44 Scotland Street - Alexander McCall Smith [92]
“And what would that mean – on my own terms?”
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An Evening with Bruce
Domenica laughed. “Enjoy it,” she said. “Let yourself feel whatever it is that you feel, but just remember that at the end of the day he’s not for you and that you will have to get rid of him. And there’s another way in which this would be highly satisfactory.”
“Which is?”
“You might have the additional satisfaction of teaching him a lesson. He’s played with the affections of numerous young women
– that’s the type of boy he is. Teach him a lesson. Help him to moral maturity.”
“But what if I still feel something for him?”
“You won’t,” said Domenica. “Believe me, there’s nothing more brittle than human beauty. Encounter it. Savour it, by all means. Then watch how it turns to dust.”
Pat sat quite still, watched by Domenica. “Anyway,” said Domenica, rising to her feet. “I’m about to go off to listen to a lecture at the Portrait Gallery. I suggest that you come with me. It’ll take you out of yourself for a couple of hours, and there are drinks afterwards to which I’m sure you can come. How about it?”
Pat thought for a moment. She did not want to go back to the flat, which was cold and empty. So she said yes, and they went out together, out into Scotland Street and the night. 70. An Evening with Bruce
Bruce did not feel apologetic about the scene which had developed over the missing painting; he felt annoyed. There was no reason for him to reproach himself, he thought, because he had had every reason to assume that the painting had been abandoned. It was valueless, anyway. Pat had screamed something about it being by Peploe, whoever he was, but Bruce doubted that unless, of course, this Peploe person was somebody’s uncle. He could tell when a painting was worth something, and that painting was definitely not worth the cost of the frame, which must have been An Evening with Bruce
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pretty little anyway. What a fuss over nothing! You could get a painting like that any day of the week from one of those charity shops – useless pictures of the Trossachs or St Andrews or places like that. Completely useless. If she was so upset about it, then he might, just might, pick up something from one of those shops and give it to her to make up for it. But why should he? He had done no wrong, and her reaction was typical of a woman. They make the most ghastly fuss over little things; he had seen it all before and he had no time for it. And what made it worse, he thought, was that that silly, half-hysterical girl was falling for him; her lying on his bed just confirmed the suspicions he had been entertaining for some time. Having had a great deal of experience of these things, Bruce could tell when somebody was falling for him. It was the way they looked at you; that slightly unfocused look. It was something to do with body chemistry, he imagined. The effect of pheromones made women’s eyes go all watery. It was curious, but he had seen it so many times when women looked at him.
Bruce had decided that she would get no encouragement from him. Being mixed up with her would make his life too complicated. She would be possessive, he expected, and would cramp his style. It would be difficult, for example, to bring other girls back to the flat as she would always be there, thinking that she had a prior claim on him. No, he would have to play this very carefully. He might give Pat the occasional thrill, of course, as he had done when he had removed his shirt. She had been watching him
– he had felt her gaze – and there was no doubt about her interest. But that would be about as far as it would go. She could look, but she would not be allowed to touch.
Now, this newly-acquired girl, Sally, was a different proposition altogether. Bruce had met her in the Cumberland