“Of course,” said Matthew, quietly. “Why should I not be all right about this?”
Gordon tried to hold his son’s gaze, but Matthew looked away, down to the floor.
“You’re all tensed up,” said Gordon. “Look at yourself. All tensed up. She’s not going to bite you, you know.”
“I never said…”
Gordon raised a hand. “Here she is.”
46. The Language of Flowers
Matthew felt the satisfaction that comes with knowing that one has been right about somebody, at least in anticipating appearance. He had imagined Janis to be blonde, and she was certainly that. He had thought of her as petite, and again he was right. It was true that he had not envisaged her mock endangered-species shoes, but that was simply because when picturing her he had not got as far as the feet. Had he done so, then he would perhaps have thought of faux snakeskin, or so he told himself as he watched her arranging herself demurely on the chair opposite him. He tried not to make his stare too obvious–he was, after all, striving for an effect of coolness and distance–but he took in the details nonetheless.
Gordon glanced at his son, but only briefly. He was smiling at Janis in a way which Matthew thought revealed just how smitten he was. This was not his guarded, cautious father; this was a man in thrall to another.
Janis commented on the view of the Castle. “That castle has so many moods,” she said. “But it’s always there, isn’t it?”
Matthew looked at her, resisting the sudden temptation to laugh. What an absurd thing to say. Of course the Castle was always there. What did she expect?
“Yes,” he said. “It would be odd to wake up one morning and discover that the Castle wasn’t there any more. I wonder how long it would take before people noticed.”
Gordon turned slightly and looked at his son, as if he had heard something slightly disagreeable. Then he turned back to face Janis. “Yes, it’s a marvellous view, isn’t it? Edinburgh at its best.”
No, thought Matthew. Edinburgh is far more than that. The Castle was the cliché; nothing more.
“I don’t really like the Castle,” he said airily. “I wouldn’t mind if they replaced it.”
Gordon made a sound which might have been a laugh. “Replaced it with what?”
“Oh, one of these large stores,” said Matthew. “The sort that you get in Princes Street. A chain store of some sort. People could park on the Esplanade and then go shopping inside.”
Janis was watching Matthew as he spoke. “I’m not sure…”
“You’d approve of that, Dad,” Matthew interrupted. “You could invest in it.”
Gordon drummed his fingers on the low table in front of him. “Matthew runs a gallery,” he said to Janis. “You should drop in and see it sometime.”
Janis looked at Matthew and smiled, as if waiting for the invitation.
“Of course,” said Matthew. “Sometime.”
“Thank you,” said Janis. “I like art.”
“Oh?” said Matthew. “Any particular painters? Jack Vettriano?”
Gordon turned to his son. “Why do you say that?” he asked. “Why do you mention Vettriano?”
Matthew eye’s did not meet his father’s gaze. He continued to look at Janis. “Vettriano’s very popular. Lots of people like his work.”
“But you don’t?” asked his father. “I take it you don’t?”
Matthew looked up at the ceiling, but said nothing.
Gordon addressed Janis. “You see, there’s an awful lot of snobbery in the art world. Look at the people who win that prize, what’s it called–the Turner. Pretentious rubbish. Empty rooms. Piles of rocks. That sort of thing. And then along comes a man who can actually paint and, oh dear me, they don’t like that. That’s what’s happened to Vettriano. I certainly like him.”
Janis nodded politely. “I’m sure he’s very good,” she said.
“Anyway,” said Gordon, “it’s time for dinner.” He shot a glance at Matthew, who had risen to his feet with alacrity.
They made their way into the dining room and took their seats under a picture of a highly-plumaged Victorian worthy.
“Such beautiful portraits,” said Janis brightly, as she unfolded her table napkin.
“In their own grim way, perhaps,” said Matthew. “They don’t look terribly light-hearted, do they?”
“Maybe they weren’t,” said Gordon. “The Victorians were serious people.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Matthew. “But I wouldn’t care to sit underneath one of these scowling old horrors for too long.”
