The World According to Bertie - Alexander Hanchett Smith [111]
‘One to whom you can talk?’ Domenica regretted saying this the moment she spoke, but Antonia appeared not to have taken offence.
‘You know that I’m writing a novel about the early Scottish saints?’ she said. ‘Well, I shall look for a man who is the modern equivalent of the hero of my book.’
Domenica picked up her glass of green ginger wine and glanced at Antonia over the rim. ‘Are we being practical?’ she asked. ‘Are there any saints out there?’
Antonia met her gaze. ‘I’m sure there are. It’s only a question of finding them.’
‘And it will have to be an unmarried saint.’
Antonia nodded. ‘Naturally.’
‘But where exactly will you find a contemporary saint?’ said Domenica. ‘It’s hard enough to meet any half-decent man these days, let alone somebody saintly.’
Antonia thought for a moment. Then she said: ‘Saintly men presumably go to church. I shall find one at St Giles’ perhaps, or the Episcopal Cathedral over on Palmerston Place. I find Episcopalian men rather interesting, don’t you?’
Domenica stared at her neighbour. She wondered if she was perhaps not quite feeling herself, if she needed to see somebody. First, there had been the ridiculous affair with Markus, and now there was this absurd notion that she would meet a man in church. It really was ridiculous, she thought; quite unrealistic, risible really.
‘Are you quite serious?’ she asked gently.
‘Of course,’ said Antonia, setting her teacup down on the table. It was a blue Spode teacup, the companion of the one which had appeared next door and which Domenica believed had been stolen.
‘I’ve got a cup just like that,’ said Antonia casually.
Domenica drew in her breath sharply. Antonia was a dangerous, deluded woman – an unrepentant stealer of teacups, a Siren to Polish builders, a predator really. She – Domenica – would have to proceed extremely carefully.
73. Julia Makes a Joyful Discovery
It was now almost two weeks since Bruce had moved into Julia’s flat in Howe Street. It had been for both of them a blissful fortnight. For Bruce, it had been a period marked by the discovery of just how comfortable it was to have one’s every whim catered for. Julia cooked for him, and made just the dishes he liked – risotto, truffle oil salad, venison pie – while she also attended to his wardrobe, sewing buttons back on those shirts from which they had dropped, pressing his trousers and generally making sure that he had everything that he wanted. She also drove Bruce about town in the small sports car which her father had given her for her last birthday, taking him to the gym and spa, to the squash club, and wherever else he needed to go.
For Bruce, the bargain was a good one. He was looked after in return for his company – not a bad arrangement, he felt, even if there were times when he found her a bit overbearing and perhaps just a little bit too anxious to please. Although he had his own room in the flat, it had rapidly become no more than a dressing room, where he kept his clothes and his supplies of hair gel and what he referred to as his après-rasage. He and Julia now shared her bedroom, which was dominated by a queen-size bed on which large red cushions were scattered. On each side of the bed, there was a small table stacked with magazines – Vanity Fair, Harpers & Queen, Cosmopolitan on her side, and on Bruce’s, Gentleman’s Quarterly and High Performance Car, all of them bought by Julia.
Julia liked to lie on top of the bed, paging through the magazines, a small plate of cashew and macadamia nuts beside her. ‘This is bliss,’ she said. ‘I’m so happy.’
‘Good,’ said Bruce. He wanted her to be happy – not too happy, perhaps, but happy enough. If she were to become too happy, then he feared that she might start talking about commitment and permanence, as women tended to do, and this was not on the agenda, as far as he was concerned.
Julia had a small diary in which she noted certain facts. On one page of this diary – a day which coincided with Bruce