “Even our enemies have names, you know.”

  “I’m concerned that Anichka is with you…for what she can get. In fact, I’m sure of it. You only have to look at the way she behaves.”

  He sighed. “You really believe that, don’t you?”

  She nodded.

  “And there’s nothing I can say that will make you think differently?”

  “You’re not going to say it. You’re in love, and people in love can’t think straight.”

  He sighed. “Do you know anything about her? I don’t think you do.”

  She had been avoiding his gaze. Now she turned back to face him. “I know that she looks at everything—and I mean everything—from the point of view of what it costs. She’s adding it all up—can’t you see? She’s working out how much she can get away with once she…once she dumps you—which she will, you know.”

  He looked wounded. “How can you say that?”

  “Because it’s glaringly obvious. Because I can see it a mile off, even if you can’t.”

  He reached out for her hand. She pulled it away.

  “She’s Czech,” he said.

  “Is that some sort of excuse?”

  He sighed again. “If you knew anything about it, you might just begin to understand. Where we come from may play a big role in how we look at the world. I know that sounds obvious, but you don’t seem to be aware of it, darling, and you might like to give it a moment’s thought.”

  She shook her head; she wanted this conversation to stop.

  “No, Pat, you can’t just brush it under the carpet,” said Dr. MacGregor. “You’re going to have to listen.” He paused. “I’m not sure how much you know of the history of Eastern Europe—not much, I’m sorry to say. And I hasten to add that’s not your fault—you’ve been brought up in a country that hasn’t had anything really nasty happen to it for a good long time. Well, the twentieth century for people in Eastern Europe was a very different matter.”

  “I don’t want a history lesson, Daddy. And they’re waiting for drinks…”

  He stopped her. “No, listen to me for a moment. Anichka’s grandparents were both murdered. A pogrom—you know what those are, do you? And then her parents found themselves on the wrong side of the Communists and her father was sent to a labour camp. He died there of TB. Her mother drank herself to death. Anichka had nobody then—nobody, and nothing. Are you surprised that she experiences insecurity? Are you surprised that she takes an interest in what things are worth? Has it occurred to you that you might do the same if you had nothing yourself?”

  Pat closed her eyes.

  “So just think about it for a few moments,” Dr. MacGregor went on. “Before you dismiss somebody about whom you know virtually nothing—just think about it. She is kind to me and I have been able to give her some of the security she has never had. She looks after me in return. I think that’s a perfectly reasonable bargain, don’t you think?”

  Pat thought: I have been utterly unfair. I’ve taken it upon myself to interfere in something that really is none of my business.

  She opened her eyes and moved towards her father. She embraced him. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’ve been very thoughtless. I’m going to try now. I really am.”

  He seemed doubtful. “Are you?”

  “Yes, I am. I promise you—I
am.”

  57. The Switching On of Magnets

  There was still time, of course. Bruce was primed, but could be disarmed, or whatever it was that one did to a missile one no longer wished to launch. As she returned to the living room, Pat saw that Anichka was deep in conversation with Elspeth, while Bruce and Matthew were standing by the window, with Bruce holding forth volubly to his cornered friend. Matthew caught Pat’s eye with one of those looks that plead for social rescue. She would go to his aid, but for the moment she was relieved to see that the situation was clearly controllable. All she would have to do was discreetly to alter the seating plan and then have a quiet word with Bruce, telling him that the whole plan was off.

  She crossed the room to join Matthew and Bruce. Bruce was talking about Dublin.

  “Great place,” he said. “I went over when we last played Ireland. We lost, but it wasn’t our fault.”

  Pat smiled. “Whose was it, then?”

  Bruce looked at her with condescension. “Do you know anything about rugby, Pat?”

  “I’ve seen it played.”

  Bruce laughed. “Oh, in that case you’ll know what I mean when I say that the Irish distracted the ref. That’s what they always do—they distract the ref so that he doesn’t see what’s going on.”

  “But you do?”

  “Too true. If they hadn’t distracted the ref, we would have scored another couple of tries.”

  Pat raised an eyebrow. “Oh well.”

  “But Dublin is a great place to go for a weekend, no matter what happens,” Bruce continued. “We went to this pub called the Palace Bar. Near Trinity. Fantastic craic.”

  “Interesting word,” said Matthew.

  “Craic?” said Bruce. “Yes—if you need to ask what it means, it means you’re not having it.”

  Pat caught Matthew’s eye again. She lowered her voice. “The plan is off,” she said.

  “What?” asked Bruce.

  Pat leaned forward. “Don’t do it,” she whispered.

  Matthew frowned. “What’s changed?” he asked.

  Pat looked over her shoulder. “Everything,” she said. She looked intently at Bruce. “I just don’t want you to exercise your charm. It’s off.”