The World According to Bertie - Alexander Hanchett Smith [3]
Matthew had not liked Bruce, although he had tolerated his company on occasion in the Cumberland Bar. Matthew was a modest person, and Bruce’s constant bragging had annoyed him. But he had also felt jealous of the way in which Bruce could capture Pat’s attention, even if it had become clear that she had eventually seen through him.
‘Yes. He did wear them, didn’t he? Along with that stupid rugby jersey. He was such a . . .’ He did not complete the sentence. There was really no word which was capable of capturing just the right mixture of egoism, hair gel and preening self-satisfaction that made up Bruce’s personality.
Pat moved away from Matthew’s desk and gazed out of the window. ‘I think that I just saw Bruce,’ she said. ‘I think he might be back.’
Matthew rose from his desk and joined her at the window. ‘Now?’ he said. ‘Out there?’
Pat shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Further up. I was on the bus and I saw him – I’m pretty sure I did.’
Matthew sniffed. ‘What was he doing?’
‘Walking,’ said Pat. ‘Wearing chinos and a rugby jersey. Just walking.’
‘Well, I don’t care,’ said Matthew. ‘He can come back if he likes. Makes no difference to me. He’s such a . . .’ Again Matthew failed to find a word. He looked at Pat. There was something odd about her manner; it was as if she was thinking about something, and this raised a sudden presentiment in Matthew. What if Pat were to fall for Bruce again? Such things happened; people encountered one another after a long absence and fell right back in love. It was precisely the sort of thing that novelists liked to write about; there was something heroic, something of the epic, in doing a thing like that. And if she fell back in love with Bruce, then she would fall out of love with me, thought Matthew; if she ever loved me, that is.
He stuffed his papers into his briefcase and moved across to Pat’s side. She half-turned her cheek to him, and he planted a kiss on it, leaving a small speck of spittle, which Pat wiped off. ‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered.
‘It’s nothing,’ said Pat, adding, ‘Just spit.’
Matthew looked at her. He felt flushed, awkward. ‘I’ll be back later,’ he said. ‘But if you need to go, then just shut up the shop. We probably won’t be very busy.’
Pat nodded.
Matthew tried to smile. ‘And then maybe . . . maybe we can go and see a film tonight. There’s something at the Cameo, something Czech, I think. Something about a woman who . . .’
‘Do you mind if we don’t?’ said Pat. ‘I’ve got an essay to write and if I don’t do it soon, then Dr Fantouse will go on and on at me, and . . .’
‘Of course,’ said Matthew. ‘Dr Fantouse. All right. I’ll see you on . . .’
‘Wednesday.’
‘Yes. All right.’ Matthew walked towards the door. Nobody wrote essays on Saturday night – he was convinced of that, and this meant that she was planning to do something else; she would go to the Cumberland Bar in the hope of meeting Bruce – that was it.
Leaving the gallery, Matthew began to walk up Dundas Street. Glancing to his side, he looked through the gallery window. Pat was still standing there, and he gave her a little wave with his left hand, but she did not respond. She didn’t see me, he thought. She’s preoccupied.
3. Famous Sons and Gothic Seasoning
Matthew was wrong about Pat. He had imagined that her claim to be writing an essay that Saturday night was probably false and that in reality she would be doing something quite different – something in which she did not want him to be involved. But although it is true that students very rarely do any work on Saturday evenings– except in extremis – in this case, Pat was telling the truth, as she always did. There really was an essay to be completed and it really did have to be handed in to Dr Fantouse the following Monday. And this indeed was the reason why she declined Matthew’s invitation to the Czech film at the Cameo cinema.
Pat closed the gallery shortly after three that afternoon. Matthew had not returned and business was slack – non-existent, in fact, with not