“You can say that again,” said Leonie. “Or, rather, you can say the last bit again.”
Matthew now decided that it was time to move the conversation forward. He turned to Babs. “Are you an architect too?”
he asked.
Babs shook her head. “I used to be a designer,” she said. “I was a designer when I lived in Milan. But I was one of those people whose hobby rather took over and became their job. So I changed.”
“Babs has always been good with cars,” said Leonie. “She has a real talent.”
Babs acknowledged the compliment with an inclination of the head. “Well, put it this way, I can talk to cars,” she said. “Cars and me – we’re on the same wavelength.”
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Cars and I, thought Matthew.
“So now I’ve opened a new business,” Babs went on. “I’ve started a small panel-beating shop – you know, car bodywork repair. I fix cars up.”
Leonie raised a finger in the air. “But it’s a very special business, this one,” she said. “It’s just for women who have dented their car. They can take it to Babs for confidential repair. Men needn’t even know about it.”
“Yes,” said Babs. “It’s called Ladies who Crash. And I can tell you something – I’m busy. Boy, am I kept busy!”
Matthew was very wary. “But this implies that women are worse drivers than men,” he said. “Whereas all the evidence goes the other way. Women are safer drivers than men. All the accident statistics show that.”
“But they can’t reverse,” said Babs. She spoke in a matter-of-fact way, as if enunciating an uncontroversial truth. But then she added: “Well, I suppose, neither can Jim.”
“Who’s Jim?” asked Matthew.
“My husband,” said Babs. “Bless him!”
82. Misunderstandings
Dinner that evening at the Caffe Sardi was not a protracted event. Matthew tried valiantly to keep the conversation going into a second cup of post-prandial coffee, but Leonie announced that she had an important site meeting the next day with a demanding client and she wanted an early night. And Jim, Babs announced, did not like her to be too late.
“He worries about me,” she explained, looking at her watch.
“He worries when I go out.”
“I’m sorry,” said Matthew apologetically. “I would have asked him, too. It’s just that I thought . . .” He left the sentence unfinished. Both Leonie and Babs were staring at him, and Pat, embarrassed, was looking up at the ceiling.
“You thought what?” asked Babs.
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Matthew swallowed. “I thought that you and Leonie were . . .
were friends.”
“But we are,” said Babs. “We’ve been friends for ages, haven’t we Leo?”
“Yes,” said Leonie, still glaring at Matthew. “Did you think . . .”
“You didn’t!” said Babs, seemingly amused.
Matthew laughed nervously. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I suppose I did rather assume that. It’s just that when you came into the restaurant . . .” He glanced at Pat, but she was still looking up at the ceiling.
“Yes,” pressed Babs. “We came in. So what?”
“Perhaps he thought that you looked a bit . . .” offered Leonie.
Babs leaned forward and pointed a finger at Matthew’s chest.
It was an aggressive gesture, but she was smiling as she spoke.
“It’s because I fix cars. Is that it? Well, you work in a gallery, don’t you? That’s a job for a sensitive man. And you don’t get many sensitive men playing rugby, do you?” She laughed, and was quickly echoed by Leonie.
“No,” said Leonie. “Can you imagine it?”
Matthew bit his lip. “Plenty of sensitive men play rugby,” he said wildly. “Plenty.”
“Oh yes?” challenged Babs. “Name one.”
Matthew thought. He could not think of any sensitive men who played rugby – not a single one. “Oh well,” he said. “I don’t think we should speak about stereotypes. Men who work in the arts are just the same as anybody else. Some play rugby, some don’t.”
“None play rugby,” said Leonie. “I’m telling you.”
“Does it matter?” interrupted Pat. “Does anybody really care any more at all who plays rugby and who doesn’t?”
“Is rugby some sort of metaphor?” asked Babs.
Matthew shook his head. “It’s a game.”
“Which is not played frequently by sensitive men,” interjected Leonie.
There was a silence. Then: “Let’s not argue,” said Babs pleasantly. “It’s been such a nice evening and it would be a pity to Misunderstandings 257
ruin it with an argument, wouldn’t it? I suppose that I am a bit of a direct speaker. And I know that these days you can’t speak freely about anything. I’ll try to be a little bit more politically correct, I really will.”
“Good girl!” said Leonie, putting an arm around her friend’s shoulder.
They sat together for a few moments, with nobody saying anything. Then Matthew signalled to the waitress for the bill and the party began to break up.
“You don’t have to pay just because you’re a man,” said Babs.
“Leo and I can pay our share.”
“Well . . . .” Matthew began.
“But thanks anyway,” said Leonie hurriedly. “Thanks very much for the evening, Matthew.”
Afterwards, when Babs and Leonie had disappeared together in a taxi, Matthew and Pat walked over the road to the pub on the opposite side of the road. Sandy Bells Bar was known for its folk music, and as they made their way to the broad mahogany bar they saw a fiddler at the other end of the bar rise to his feet.
Matthew stopped where he stood. “Listen,” he said.
“ ‘Lochaber No More’.”
The long, drawn-out passages of the heart-rending lament largely silenced the drinkers present. An elderly man, seated by the window, clutching a small glass of whisky in both hands, started to sway gently in time with the music. The fiddler, glancing up, saw him and smiled.
“I love that tune,” Matthew whispered to Pat. “It makes me so sad.”
Pat stole a glance at Matthew. It had been a confusing evening.
She had not known how to take their fellow-guests over dinner; things were not as they seemed, she realised, but then, it still seemed a bit strange.
“Leonie and Babs,” she said quietly to Matthew. “Do you think that . . .”
“That they’re an item?” whispered Matthew. “No, I don’t.
And anyway, it doesn’t matter.”
258 Misunderstandings
He looked at Pat, and suddenly, with complete clarity of understanding, he realised that he was in love with her and that he had to tell her that. He had not been in love with her half an hour ago. He had liked her then. He felt a bit jealous of her.
But now he loved her. He simply loved her.
He moved very slightly towards Pat, who was standing a few inches away from him. Now they were touching one another, his right leg against hers. She did not move away. Emboldened, he reached out and took her hand in his, squeezing it gently.
She returned the pressure. “Let’s sit down,” she said. “Over at the table. Over there. I want to talk to you, Matthew.”
Matthew followed Pat to the table. He felt that he had misjudged the situation, and now his fears were to be confirmed.
She would tell him that she thought of him as a brother; he had heard that sort of thing before. Or, worse, she might say that she thought of him as an employer.
“Matthew,” she said. “We’re friends, aren’t we? No, don’t look so down-in-the-mouth. We’re friends, aren’t we?”
“Yes,” said Matthew, flatly. “We’re friends.”
“And friends can speak their minds to one another?”
Matthew sighed. “Yes, I suppose they can.”
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