Gordon ignored this remark. “Busy today?” he asked Janis.
“Yes,” she said. “We ran out of roses by midday. A good sign.”
“Oh?” said Matthew. “Of what?”
Janis took a sip of water. “Oh, that romance is in the air.”
Matthew saw his father react to this. He saw him look down and finger the edge of his plate, as if slightly embarrassed, but pleased, by what Janis had said. And she had looked at him as she spoke, Matthew noted. How corny! How…well, there was a certain distastefulness to the whole performance–late-flowering love, so inappropriate for these two middle-aged people, although she was far younger than he was, hardly middle-aged. What was she? Late thirties? Who did she think she was? A coquettish twenty-year-old on a first date? And did his father not see how ridiculous it was for a man of his age to be interested in…the carnal? It wasn’t even sex. It was carnality.
“Of course there’s the whole language of flowers, isn’t there?” asked Gordon. “Each flower has a meaning, you know, Matthew. Janis knows them all.”
Excuse me, Matthew said to himself. I feel nauseated. The language of flowers! Is this really my father speaking? The pillar of the Watsonian Rugby Club? The Rotarian? He listened as Janis began to say something about the symbolism of variegated tulips. He had the opportunity to study her more closely while she talked, and he began to stare at her eyes and then at her chin and neck. For a few moments he was unsure, and then he became convinced that it was true. Janis had undergone plastic surgery.
Matthew looked at the skin about the edge of the eyes. It was tighter than it should be, he thought, and the smooth, rather stretched appearance of the skin carried on down to the side of the nose itself. It was as if it had been pulled back somewhere, tightened, and then polished in some way. He saw, too, the make-up that she had applied there; heavier on one side than on the other, but insufficient to fool the close observer, which he now was. She suddenly stopped talking about lilies. She had noticed his stare. Well, what can she expect? thought Matthew. If one gives in to vanity, then one can only expect others to notice. Mutton dressed up as lamb.
Janis looked at him. “Did your father tell you I had an accident?” she asked.
47. Information
Some evenings are just not a success, and Matthew’s dinner with his father and his father’s new friend, Janis, undoubtedly fell into that category. The conversation limped on until the arrival of the cheese, when it faltered altogether and the three of them sat energetically eating their Stilton, not wishing to put off any longer the moment when they could leave the table and go through to the morning room for coffee. The drinking of coffee, as it happened, did not take long.
“I have an early start tomorrow,” Gordon said, looking at his watch. “It’s been most enjoyable.”
“Yes,” said Janis. “I enjoyed that.”
They looked at Matthew, who nodded. “Me too,” he said. “Very enjoyable.”
There was silence for a moment. Then Matthew rose to his feet. “I’m going to get my coat,” he said. “I’ll see you in the lobby.”
He made his way to the cloakroom, noticing as he left the morning room that his father and Janis had immediately huddled in conversation; discussing me, he thought. Well, it had been a disaster, the whole thing, but what could his father expect? Did he expect him to welcome this woman, with her transparent motives? Is that what he expected? He went into the clo
akroom and took his coat off the hook. A sleeve had become turned in upon itself and he busied himself for a few moments disentangling it. As he did so, he heard a voice from the basin area round the corner.
“Dramatic results, you know. Quite dramatic.”
A tap was turned on and something was said that he did not quite catch. Then the first voice spoke again.
“They’re desperately short of cash, so they’re having to go back to the market for a couple of million. But they’ll have to do this before the results of this research are confirmed. So they’ll still seem pretty shaky when they go for the cash.”
The other man spoke. “AIM? They’re still on the AIM market, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“So the new shares will be pretty low until…”
“Until the research results get the stamp of approval and then…well, it’s a major breakthrough. The shares will go through the roof. Of course, we’re advising them on the whole business and so keep this under your hat, of course. I only mentioned it because you know Tommy, of course, and you’ll be pleased for him.”
