With Bruce? She stopped herself. The thought had come into her mind unbidden, as delicious, tempting thoughts do. Bruce would be wearing his Aitken and Niven rugby sweater and his olive green mock-moleskin trousers, and he would have his hand against the small of her back, and they would be thinking of their kitchen . . . No! No!
“Well?” said Matthew. “Are you doing anything tonight? I thought we could go to the Cumberland for a drink to celebrate.
It’ll be on me.”
Pat brought herself back from fantasy to reality. It would be churlish to refuse Matthew, and an outing to the Cumberland Bar would hardly be compromising. Plenty of people dropped in at the Cumberland with their workmates and nothing was read into the situation. It was not as if he was proposing an intimate diner à deux in the Café St Honoré.
“And then we could and have dinner in the Café St Honoré,”
Matthew said. “That is, if you’ve got nothing else on.”
He looked at her, and she saw the anxiety in his eyes. But she could not accept; she could not.
“Let’s just go for a drink,” she said. “I have to . . .” What lie could she come up with to put him off? Or could she tell the truth?
“I want to see Bruce later on,” she said. And as she spoke she realised that she had told the truth. She did want to see Bruce; she wanted to be with him again; it was physical, like a nagging pain in the pit of her stomach. And it alarmed her, for what he wanted was not what she wanted.
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Matthew lowered his eyes. He’s disappointed, she thought; and it would have been so easy for me to have dinner with him and make him happy, and now I have disappointed him.
“What about your crowd?” she asked brightly. “Will they be there?”
Matthew shrugged. “They may be. Maybe not. One’s going off to London for a few days this week – he may already have gone. And another has a heavy cold. So if the crowd turns up there won’t be many of them.”
He looked at her again, and she wondered what he was thinking. She had not lied to him, and so she could look back at him, meeting his gaze with all the satisfaction of one who has told the truth. She did want to see Bruce.
“Why are you so keen on him?” Matthew asked. “I thought
– from something you said some time ago – that he got on your nerves. Isn’t he vain? Didn’t you say something about that?”
“Yes,” said Pat. “Yes, he’s vain.”
Matthew looked impatient, as if there was something that was not being explained to him clearly enough. “How can you like him if he’s vain?” he asked. “Doesn’t that turn you off?”
Pat smiled. “It should,” she said. “Yes, it should. But it doesn’t, you know.”
“Very peculiar,” said Matthew. “Very peculiar.”
Pat said nothing. She did not disagree.
Sexual attraction, thought Matthew. The dark, anarchic force.
More powerful than anything else. Always there. Working away, but not for me.
85. In the Cumberland Bar
Carrying the discreetly-wrapped Peploe? under his arm, Matthew escorted Pat to the Cumberland Bar for their celebratory drink. Any disappointment he had felt at the turning down of his invitation to dinner was, if still felt, well concealed. Matthew 240
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was used to being turned down by women, and had come to expect it. He was not sure why he should be so unlucky, but had a suspicion that it was something to do with his eyes. He knew that they had strange grey flecks in them and he feared that there was something about that which disturbed women – some primeval signal that warned them off men with grey-flecked eyes.
He had noticed women looking into his eyes and then frowning; indeed, he had seen Pat do that when they had had that conversation on the way to their encounter with Ian Rankin.
It was very unfair. There was Pat, who was attractive in every sense, throwing herself away on that vain flatmate of hers, who presumably had an insufferable conceit of himself. And there he was, Matthew, who only wanted to give Pat some fun and take her to dinner at the Café St Honoré and spoil her. Bruce would treat her badly – that was obvious – and she would be horribly upset. He would treat her well and maybe, just maybe, there would be some future in it for both of them. There would be no future with Bruce.
He almost wanted to tell her, to warn her, but it would seem odd to speak like that, like an older brother, or even a parent.
And so he was silent, at least on that subject, and she spoke no more of it either.
The Cumberland Bar, when they reached it, was already filling with early-evening drinkers.
“Busy,” said Matthew, scanning the heads for signs of the crowd. None of them was there, which rather pleased him. He wanted to be with Pat, and the presence of members of the crowd could distract her attention.
They found a couple of seats together and Matthew went to the bar to buy Pat the glass of Chardonnay she had requested.
Then, glasses in hand, he made his way back to their table and sat down beside her.
“Do you know many of these people?” asked Pat, looking at the crush of figures that was forming around the bar.
“A few,” said Matthew, raising his glass of Guinness in a toast.
“Here’s to you. Thanks for getting the picture back.”
“To Ian Rankin,” Pat replied. “What a nice man.”
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“A real softie,” said Matthew.
Pat was not sure what to make of this. Did Matthew consider him a softie because he had given the painting back? That was nothing to do with being a softie. That was to do with principles.
For a few moments she felt irritated. Who was Matthew to call anybody a softie, when he so obviously was the softie? No, Ian Rankin was no softie, what with his designer stubble and the black tee-shirts.
She decided not to say anything about this. “And now what?”
she said. “What do we do about that painting? Shouldn’t we get an opinion on it now?”
Matthew agreed with her. He was not sure, though, who they would get to do this. That would require some thought because he did not like the idea of being humiliated by some condescending art expert. He had already secretly imagined the scene in which the expert, looking down his nose, would sneer at him. “Peploe? You must be joking! What on earth makes you think this is a Peploe?”
She was waiting for Matthew’s reply when she looked up to see a familiar figure coming towards her. For a moment she had difficulty placing him, but then she remembered: Angus Lordie, the man she had talked to at the Scottish National Portrait Gallery after the lecture. He had come into the bar, looked around him, and seen her at the table. She noticed, too, that it was not just him, but his dog as well – a black collie with a lop-sided ear and sharp eyes.
Angus Lordie had entered the Cumberland Bar in low spirits, but seeing Pat he broke into a wide smile.
“My dear!” he exclaimed, as he approached their table. “Such a perfect setting for you! Even a bar in the St Germain could do no more justice than this simple establishment! And at your side, your young gallant . . .”
“This is Matthew,” said Pat quickly. “I work with him at his gallery.”
Angus Lordie nodded in Matthew’s direction and extended a hand. “I would normally not shake hands with a dealer, sir,” he said with a smile. “But in your case, I am happy to do so. Angus Lordie.”
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Matthew rose from his seat and shook the outstretched hand.