slightly frightened.
Sasha had been able to reassure them, though: nothing to worry about, she had said. Very well written, but nothing like that ever happens in Edinburgh. Or at least not in the Braids.
She moved to the Frame section in Ottakars. There was
It was while she was examining the
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standing on her right, examining a shelf of wine books. And a further glance revealed that it was Bruce, the young man from the firm who had come to the Edinburgh South Conservative Association Ball at the Braid Hills Hotel. She had liked him even before the ball and his courteous behaviour on that evening – he had been extremely polite to Ramsey Dunbarton when he was going on about having been the Duke of Plaza-Toro in some dreadful operetta back in the year dot – had endeared him further to her. And he was terribly good-looking too, bearing in mind that he came from somewhere like Dunfermline, or was it Crieff?
She moved towards him and he looked up from the wine atlas he had been studying.
“Mrs Todd!”
“Please, not Mrs Todd,” she said. “Please – Sasha.”
Bruce smiled. “Sasha.”
“You’re looking at wine books,” she said, peering at the atlas.
“I wish I knew more about wine. Raeburn is quite informed, but I’m not.”
Bruce smirked. Raeburn Todd would know nothing about wine, in his view. He would drink – what would he drink? Chardonnay!
“I find the subject very interesting,” said Bruce. “And this atlas looks really useful. Look at this map. All the estates are listed in this tiny section of river bank. Amazing. Pity about the price, though. It’s really expensive.”
Sasha took the wine atlas from him and glanced at the back cover. Eighty-five pounds did seem like a lot of money for a book, but then the thought crossed her mind. Eighty-five pounds was not a great deal of money if you had over four hundred thousand pounds.
“Let me get it for you as a present,” she said suddenly. And then she added: “And then let me take you for lunch at the Cafe St Honore. Do you know it? It’s just round the corner.”
“But I couldn’t,” protested Bruce. “I couldn’t let you.”
“Please,’ she said. “Let me do this. I’ve just had wonderful good fortune and I want to share it. Please let me do this – just this once.”
Bruce hesitated for a moment, but only for a moment. Women 312
were always doing this sort of thing for him. They couldn’t help themselves.
“All right,” he said. “But at least let me buy us a bottle of wine at the restaurant. What do you like?”
“Chardonnay,” said Sasha.
They sat at a table for two, near the window. Bruce, who had completed a survey earlier than he had expected, was pleased to spend the few hours that he had in hand having lunch, and if this was in the company of an attractive woman (even if slightly blowsy) and at her expense, then all the better. The survey in question had been a singularly unpleasant chore – looking around a poky flat off Easter Road. The flat had been modernised by a developer in shim-sham style, with chip-board cupboards and glossy wallpaper. Bruce had shuddered, and had written in a low valuation, which would limit the price which the developer got for the property. Now, in the considerably more pleasing surroundings of the Cafe St Honore one might almost be in Paris, and he sat back and perused the menu with interest.
“I’m rather glad I bumped into you,” said Sasha, fingering the gold bracelet on her wrist. “I had been wanting to talk to you.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow. “I enjoyed the ball,” he said. “Even if there were very few people there. More like a private party.
Good fun.”
Sasha smiled. “You were very good to poor old Ramsey Dunbarton,” she said. “It can’t have been much fun for you, listening to him going on about being the Duke of Plaza-Toro.”
Bruce smiled. One could afford to be generous about the boring when people found one so fascinating. “It meant a lot to him, I suppose,” he said. “Who was the Duke of Plaza-Toro anyway? Was he in the Tory Party?”
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Sasha laughed. “Very droll,” she said. “Now listen, did you talk to my daughter at all?”
“I did,” said Bruce. “We got on rather well.”
