Espresso Tales - Alexander Hanchett Smith [109]
“Much more.” He turned to Pat. “You want to hear what I bought today? Well, I’ll tell you. Three cases of Chateau Petrus at just over fifty quid a bottle. Can you believe that?”
“Fifty?” exclaimed Pat.
“Yes,” said Bruce, smirking. “Remember that this is not the 228 The Best Laid Plans o’ Mice and Men
sort of stuff you take to parties. This is wine for the serious connoisseur. This will go down well in Charlotte Square and Moray Place.”
The mention of Moray Place reminded Pat of her invitation. Should she tell Bruce about it? Would he merely laugh at her, or would he be able to give her advice?
“Moray Place?” said Pat.
“Yes,” said Bruce. “That’s what I said. Moray Place. It’s a posh part of the New Town. Posh people live there. Toffs, you know. They like Chateau Petrus in Moray Place.”
Pat decided to tell him about the invitation. “I’ve been invited to a nudist picnic in Moray Place Gardens,” she said. “I’m not sure whether I should go.”
Bruce stared at her in astonishment. “A nudist picnic in Moray Place Gardens? Oh, Patsy girl, that’s really rich! Classic!”
Pat looked down at the floor. She might have known that he would not take it seriously. Now he started to let out strange whoops and began to take his shirt off, as if engaged in a striptease. “Moray Place!” he crooned. “Nickety, nackety, naked!
Moray Place!” Dropping his shirt, he began to gyrate around the room, pausing to admire the reflection of his bare chest in the glass screen of the microwave.
Pat looked at him in disgust. “You’re ridiculous,” she said.
“You’re . . . very immature, you know.”
“Moi? Immature?” crooned Bruce. “Who’s the nudist, PatsyPatsy? Who’s the little blushing nudist? Hoop, hooop!”
Pat left the kitchen and stormed back into her room, slamming the door behind her. Bruce completed a few more steps of his dance and then completed his coffee preparations. Cradling his cup in his left hand, he sat down by the telephone and dialled his friend George.
“I’ve got the shop,” he said. “And it’s great. You must come and see it.”
At the other end of the line, George sounded cautious. “And the rent?” Bruce told him the figure.
“That sounds a bit steep,” said George. “For that size of place.”
“Steep, George?” exclaimed Bruce. “Do you know what The Best Laid Plans o’ Mice and Men
229
Edinburgh commercial rents are like? Because I do, and I’m telling you that’s nothing – nothing, compared with what some people have to pay. We’re quids-in with that rent, I’m telling you.”
George listened.
“And here’s another thing, George,” Bruce went on. “I’ve already got a very good deal on some stock. Have you heard of Chateau Petrus?”
“As it happens, I have,” said George. “It’s a very good French wine, isn’t it? It sells for fancy prices.”
“It certainly does,” Bruce replied. “You can pay several thousand pounds for a bottle, if the vintage is right.”
“And you’ve found some?” asked George.
Bruce laughed. “It was more a case of the Chateau Petrus finding me. Three cases at an amazingly low price.”
There was a silence on the other end of the line. Then George spoke again. “There’s usually a reason for low prices. You get what you paid for.”
Bruce stiffened. George was an accountant, he thought, and they could be such pedants. “What do you mean by that, George?”
George sounded unusually assertive. “I meant just what I said, Bruce. I meant that if you get something at a knock-down price it’s either stolen or it’s not what it claims to be.”
“I know that this stuff’s not hot,” said Bruce quickly. “The person I bought it from is in the rugby club. He doesn’t go in for dealing in stolen property. And how could it not be what it claims to be? I’ve looked at it. The labels say Chateau Petrus –
complete with a picture of the man himself, Saint Peter.”
George let him finish. Then he said: “Have you heard of wine frauds, Bruce?”
For a moment, Bruce said nothing. He swallowed. Then, when he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “Wine frauds? Forgery?”
“Yes,” said George. “Everybody knows about those fake watches and designer jeans. But not everybody