“Of course. He’s still chairman?”
“Yes. But they’re moving from that place of theirs out of town. They’ve taken one of those new buildings down near the West Approach Road.”
“Oh.” A tap was turned off. “You know, I must have a word with Charles about this soap…”
Matthew took his coat and left the cloakroom, silently. His father was waiting for him in the middle of the lobby, Janis at his side. She looked at him encouragingly and he tried to return her smile. But it was difficult.
As they walked down the stairs together, Matthew turned to his father and stopped him. “I’ve just heard a very interesting conversation.”
Gordon smiled. “In the gents? Suitable for mixed company?”
“Yes,” said Matthew. “A commercial conversation.”
As Matthew had suspected, this attracted his father’s attention. “Oh? What was it?”
Matthew described what he had heard. For the first time that evening, he thought, my father is really listening to me.
“Very interesting indeed!” said Gordon after Matthew had finished. “I can very easily find out who they’re talking about. It’s very simple to find out which Scottish companies have their shares traded on the AIM market. Very simple. In fact…you said the chairman was referred to as Tommy?”
“Yes.”
“I think I know exactly who they are then.” Gordon smiled at Matthew and patted him on the shoulder playfully. “I’ll get in touch with you about this, Matt.”
Matthew winced. He did not like being called Matt, and his father was the only one who did it. “Why?” asked Matthew.
Gordon smiled at him. “Information can be put to good use, Matt. The market’s all about information, and that sounds like a very useful bit of information. If it’s the company that I’m thinking about, then they’re a biotech company. The results must be a clinical trial or something of that sort. That can mean a great deal if it enables them to sell something on to one of the big pharmaceutical companies, for instance. Major profits all round.”
“But why couldn’t they–the people who were talking–buy the shares and make the profits themselves?”
Gordon shook a finger in admonition. “Tut, tut!” he said. “Insider dealing. Those chaps were obviously lawyers. They can’t use their private knowledge to make a quick buck on the market. Very bad! The powers that be take a dim view of that sort of thing.”
“But can we…?”
Gordon made a dismissive gesture, and indicated that they should continue to make their way downstairs. “Oh, we’re all right. We just happen to have heard a little snippet, that’s all. We can buy their shares. Nobody would associate us with insider information. Why should they? We’re perfectly safe.”
Matthew was not sure about this. “But wouldn’t we also be taking unfair advantage of the people we buy the shares from? After all, we know something they don’t.”
Gordon looked at his son, who saw in his father’s gaze something akin to pity, and resented it. “Life is hardly fair, Matt,” he said. “If I had scruples about this sort of thing, do you think for a moment that I would have got anywhere in business? Do you really think that?”
Matthew did not reply. They had almost reached the front door now, and he could hear the low hum of the traffic outside. He glanced sideways at Janis, and for a moment their eyes met. Then she looked away. Matthew reached out and took his father’s hand, and shook it.
“Thanks for dinner.”
Gordon nodded. “Thank you for coming. And I’ll let you know about those shares. I may have a little flutter on them. Can’t do any harm.”
Matthew opened the door and they stepped outside onto Princes Street, disturbing a thin-faced man who was standing near the doorway. He looked at them in surprise, as he had evidently not expected anybody to emerge from the unmarked door. The man looked tired; as if worn out by life. He had a cold sore, or something that looked like a cold sore, above his lip.
Matthew felt ashamed. How did he look in the eyes of this man? And what would this man have thought had he known the nature of their conversation of a few moments ago? Matthew wanted to say: “Not me, not me.”
