44 Scotland Street - Alexander McCall Smith [17]
“What’s the point?”
Pete shrugged. “None that I can see. But she does it nonetheless.”
Big Lou had been listening to this conversation from behind her counter. Now she chipped in.
“She hates you because you threaten her,” she said. “Only insecure people hate others. I’ve read about it. There’s a book called The Origins of Love and Hate. I’ve read it, and it tells you how insecurity leads to hatred.”
The two men turned and looked at Big Lou.
“Are you sure?” asked Pete after a while. “Is that it?”
“Yes,” said Big Lou. “Mags hates Ronnie’s friends because she’s afraid of losing him and because they take him away from her. How much time does Ronnie spend talking with Mags?
Have you ever seen him talk to her?”
“Never,” mused Pete. “Never.”
“Well, there you are,” said Big Lou. “Mags feels neglected.”
Pete was about to say something in response to this when he suddenly stiffened and tapped Matthew on the forearm.
“They’re here,” he whispered. “Ronnie, with Mags in tow.”
Matthew turned round to look. Ronnie was making his way down the steps, followed by a woman in a flowing Paisley dress and light brown suede boots. The woman was carrying a bulging shopping bag and a folded copy of a magazine. As they entered the coffee bar, Ronnie exchanged a glance with Pete and then turned to Mags to point to the booth where his two friends were sitting. She followed his glance and then, Matthew noticed, she frowned. Chanterelles Trouvées
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Ronnie approached the booth.
“This is Mags,” he said, almost apologetically. “Mags, this is Matthew. You haven’t met him before. Matthew’s a friend of mine.”
Matthew stood up and extended a hand to Mags.
“Why do you stand up?” she said sharply. “Do you stand up for everybody, or is it just because I’m a woman?”
Matthew looked at the floor. “I stand up because I intend to leave,” he said evenly. “Not wishing to be condescended to, or whatever, I intend to leave. You may have my seat if you wish.”
He walked out, and started up the perilous steps. He was shaking, like a boy who had done something forbidden. 12. Chanterelles Trouvées
Bruce had offered to cook dinner for Pat that evening. The offer had been made before he left the flat in the morning as he popped his head, uninvited, round her half-open door.
“I’m cooking anyway,” he said. “It’s as easy to cook for two as it is for one.”
“I’d love that,” said Pat. She noticed his glance move around her room as they spoke, resting for a moment on her unmade bed before moving to the suitcase which she had not yet fully unpacked. Bruce nodded. “You will,” he said. “I’m not a bad cook, if you don’t mind my saying so. I could teach Delia a thing or two.”
Pat laughed, which seemed to please Bruce.
“Only about surveying,” he went on. “Not about cooking.”
He finished, and waited for Pat to laugh again, but she did not.
“I’m sure it’ll be very good,” she said solemnly. “What will we have?”
“I only cook pasta,” said Bruce. “Pasta with mushrooms probably. Chanterelles. You like mushrooms, don’t you?”
“Love them,” said Pat.
“Good. Chanterelles in a butter sauce, then, with cream. Garlic. Black pepper and a salad dressed with olive oil and a dash 34
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of balsamic vinegar. Balsamic vinegar comes from Modena, you know. Has to. How about that?”
“Perfect,” said Pat. “Perfect.”
When she returned to Scotland Street that evening, late –
because Matthew had asked her to show a painting to a client who could only come in after six – Bruce had laid out the ingredients of his pasta dish on the kitchen table. She sat there as he cooked, explaining as he did so some troubling incident at work that day, a row over defective central heating and a leaky cupola.
“I told them they’d have trouble with these people,” he said.
“And I was right. It always happens. You get people moving up in the world and they start putting on airs. They probably had to look up the word ‘cupola’ in the dictionary before they complained about it. Cup-er-lah. That’s what they call it. I’ve got a leaky