“It does,” agreed Magnus. “But it requires upkeep. And teak has very particular requirements. It goes a silvery colour if you leave it exposed to the elements. If you want it to remain brown, you have to put a special sort of sealant on it. That keeps it.”
“I see.”
He had more to say about teak. “The great enemy of teak is dirt, you know. If you let teak get dirty, it’s the Devil’s job to get it off. So you wash teak down with seawater: teak likes to be scrubbed with seawater.”
“I see.”
Domenica wondered whether she had anything to say about teak; it was not a subject that she had paid much attention to, and Magnus seemed to know so much about it.
Magnus was looking at her again. There was something in his gaze – a look of affectionate interest, perhaps – that she found difficult to pinpoint. It was not in the slightest bit threatening – quite the opposite, in fact.
“Would you like to learn how to crew?”
His question was unexpected, but she answered immediately. “I’d love to.”
“You sure?”
“Yes, I’d love to. I’m not sure if I’d be much good, but I could try.”
He laughed. “It’s not rocket science. Very few things are. In fact, I think that even rocket science isn’t rocket science.”
Domenica would have been amused at that had she not suddenly felt an almost overwhelming pang of guilt. I’ve just agreed to go sailing with him. I’m an engaged woman and I’ve agreed to go sailing with a former boyfriend. She closed her eyes. She had ruined everything. Rubicons had been crossed, boats burned, geese cooked – and metaphors mixed with all the enthusiasm with which Betty Crocker or Jamie Oliver might throw together the ingredients of a cake. Why am I behaving like this? she asked herself. This is absurd. But saying that made no difference; she was too far gone to be capable of controlling herself. And had there been a Greek chorus, its refrain would have been obvious: a few well-chosen lines on the foolishness of middle-aged women, whatever their pretensions to self-control, in the presence of one who beguiled them in the past and still does.
54. Domenica Comes Clean
“I’m sorry,” said Magnus Campbell. “I’m sorry, but I feel a bit … well, a bit uneasy about staying in Antonia’s flat while she’s not there.”
He made this remark when Domenica said that she would unlock Antonia’s door and get him settled next door.
“But she did invite you,” said Domenica. “It’s not as if you’re staying there uninvited.”
“Yes. But that was some time ago. She must have forgotten that I was coming.”
Domenica felt that this did not negate the invitation. Antonia had had a lot on her mind and bearing in mind that she had been suffering from Stendhal Syndrome she might be forgiven for forgetting social arrangements made back home in Scotland. Quite apart from that, Antonia had specifically asked her to take charge of her flat, and surely this would include permission to admit guests, forgotten or otherwise.
Magnus listened to these arguments, but made it clear that he still felt awkward. “I just feel that it would be an intrusion,” he said.
Domenica thought for a moment. There was her spare bedroom; she could invite him to occupy that. It was an attractive possibility, but she had already been rash in accepting his invitation to go sailing; now she was about to ask him to stay with her.
“You could stay here,” she said slowly. “I’ve got a spare room.”
It was very curious: the voice that spoke was not, she thought, her own. The words were uttered by her but they were not her words, or at least not the words of that rational and cautious self that should have been in control of what she said. Should have been in control …
Magnus hesitated, but only very briefly. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to impose …”
She shook her head. “It would not be an imposition.”
“Then let me take you out for dinner tonight,” he said. “I’ll feel better if you didn’t have to cook. We could go out to one of those fish places in Leith. I’ve read all about them.”
She looked away. There were lines going through her head – the lines of a simple childhood ditty with which she had been admonished as a girl. Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practise to deceive. For deceive, she thought, substitute fail to reveal. It was absolutely right, she decided, as so much of that folk wisdom was. She drew in her breath. “Look, Magnus, there’s something I haven’t told you. I should have mentioned it at the outset.”
He smiled. “You’re on a diet? Is that it? Well, we can go to Henderson’s Salad Table or somewhere like that.”
