The World According to Bertie - Alexander Hanchett Smith [123]
He looked at Bruce. ‘Would you mind if I had a frank talk with you?’ he asked suddenly. ‘I’ve never been one to beat about the bush – I don’t see the point. Man to man. Much better.’
Bruce froze. She’s told him, he thought. She’s gone and told him.
‘You see,’ said Graeme, ‘we’re not a big family. I lost my wife, as you may know, some time ago.’
Bruce thought of Julia’s mother, lost at the Iguazu Falls. He nodded.
‘And so I’m very close to Julia,’ Graeme went on. ‘And the one thing I want is her happiness. That means more to me than anything. Can you understand that?’
Bruce nodded. This was going to be very embarrassing.
‘So if there’s a young man who’s keen to marry her,’ said Graeme, ‘then that young man . . .’ he paused for a moment, fixing him with a direct stare, ‘whoever he might turn out to be, will find himself very . . . how should I put it? . . . very well provided for. In fact, he would find himself in the business, as a director. And Julia, of course, would end up with a very nice share of the business, too – the whole lot, eventually. For instance, that wine bar in George Street. The young man would probably rather like being the . . . being the owner of that. And there are two parking garages that go with it, you know. He would need somewhere to park the little runabout that would go with the job. Not that a Porsche needs all that much space, of course!’
For a few moments, there was complete silence, at least in the drawing room. In the kitchen, there was the sound of a mixer whirring and then a metal spoon scraping against the side of a pot.
Bruce had been taken aback by the directness of the approach, but at least Graeme had made his position clear. And why shouldn’t he? Bruce asked himself. He was making an offer, and what point was there in making the offer less than clear?
Bruce did a rapid calculation. A wine bar in George Street would be worth well over a million. And that was without the other things that Graeme had hinted at. Life was a battle, Bruce thought, and here was he with nothing very much to show for the last six years. Look at Neil in that flat in Comely Bank, stuck there for the foreseeable future, struggling to make ends meet on what was probably a perfectly good salary. How long would that mortgage be? Twenty-five years? Anything would be better than that, anything.
He looked at Graeme, who was smiling at him nervously. ‘You . . . you’ve spelled it out,’ said Bruce. ‘Nobody could excuse you of . . .’
‘Being oversubtle?’ supplied Graeme.
‘Well . . .’ said Bruce.
Graeme raised a hand. ‘Julia seems very fond of you.’
‘And I’m fond of her,’ Bruce said, which he was; in a way. He was reasonably fond of her, for all her . . . all her empty-headedness. No. Time to call it quits. Every bachelor has to face it, he thought. And this was, after all, a magnificent landing.
‘All right, if I have your permission,’ said Bruce, ‘I’d like to ask Julia to marry me.’
‘You have it,’ said Graeme quickly. He reached out for Bruce’s hand and shook it. ‘I think she’ll be very pleased.’
‘Good,’ said Bruce. ‘I’ll . . .’
‘Go through now,’ said Graeme. ‘Go and speak to her. I’ll stay here. But you go and pop the question.’ He paused, rubbing his hands together. ‘And tell me, when’s the happy day to be?’
‘The wedding? Well, I don’t know . . .’
‘No, not that,’ said Graeme. ‘You know what I mean.’
81. Distresssed Beige
On the day on which Bruce’s situation became so dramatically better, Matthew, whose long-term prospects had improved markedly on his meeting with Miss Harmony, now faced short-term discomfort in his relationship with Pat. He had decided