44 Scotland Street - Alexander McCall Smith [149]
Sasha took the wine atlas from him and glanced at the back cover. Eighty-five pounds did seem like a lot of money for a book, but then the thought crossed her mind. Eighty-five pounds was not a great deal of money if you had over four hundred thousand pounds.
“Let me get it for you as a present,” she said suddenly. And then she added: “And then let me take you for lunch at the Café
St Honoré. Do you know it? It’s just round the corner.”
“But I couldn’t,” protested Bruce. “I couldn’t let you.”
“Please,’ she said. “Let me do this. I’ve just had wonderful good fortune and I want to share it. Please let me do this – just this once.”
Bruce hesitated for a moment, but only for a moment. Women 312
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were always doing this sort of thing for him. They couldn’t help themselves.
“All right,” he said. “But at least let me buy us a bottle of wine at the restaurant. What do you like?”
“Chardonnay,” said Sasha.
107. Confidences
They sat at a table for two, near the window. Bruce, who had completed a survey earlier than he had expected, was pleased to spend the few hours that he had in hand having lunch, and if this was in the company of an attractive woman (even if slightly blowsy) and at her expense, then all the better. The survey in question had been a singularly unpleasant chore – looking around a poky flat off Easter Road. The flat had been modernised by a developer in shim-sham style, with chip-board cupboards and glossy wallpaper. Bruce had shuddered, and had written in a low valuation, which would limit the price which the developer got for the property. Now, in the considerably more pleasing surroundings of the Café St Honoré one might almost be in Paris, and he sat back and perused the menu with interest.
“I’m rather glad I bumped into you,” said Sasha, fingering the gold bracelet on her wrist. “I had been wanting to talk to you.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “I enjoyed the ball,” he said. “Even if there were very few people there. More like a private party. Good fun.”
Sasha smiled. “You were very good to poor old Ramsey Dunbarton,” she said. “It can’t have been much fun for you, listening to him going on about being the Duke of Plaza-Toro.”
Bruce smiled. One could afford to be generous about the boring when people found one so fascinating. “It meant a lot to him, I suppose,” he said. “Who was the Duke of Plaza-Toro anyway? Was he in the Tory Party?”
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Sasha laughed. “Very droll,” she said. “Now listen, did you talk to my daughter at all?”
“I did,” said Bruce. “We got on rather well.”
Sasha frowned. “That surprises me,” she said. “She’s been so contrary recently.”
“I didn’t notice that,” said Bruce.
“Well, quite frankly, she worries me,” Sasha went on. “And I wondered if you had any suggestions. You’re in her age group. You might see something I’m missing.”
Bruce scrutinised the menu. He was not sure whether he liked this line of conversation.
“Let me give you an example,” Sasha went on. “At the ball, Lizzie won dinner for two at the Prestonfield Hotel. Now any normal girl would ask a friend along to join her. Lizzie didn’t do that. No, she telephoned the hotel and asked them whether instead of a dinner for two she could have two separate dinners for one. Can you believe that?”
Bruce thought for a moment. “Perhaps she wasn’t in the mood for company,” he said. “We all feel like that sometimes.”
“But that’s how she seems to feel all the time,” said Sasha, showing some exasperation. “She seems to make no effort to get friends. Or a decent job, for that matter.”
“People are different,” said Bruce. “She’s not into drugs, I take it? She’s not running around with a Hell’s Angel, is she?
Well then, what have you got to complain about? What do you want her to do anyway?”
“I want her to find a circle of friends,” said Sasha. “Nice young people. I want her to have a good time. Maybe get a boyfriend. An outgoing type, who’d take her places.