He was not going to make it any easier. “No,” she persisted. “It’s more serious than that.”
He looked suddenly concerned. “You’re not ill, are you, Domenica?”
“No, I’m engaged.”
The words hung in the air between them. He said nothing for a while, but then, somewhat tentatively: “Engaged?”
“Yes. Angus Lordie and I are engaged to marry. We became engaged in Italy. He’s an artist – principally a portrait painter. He has a studio in Drummond Place.” She added this last bit of information lamely, as if having a studio in Drummond Place might somehow soften the blow for a rival.
She could see that he was struggling with his emotions. “I see.”
“I hope that the news doesn’t disappoint you.”
He looked up. “Why should I be disappointed?”
She felt flustered. Had she presumed too much? Had the suggestion that she should go on his yacht been no more than a casual social invitation? Perhaps he needed a crew, and that was all.
He did not wait for an answer. “I assure you, Domenica, I’m delighted for you. This is very good news indeed.”
She looked at him, and she could tell that he did not mean what he said. He was upset; she was sure of it.
“When are you going to get married?”
She replied that they had not yet alighted on a date, but that it would be soon enough. It would not be a particularly large wedding: neither of them wanted much of a fuss. She hoped that he might come if he was within reach of Edinburgh at the time. Of course he would, he replied.
“Do you still want me to stay?”
She was not sure what to say. She wanted him to stay, but she wondered what Angus would think. Angus was not a jealous man by nature, but surely any man would resent the presence under his fiancée’s roof of a former boyfriend, particularly one who was not married.
“Perhaps we should think about …” She did not finish. There was knock on the door: the characteristic three, rather peremptory knocks that Angus gave. And then there was the sound of barking – the three, gruff barks that Cyril gave to echo his master’s knocking.
“That’s Angus now,” she said. “You’ll have the chance to meet him.”
“Very nice,” said Magnus.
Domenica went to let Angus in. “Magnus Campbell’s arrived,” she said. “Antonia’s guest.”
Angus bent forward to kiss her on the cheek. “Good.” His skin felt rough and she wondered if he had bothered to shave. For a brief moment she had to suppress the urge to pull back from him, to make the exchange of kisses perfunctory, as kisses are between strangers.
They went back into the kitchen, where Magnus had now risen to his feet. Domenica introduced them and they shook hands.
“I believe I should say congratulations,” said Magnus. “Domenica has been telling me about your engagement.”
Angus glanced at Domenica. “I’m a very fortunate man,” he muttered. Domenica looked away.
They sat down. Angus asked Magnus how he had come to know Antonia and listened to the explanation that one of his colleagues in the firm in London had been her first cousin. “We met at a dinner party,” he said. “Antonia was visiting her cousin and we invited her around to our place while she was down there. Then we saw her virtually every year when she came down to London. Sometimes she stayed with us. She
became very friendly with my partner, Shirley.”
Shirley, thought Domenica. She had not expected that – not of a high-powered London lawyer. Claire, perhaps, or Margaret. And what was the nickname of that very famous woman lawyer – the divorce specialist who acted for the wives in all those high-profile split-ups? The Steel Magnolia – that was it. A very good nickname, she thought. One would not argue with a steel magnolia; or with a lawyer called The Undertaker or The Great White. Such soubriquets were very good for a legal reputation, she imagined.
55. An Invitation to the Crieff Hydro
Pat’s morning had begun inauspiciously. She had discovered at breakfast that somebody had eaten the last egg that she had stored in the fridge and had intended to boil for breakfast. It could only be one of two people; Pat was sharing the flat over the summer months with two young women she barely knew, her regular flatmates being away while the university was on vacation. Her temporary flatmates, Catriona and Lizzie, were both members of a drama group from Aberdeen that was going to be appearing in the Festival Fringe. They had come down for a month in advance to make the set and had responded to Pat’s advertisement offering accommodation to nonsmokers, and those happy to muck in. Us, they had assured her eagerly: that’s us.
