There had been men, of course, but they had treated her badly.
One had been a married man who had harboured no intention of leaving his wife for Big Lou; another had been a chef on an oil rig, who had left her to take up a job in Galveston, cooking for Texan oilmen. He had written to tell her about his life in Texas and also to tell her not to come out to join him. Galveston was no place for a woman, he had said.
Big Lou kept this letter, as it was one of the few personal letters she had ever received. She wanted to keep it, too, because she loved this man, this oily cook, and she hoped that one day he might return, although she knew this would never happen.
Matthew negotiated his way down the stairs that led to Big Lou’s coffee bar. They were hazardous stairs, down which Hugh MacDiarmid had fallen on at least two occasions in the days when the bookshop had been there. Then, it had been the unevenness of the tread; now, to this peril was added the hazard of a collapsed railing. Big Lou had intended to fix it, but this had never been done.
The coffee bar had been divided into booths – low divisions that enabled the tops of heads to be seen above the wooden parti-tions. The booths were comfortable, though, and Big Lou never encouraged her customers to hurry. So one might sit there all day, if one wished, and not feel any of the unease that one might feel elsewhere.
Matthew usually stayed for an hour or so, although if the conversation was good he might sit there for two hours, or even more. He was joined each morning by Ronnie and his friend, Pete, furniture restorers who occupied a workshop in a lane off an elegant New Town crescent. Ronnie specialised in cabinet work, while Pete was a French polisher and upholsterer. They had worked together for two years, having met in a pub after what had been a traumatic afternoon for their football team. Matthew knew nothing about football, which interested him not at all, and by unspoken agreement they kept off the topic. But Matthew sensed that there were unresolved football issues somewhere beneath the surface, as there so often are with upholsterers.
Ronnie was married; Pete was not. Matthew had only known Ronnie since he had taken over the gallery, and during this time he had not had the opportunity to meet Ronnie’s wife, Mags.
But he had heard a great deal about her, some of it from Pete, and some from Ronnie himself.
When Ronnie was not there, Pete was voluble on the subject of Mags.
“I wouldn’t bother to meet her,” he said. “She’ll hate you.”
Matthew raised an eyebrow. “I don’t see why she should hate me. Why?”
32
“Oh, it’s not you,” said Pete. “It’s nothing personal. Mags could even like you until she found out.”
Matthew was puzzled. “Until she found out what?”
“That you’re a friend of Ronnie’s,” explained Pete. “You see, Mags hates Ronnie’s friends. She’s jealous of them, I suppose, and she can’t help herself. She looks at them like this. See? And they don’t like it.”
Matthew winced. “What about you? Does she hate you?”
“Oh yes,” said Pete. “Although she tries to hide it. But I can tell that she hates me.”
“What’s the point?”
Pete shrugged. “None that I can see. But she does it nonetheless.”
Big Lou had been listening to this conversation from behind her counter. Now she chipped in.
“She hates you because you threaten her,” she said. “Only insecure people hate others. I’ve read about it. There’s a book called
The two men turned and looked at Big Lou.
“Are you sure?” asked Pete after a while. “Is that it?”
“Yes,” said Big Lou. “Mags hates Ronnie’s friends because she’s afraid of losing him and because they take him away from her. How much time does Ronnie spend talking with Mags?
Have you ever seen him talk to her?”
“Never,” mused Pete. “Never.”
“Well, there you are,” said Big Lou. “Mags feels neglected.”
Pete was about to say something in response to this when he suddenly stiffened and tapped Matthew on the forearm.
“They’re here,” he whispered. “Ronnie, with Mags in tow.”
Matthew turned round to look. Ronnie was making his way down the steps, followed by a woman in a flowing Paisley dress and light brown suede boots. The woman was carrying a bulging shopping bag and a folded copy of a magazine. As they entered the coffee bar, Ronnie exchanged a glance with Pete and then turned to Mags to point to the booth where his two friends were sitting.
She followed his glance and then, Matthew noticed, she frowned.
33
Ronnie approached the booth.
“This is Mags,” he said, almost apologetically. “Mags, this is Matthew. You haven’t met him before. Matthew’s a friend of mine.”
Matthew stood up and extended a hand to Mags.
“Why do you stand up?” she said sharply. “Do you stand up for everybody, or is it just because I’m a
