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Will said nothing for a moment. Then he asked Bruce about his plans.
“I’m fed up to here with surveying,” said Bruce. “So I thought I might try something in the wine trade. Something that will allow me to use my knowledge.”
Will looked thoughtful. “You have to work your way up,” he said. “It’s like any business.”
“Yes, yes,” said Bruce. “But I know the subject. I would have thought I could start somewhere in the middle and then get my MW in a year or so.”
“It’s not that simple,” said Will.
“Oh, I know,” said Bruce. “But I’m prepared to wait. A year, eighteen months, max.”
Will stared at Bruce. He was uncertain what to say.
Bruce was quite pleased with the way in which the meeting with Will Lyons had gone. He had been able to set him right on one or two matters – including the primacy of New World wines –
and he had also been able to change his mind, he was sure, about Chardonnay. It was strange, thought Bruce, that somebody like that should be prepared to drink Chardonnay when everybody else was getting thoroughly sick of it.
And the end result of all this was that Will had offered to speak to somebody and find out if there were any openings coming up in the wine trade. Bruce was confident that there would be such an opportunity, and had decided that he might as well hand in his resignation at Macaulay Holmes Richardson Black. He would probably have to work out a month or two of notice, but that would mean that he could take a holiday for a month or so before starting in the wine trade.
Todd would probably try to persuade him to stay, but he would refuse. He could just imagine the scene: Todd would talk about 294
the training the firm had given him – “Does that mean nothing to you, Bruce? – and he would try to appeal to his better nature.
But all that would be in vain.
“I’m very sorry,” he would say. “I’m very sorry, Mr Todd, but my mind is made up. I’ve got nothing against Macaulay Holmes and so on but I really feel that I need something more stimulating. Less dull.”
That would floor Todd – to hear his world described as dull.
Bruce relished the thought. He might go on a bit, although he would not really want to rub it in. “Being a surveyor is all right for some,” he would say. “I’m sure that you’re happy enough doing it, but some of us need something which requires, how shall I put it, a little bit more flair.”
Poor Todd! He would have no answer to that. It would almost be cruel, but it needed to be said and it would make up for all the humiliation that Bruce had endured in having to listen to those penny-lectures from his employer. All that going on about professional ethics and obligation and good business practice and all the rest; no more of that for Bruce. And in its place would come wine-tastings and buying trips to California, and the opportunity to mix with those glamorous, leggy, upper-crust girls who tended to frequent the edges of the wine trade. What an invigorating thought! – and it was all so close. All that he needed to do was find the job.
It occurred to Bruce that it would be nice if he were to be interviewed for the job by a woman. Bruce knew that he could get women to do anything he wanted them to do, and if he could somehow engineer things that the job decision was to be made by a woman, then he was confident that he would walk into it.
He had returned to the flat and was sitting in the kitchen, thinking of this delicious future, when he heard the door open.
That would be Pat, poor girl, coming home from a dull evening somewhere. He would be nice to her, he decided; he could afford to be generous, now that things were going so well for him.
When Pat came into the kitchen, Bruce gave her a smile.
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“Cup of coffee?” he said. “I was going to make myself one.”
Pat blushed. She tried to stop herself, but she blushed, and he noticed, for he smiled again. Poor girl: she can’t look at me without blushing.
Bruce rose to his feet and went to the coffee grinder.
“I’ll make you something really nice,” he said. “Irish coffee. I learned how to do it in Dublin. We went over for a rugby tour once and one of the Irish guys taught me how to make Irish coffee. I’ll make you a cup.”
“I’m not sure,” said Pat, faltering. “I’m a bit tired.”
“Nonsense,” said Bruce. “Sit down. I won’t make it too strong.”
Pat sat down at the kitchen table and watched him going about the business of making the coffee. She could not help but stare at the shape of his back and the casual way he stood; at his arms, half-exposed by the rolled-up sleeves of his dark-blue rugby jersey; and she thought:
He turned round suddenly and saw her staring at him. He lowered his eyes, as if in embarrassment, and then looked up again.
“It’s hard for you, isn’t it?” he said.
