44 Scotland Street - Alexander McCall Smith [62]
“One thing,” said Sasha, before she rang off. “We’re having a tombola. We’ve been given a lot of good prizes, but if you can bring a little something along to add to it, please do.”
“I’ll try,” said Bruce.
He left the flat, feeling slightly restless. He found his life rather unsatisfactory at the moment. He had finished all the institute examinations, and so he was free of that particular burden, but it seemed as if nothing much else was happening. Part of the trouble was the absence of a girlfriend. I need somebody to hang about with, he thought. I need company. There was that girl in the flat, of course – Pat – but he found her a bit irritating. She seemed cool, indifferent even, although he suspected that this was a bit of an act. She’s probably pretty interested in me, he thought. She probably wants me to take notice of her, but the poor girl’s got a long wait ahead of her. Far too young, too unsophisticated. Pretty green. As he walked up to George Street, he glanced at his reflection in the occasional shop window. What a waste, he muttered. There I am looking like that, and no girlfriend. What a waste.
The shirt purchased, he returned to Scotland Street and spent the afternoon on his bed, watching videos of classic rugby matches. There was Scotland against Ireland at Murrayfield of a few years previously – a great Scottish victory, with a fine try from a player whom Bruce had known at Morrison’s Academy. Then there was the Springboks playing Fiji, a terrific game in which four players were taken off to hospital in the first half!
And Scotland meeting France in Paris, when France scored seventy points and Scotland scored three. That was not such a good game, Bruce thought, and he turned it off at half-time. At five o’clock he went into the bathroom, ran a hot bath, and after a few moments in front of the full-length mirror, 130
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immersed himself in the deep, soapy water. He felt more cheerful now. That Todd girl would cramp his style, no doubt, but there might be other girls to dance with there; he wouldn’t be stuck with her all night. And one of these other girls might be just right for him. There were stranger places to meet women than at a Conservative Ball. Such as . . . He wondered about that. Where was the most unlikely place to meet somebody? A dentist’s surgery? Warriston Crematorium?
Bruce dressed himself with care. Gel was applied to the hair and cologne to exposed flesh. Then there was a quick inspection. Perfect. Great.
He left his room and went out into the hall. It was at that point that he remembered Sasha’s request for a contribution to the tombola. This was irritating, but perhaps there would be some bric-à-brac in the cupboard. So he opened the door and looked inside. There were things which had been left there over the years by a succession of tenants. There might be something.
He found the parcel, and opened it. He held the painting up to examine it under the light. He did not like it. The colours were too bright and there was not enough detail. This was the problem with amateurs – they couldn’t draw properly. You had to scratch your head to find out what they were trying to portray. Bruce liked Vettriano. He knew how to draw. Still, this would do for the tombola. It was obviously the work of somebody’s aunt, long forgotten and abandoned in this cupboard. But at least he would not arrive empty-handed. So he slipped it back into its wrapping, picked up his coat, and left for the Todd house in the Braids, the painting under his arm.
51. Velvety Shoes
Groaning inwardly, Lizzie Todd walked up the short path that led to the front door of her parents’ house in the Braids. She Velvety Shoes
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had grown up in this house, but she felt little of the affection that one was supposed to