44 Scotland Street - Alexander McCall Smith [115]
“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
In the Cumberland Bar
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.”
In the Cumberland Bar
241
“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