She bit her lip. She could not speak.
“Yes, it must be hard for you to deal with,” he went on. “Me and Sally. And there’s you. Hard.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Pat muttered, her face burning with shame.
Bruce took several steps forward and stood next to her. He touched her on the shoulder, and then moved his hand across to lay it gently against her cheek.
“You’re burning up,” he said. “Poor Pat. You’re burning up.
Poor wee girl. You’re on fire.”
She moved a hand to brush him away from her cheek, but Bruce simply closed his hand about hers.
“Look,” he said. “Let’s be adult about this. I’m involved with this American girl, but not as involved as you might think. I’m not going to marry her after all. I’ll still go out with her, but it’s nothing permanent. So I can make you happy too. Why not?
Share me.”
296
For a moment Pat said nothing. Then, as the meaning of his words became clear to her, she gasped, involuntarily, and pulled her hand away from his grasp. Then she pushed her chair back, knocking it over, and stumbled to her feet. She looked at him, and saw him quite clearly, more clearly than she would have believed possible. And she was filled with revulsion.
“I don’t believe it,” she whispered. “I don’t believe it.”
Bruce smiled, and then shrugged. “Offer’s on the table, Patsy girl. Think about it. My door is always open, as they say.”
In her misery, she hardly remembered the journey across town by bus, or the walk from Churchhill to the family house in the Grange.
Her father was alone in the house – her mother was in Perth for several days, visiting her sister – and he was waiting for her solicitously in the hall. She fumbled with her key and he opened the door to let her in, immediately putting his arm about her.
“My dear,” he said. “My dear.”
She looked up at him. He had realised from her telephone call that there was something wrong, and he was there, waiting for her, as he had always been. It had never been her mother who had comforted her over the bruises of childhood – she had seemed so distant, not intentionally, but because that was her way, the result of an inhibited, unhappy youth. Her father, though, had always been at hand to explain, to comfort, to sympathise.
They went through to the family living room. He had been reading, and there were several books and journals scattered across the coffee table. And there, near the chair, were his slippers – the leather slippers that she had bought him from Jenners for a birthday some years ago.
“I don’t think I even have to ask you,” he said. “It’s that young man, is it not? That young man in the flat.”
It did not surprise her that he should have guessed. He had
297
always had an intuitive ability to work out what was happening, the ability to see what it was that was troubling people. She imagined that this came from years of experience with his patients, listening to them, understanding their distress.
She nodded. “Yes.”
“And?”
“I thought I liked him. Now I don’t.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. But I’m . . . I’m a bit upset.”
Her father took his arm from her shoulder. “Of course you’re upset. Falling out of love is every bit as painful as falling out of a tree – and the pain lasts far longer. Most of us have shed pints of tears about that.
“From what you told me about that young man, I would say that he has a narcissistic personality disorder. Such people are very interesting. They’re not necessarily malevolent people – not at all
– but they can be very destructive in the way they treat others.”
Pat had discussed Bruce with her father, briefly, shortly after she had moved into the flat in Scotland Street. He had listened with apparent interest, but had said nothing.
“He’s just so pleased with himself,” she said. “He thinks that everyone, everyone, fancies him. He really does.”
Her father laughed. “Of course he does. And the reason for that is that he sees himself as being just perfect. There’s nothing wrong with him, in his mind. And he thinks that everybody else sees things the same way.”
Pat thought about this. By falling for Bruce – that embarrassing aberration on her part – she had behaved exactly as he had thought she would behave. It had been no surprise to him that she had done this; this was exactly what women did, what he expected them to do.
She turned to her father. “Is it his fault?”
Her father raised an eyebrow. “Fault? That’s interesting.
What’s fault got to do with it?”
