“We are, unfortunately, in a position where we can do nothing at all,” she said. “We can’t go to the police. We can’t claim the insurance. In fact, we have to forget that our car ever existed.”
Stuart blinked. Forget you ever had a car. It sounded like the sort of thing that gangsters said when they threatened one another. And yet here was his wife saying it to him – and he Distressed Oatmeal
41
had no answer. He turned away without saying anything to Irene and made his way into the bathroom. He took off his jacket.
He took off his tie. Then he filled the basin with tepid water and washed his face. He looked up, into the mirror, and muttered to himself: “Statistician, middle-ranking, married, one son, one mortgage.” He looked more closely at his face. “Average Scottish face,” he continued. “Small lines beginning to appear around the eyes.” He stopped, and thought. Who was having fun? Other people in the office were having fun. They went to bars and held parties. They went off on weekends to Paris and Amsterdam. He never went anywhere. They had girlfriends and boyfriends. The girlfriends and boyfriends went with them to Paris and Amsterdam. They all had fun there.
“It’s about time you had some fun yourself,” he murmured, almost mournfully. Then he brightened and said: “Well, it’s possible, isn’t it?”
14. Distressed Oatmeal
Matthew left Pat looking after the gallery while he went off to seek solace in coffee. Her disclosure of Wolf’s existence had not only surprised him; he had always assumed that Pat had no boyfriend and that she would be available when he eventually got round to making up his mind about her. But added to this surprise was a stronger feeling, one which made him feel raw inside. This was jealousy. How could Pat have somebody else?
And how could she spend time with this other person, this so-called Wolf (what a completely ridiculous name!), when she might spend time with him? He disliked Wolf, intensely, although he had not met him. He would be some awful braying type from somewhere in the south of England, the sort brought up to be completely self-confident, even arrogant. And the thought that Pat should waste herself on such a person was almost too much to bear.
When Matthew entered Big Lou’s coffee bar, Big Lou herself 42
Distressed Oatmeal
was standing in her accustomed position behind the stainless-steel service bar, reading a small book. It was evidently compelling reading, and she barely gave Matthew a glance as he came through the door. Matthew nodded to her and went to sit down in his usual place. Glumly, he opened the newspaper on the table in front of him and scanned the headlines. His state of distraction, though, was such that not even the headlines were taken in, let alone the reports.
Big Lou said something to him, which he missed. She looked at him sharply and repeated herself.
“I said that’s an orra jumper you’re wearing,” she said.
Matthew stared at her. He was vaguely familiar with the Scots word “orra”, but he thought it applied to tractormen, for some reason. An orra man was a farm worker, was he not? And why would Big Lou refer to his cashmere sweater in those terms?
He felt flustered and annoyed.
“What’s wrong with you this morning?” Big Lou went on.
“You’re looking awfie ill.”
“I’m not ill,” said Matthew curtly.
Big Lou seemed taken aback by the rebuff. “Of course by ill, I don’t mean ill in the way in which you mean it,” said Big Lou.
“In Arbroath, when we say that somebody’s ill-looking we just mean that they don’t look themselves. That’s all.”
“I don’t care what you say in Arbroath,” said Matthew. And immediately regretted his rudeness. Matthew was, by nature, a courteous person and it was unlike him to speak in such a manner.
Big Lou knew this and realised that something was amiss. But the way to deal with it, she thought, was not to barge in and ask him what was troubling him, but to allow him to bring it up in his own good time. So she said nothing, and busied herself with the preparation of his cappuccino.
Matthew sat in misery. I’m useless, he thought. Nobody likes me. I have no friends. I have no girlfriend. And who would want to go out with me? Name one person who has ever expressed an interest. Name just one. He thought. No names came to mind.
He looked down at the sleeves of his distressed-oatmeal cash-Distressed Oatmeal
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mere sweater and then at the legs of his crushed-strawberry trousers. Perhaps Big Lou was right. Perhaps the sweater was really no more than an orra jumper, whatever that meant. And as for his trousers, who wore crushed strawberry these days?
Matthew was not sure what the answer to that question was.
Somebody wore them, obviously, but perhaps he was not that sort of person. Perhaps he had just succeeded in making himself look ridiculous.
He sipped at the coffee Big Lou had now brought him, and she, back behind the bar, had returned to her book. She sneaked a glance at Matthew. I should not have said that, she thought.
Heaven knows what he spent on that jumper. And as for those trousers . . . Poor Matthew! There was not a nasty bone in his body, which was more than one could say about most men, Big Lou thought, but somehow Matthew just seemed to miss it.
Matthew drained the last dregs of coffee from his cup. He wanted another cup, but he felt so miserable that he could hardly bring himself to speak to Lou. Sensing this, Big Lou quietly prepared another cappuccino and brought it over to him. She sat down next to him.
“Matthew,” she said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude to you.”
Matthew looked up from the table. “And I didn’t mean to be rude to you either, Lou,” he said.
“You’re unhappy?” Big Lou’s voice was gentle. “I can tell.”
Those who have known unhappiness, as Big Lou had, knew its face, knew its ways.
Matthew nodded.
“That girl?” asked Big Lou.
Matthew said nothing, but he did not need to speak. Big Lou could tell.
“I always liked her,” said Big Lou. “And I can understand why you feel the way you do. She’s very bonny.”
“And we get on very well together,” mumbled Matthew. “I thought that maybe . . . But now she’s gone and got herself a boyfriend. Some student type.”
Big Lou reached out and took his hand. “I was in love for 44
No Flowers Please
years with somebody who had somebody else,” she said. “I know what it’s like.”
“It’s such a strange feeling,” mused Matthew. “Have you noticed, Lou, how it feels when you know that somebody doesn’t like you? I’m not talking about love or anything like that – just somebody you know makes it clear that they don’t like you. And you know that you’ve done nothing to deserve this. You’ve done them no wrong. They just don’t like you. It’s an odd feeling, isn’t it?”
Big Lou looked up at the ceiling. Matthew was right. It was an odd feeling. One felt somehow that it was unfair that the other felt that way. But it was more than that. The unmerited dislike of another made one think less of oneself. We are enlarged by the love of others; we are diminished by their dislike.
“I’m sure that Pat likes you,” said Big Lou. “And perhaps she would like you even more if she knew how you felt about her.
Have you ever told her that?”
“Of course not,” said Matthew. Big Lou should have known better than to ask that question. This was Edinburgh, after all.
One did not go about the place declaring oneself like some lovesick Californian.
15. No Flowers Please