On the whole they had been easy enough to live with, but the stolen egg was the third such incident in the space of a week and Pat was becoming annoyed.
“I think we should be careful to keep our food separate,” she had said pointedly. “That way we won’t mix it up.”
“Absolutely,” said Catriona. “Good idea.”
But then Pat had noticed her cheese diminishing by half and, a day or two later, a half pound of butter and a packet of tagliatelle miraculously disappearing. She had said nothing; she did not want to accuse them of theft, not directly, but what other explanation could there be?
The disappearance of the egg was just too much to take, and she knocked on Lizzie’s door to remonstrate with her. “An egg has gone missing,” she said. “It was in the fridge and now it isn’t. It’s missing.”
Lizzie stared at her. “So?”
Pat felt her heart racing. “Somebody’s eaten it,” she said.
Lizzie shrugged. “Obviously. But it wasn’t me.” She turned to address Catriona, lying sprawled on a bed behind her. “Did you eat an egg?”
“No. Did you?”
“No.” She paused, holding Pat’s gaze. “Did you eat it yourself?”
“Of course I didn’t. That’s why I’m asking you.”
“What about a friend? Those friends of yours who were here the other day – did one of them eat it maybe?”
Pat felt the back of her neck becoming warm. “Why would my friends eat an egg? And they were here ages ago. That egg was in the fridge yesterday. I saw it.”
Lizzie frowned. “You think you saw it.”
“What?”
“I said, you think you saw it. Sometimes we see what we want to see.” She turned to Catriona. “You study psychology, don’t you, Catriona? The mind can see things that aren’t there, can’t it?”
From within the room there came the reply. “Yes, sure. It does that all the time.”
Pat bit her lip. “I’m going to eat some of your food,” she muttered. “You just wait.”
Later that morning, when she went over the road to Big Lou’s, she narrated the story of this extraordinary exchange. “She stood there and denied it,” she told Big Lou. “She flatly denied it.”
Big Lou shook her head. “Folk lie,” she said. “Just about everybody lies these days. I’ve come to expect it.”
“I can’t believe it,” said Pat. “Why lie when you know that the other person knows you’re lying? What’s the point?”
Big Lou could provide no answer to that. “There was a fellow in Arbroath,” she said. “He was called Davey – I forget his other name. But he was a real liar right enough, right from the time he was a wee boy. Lied and lied. Everybody knew fine, of course, that he lied. He became a fisherman. He had an inshore boat that he took off in and fished from. He made an emergency call one day and said that he was in trouble off some rocks. One of the other boats picked it up.”
Pat thought she could see what was coming. “And they didn’t believe him? And he hit the rocks?”
Big Lou shook her head. “The call was picked up by one of the other fishing boats. They just laughed and ignored it. But it wasn’t true anyway. He was fine.”
“Oh,” said Pat. “I thought that it was going to be like the story of the boy who cried wolf.”
“No, it wasn’t like that at all,” said Big Lou. “Davey was fine.”
Big Lou had been preparing Pat’s coffee and now she served it, in a final flourish sprinkling the foamy white top with powdered chocolate.
Pat thanked her. She had not seen Lou since she had left her in the bar with Darren, and now she wanted to find out how the evening had gone.
“Your date, Lou?” she asked. “How did it go with Darren?”
“Nae bad,” said Lou.
That was not very informative, and Pat asked another question. “And are you going to see him again?”
Big Lou seemed to think for a moment before she answered. “Aye, I’ll see him again.”
“Well, that’s very nice, Lou. I hope …”
Pat did not finish. “Aye, he’s asked me to a convention.” Big Lou paused. “At Crieff Hydro.”
Pat smiled. “That’s nice, Lou. Crieff Hydro – we went there when I was twelve. I won the under-fourteen carpet-bowls competition.”