48. Private Papers
Pat hesitated at the door of Peter’s flat in Cumberland Street. It would be easy to turn back now, to return to Scotland Street and to call him from there. Something could have arisen to prevent her from seeing him as planned–there were so many excuses to stand somebody up: a friend in need, a headache, a deadline to meet. If she did that, of course, then she would not see him again, and she was not sure whether that was what she wanted. She was undecided. Men complicated one’s life; that was obvious. They made demands. They changed everything. In short, the question was whether they were worth it. And what was it anyway? The pleasure of their company?–women were far more companionable than men. The excitement of male presence?–how long did that last, and did she want that anyway? She thought not, and was about to turn away when she remembered his face, and the way he had stooped to talk to her at that first meeting, and how physically perfect he had seemed to her then and was still, in the imagining of him.
She tugged at the old-fashioned brass bell-pull. There was a lot of give in the wire, but eventually there was a tinkling sound inside. Then there was silence. She tugged at the bell again and as she did so the door opened and Peter stood there. For a moment he looked puzzled, and then he raised a hand to his brow in a gesture of self-mockery over some stupidity.
“I forgot,” he said. “I totally forgot.”
Pat had not expected this. He had issued the invitation, after all; she was not self-invited. “I’m sorry,” she said lamely. “I’m sorry. We’d arranged…”
Peter shook his head. “Of course, of course. We’d arranged it. I’m so damn stupid. Come in.”
“If it’s inconvenient…”
He reached out and gripped her forearm, pulling her in. “Don’t be silly. I was doing nothing anyway. Just come in.”
She entered a hall, a large square room of similar proportions to the hall of the flat in Scotland Street. This was in markedly worse order, though, with scuffed paintwork on the doors and skirting boards. The floor, which was sanded, was made of broad Canadian pine boards, covered in part by frayed oriental rugs; the planks were uneven, and caused the rugs to rise in small ridges, like tiny mountain ranges.
“This flat belongs to somebody who works in Hong Kong,” said Peter, waving a hand behind him. “An accountant, or something like that. He’s mean. He never fixes anything, but the rent isn’t too bad and it suits us. I’ve been here over a year.”
“How many do you share with?” asked Pat.
“There are three of us,” said Peter, pointing to a half-open door off the hall. “That’s the biggest room. Joe and Fergus live in that. And that’s my room over here. We’ve got a sort of sitting room, but it’s a tip and we
hardly ever use it.”
Pat looked at the half-open door. Joe and Fergus. Then she remembered. When she had seen Peter at the Film Theatre he had been with another young man, a boy who had stared at her while Peter had whispered something to him. I’m naive, she said to herself. I’ve missed the obvious.
Peter gestured towards the door of his room. “Are you easily shocked?” he asked, smiling as he spoke.
Pat thought quickly. She was not sure what to expect, but who could admit to being shocked these days? “Of course not,” she said.
“Good,” said Peter. “Because it’s a bit of a mess. If I’d remembered, I would have tidied it up before you came.”
Pat laughed. “I’m a bit untidy myself.”
“Well,” said Peter. “That may be, but…”
They went into the room, which was dimly lit by a single reading lamp on the desk near the window. The curtains, made of a heavy red brocaded material, were drawn closed, but did not quite meet in the middle. A thin line of orange light from the streetlights outside shone through the crack.
Pat glanced about her. There was a bed in the corner, covered with a white counterpane, made, at least, unlike Bruce’s bed, which was usually in a state of dishevelment. Then there were two easy chairs with brown corduroy slipcovers; the seat of one of these was covered with a pile of abandoned clothing–a shirt, a couple of pairs of socks, some unidentified underclothes and a pair of jeans. Peter reached down, bundled the clothing up and stuffed it in a drawer.
“This isn’t a mess,” said Pat. “Bruce–my flatmate–has a far messier room.”
Peter shrugged. “Every so often I have a blitz on it. But the vacuum cleaner’s bust and it’s difficult.”
“You could borrow ours,” said Pat. She spoke quickly, and immediately wondered whether this was the right thing to say. It was as if she was offering to clean up for him, which was not what she intended.
“We’re all right,” said Peter, pointing to one of the chairs and inviting her to sit down. “We get by.”
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