44 Scotland Street - Alexander McCall Smith [53]
Back in the flat, Pat opened the hall cupboard and inspected its contents. There were a couple of battered suitcases, some empty cardboard boxes, and a bicycle saddle. Everything looked abandoned, which it probably was. This was a perfect place to hide a painting, and Pat tucked it away, leaning against a wall, hidden by one of the cardboard boxes. It would be safe there, as safe, perhaps, as one of those missing masterpieces secreted in the hidden collections of South American drug barons. Except that this was Edinburgh, not Ascuncion or Bogota. That was the difference.
43. The Sort of People You See in
Edinburgh Wine Bars
She was due to meet Chris at seven, in the Hot Cool Wine Bar halfway along Thistle Street. She arrived at ten-past, which was just when she happened to arrive, but which was also exactly the right time to arrive in the circumstances. Quarter past the hour would have made her late, and any closer to seven would have made her seem too keen. And she was not keen – definitely not
– although he was presentable enough and had been polite to her. The problem was the way he had said hah, hah; that had been a bad sign. So now she was there out of duty; having agreed to meet him she would do so, but would leave early. She looked around the bar. It was a long, narrow room, decorated in the obligatory Danish minimalist style, which meant that there was no furniture. She had always thought that Danish The Sort of People You See in Edinburgh Wine Bars 111
minimalism should have been the cheapest style available, because it involved nothing, but in fact it was the most expensive. The empty spaces in Danish minimalism were what cost the money. In true minimalist style, everybody was obliged to stand, and they were doing so around a long, stainless-steel covered bar. Above the bar, suspended on almost invisible wires, minimalist lights cast descending cones of brightness onto those standing below. This made everybody look somewhat stark, an impression that was furthered by the fact that so many of them were wearing black.
There were about twenty people in the bar and Pat quickly saw that Chris was not among them. She looked at her watch and checked the time. Had he said seven? She was sure that he had. And had it been the Hot Cool? She was sure of that too. It was not a name one would mix up with anything unless, of course – and this caused a momentary feeling of panic – he had meant the Cool Hot, which was in George Street, and was a very different sort of bar (non-minimalist). But the Cool Hot was ambivalent – was it not? – and this place was . . . She looked at the group of people closest to her. There were two men and two women: the men were standing next to one another and the women were . . . No, they were definitely not ambivalent. She moved over to the bar, and signalled to the bartender.
“I was meeting somebody called Chris,” she said. The barman smiled at her. “Lots of Chrises here. Just about everybody’s a Chris this year. What sort of Chris is yours?
Architect Chris? Advocate Chris? Media Chris? The Chris whose novel is just about to be published by Canongate? Actually there are lots of those. So which Chris is it?”
She was about to say Police Chris, but stopped herself. This was, after all, the Hot Cool and it sounded inappropriate. So she said: “I’ll wait for him. And I’ll have a glass of white wine.”
The barman went off to fetch a glass, and Pat, her hands resting nonchalantly on the counter, glanced at the other drinkers. They were mostly in their mid-to late-twenties, she thought; clearly affluent, and dressed with an expensive casualness. One or two older people, some even approaching forty, or beyond, were 112
Tales of Tulliallan
occupying the few available bar-stools, and were talking quietly among themselves; to the other drinkers