“Well, there you are,” Big Lou said. “The things we win when we’re small are pretty important, aren’t they?”
A brief silence ensued between them. Somewhere down the hill towards Canonmills an ambulance siren wailed, echoing against the canyons of stone buildings. A private tragedy, thought Pat; a heart attack, a stroke, a person coming suddenly to an end, a whole story receiving its final full stop; except that for most of us it is not a full stop but an unforeseen ellipsis.
She had turned her head, but now looked back at Big Lou. “Convention, Lou?”
“Aye,” said Lou. “An Elvis impersonator convention.” She looked down at the counter, as if ashamed. “I know it’s not something you’d go to. I know folk will laugh …”
“I’d never laugh, Lou,” said Pat quickly. “Never.”
She wanted to reach across the counter and embrace Lou. She wanted to comfort, to reassure this fine, kind, hardworking woman, who had experienced such hardship and endured such bad luck, especially with men: that awful cook, with his penchant for young waitresses; that ridiculous Jacobite with his fantasies and obsessions; and now, instead of a decent farmer or rugby player from the Borders, an Elvis impersonator, of all things.
“Oh, Lou,” she said. She wanted to say more, but could think of nothing to add. Was there anything further to be said about Elvis, or those who, for some bizarre reason known only to themselves – or possibly not – insisted on impersonating him?
56. Thoughts of Bruce: Bruce Thoughts
Back in the gallery, Pat thought about her own situation. It was all very well for her to reflect on Big Lou’s unfortunate choice of men, but what about her own emotional record? She ran through the boys in her life; it was not a long list – the fingers of one hand would suffice to count them: that boy at Watson’s, the one who had broken her heart with such consummate ease and had thought nothing of it – what teenage boy, when all is said and done, does not show at least some signs of psychopathic selfishness? She had pined for him for six months and then decided that there would be no more boys, ever, a resolution that remained until she met Bruce, for whom every woman fell with complete predictability; not that that led anywhere. And then that boy who worked in Glass & Thompson’s and who was writing a dissertation on some literary topic – another mistake; and Wolf … that was four; Matthew was the fifth, and he was decent and considerate and it could have worked out, except for the fact that she had never lov
ed him.
Pat’s father, Dr. Macgregor, had never enquired directly about any of these boys, but had made remarks about love in general. “Don’t make the mistake of confusing love with infatuation,” he said. “So many people do. They don’t realise that love is something that takes time. It never, ever announces itself immediately.”
Pat was not sure about this. Had the poets got it quite that wrong? “So love at first sight is an impossibility?”
He nodded. “I’m afraid so. People may feel a strong and sudden interest in somebody else, but that’s almost always purely physical. It might transform itself into love, but you have to wait and see about that.”
“So what makes people notice each other?”
Dr. Macgregor thought for a moment. “One of two things: beauty or the biological imperative to settle down.”
She waited for him to explain. “Beauty triggers interest because we yearn for the beautiful. We want to possess it because it represents harmony and resolution – things that we all need, whether we know it or not.” He paused. “We also feel that it rubs off on us. If we are in the company of a beautiful person we ourselves feel more beautiful. Yes, we do. Don’t laugh, Pat. I assure you this is so.”
She apologised. “I’m not laughing. Well, all right, I was. It was just the thought of beauty rubbing off on people – like mascara or blush. Can’t you see it? A very unprepossessing man standing next to a beautiful woman with makeup smeared all over his shirt.”
“Yes,” he said. “I can see that. But look at the pictures in those magazines you read …”
“I don’t buy them,” said Pat defensively.
“Of course not.”
“I see them in the hairdressers. Or people leave them in the flat.”
“Of course. But look at the pictures of those rich middle-aged men with their younger wives or girlfriends.”
“Trophies.”
“Exactly. And every one of them – the women, that is – beautiful. In other cases, though, where money and status are not a factor, then have you noticed something else?”