“I’m so bad at catching the eyes of young men at parties,” he said airily. “Such a limitation! Perhaps you could do it for me?”
Pat looked across the room and immediately attracted the attention of the waiter, who came over to them and refilled Angus Lordie’s glass. Pat, who was generally abstemious, asked for only half a glass.
Angus Lordie looked again at Pat. His gaze was intense, Pat felt, and it was almost as if he were appraising her. But she did not feel threatened in any way – why? Because he was an artist looking at a potential subject, rather than a middle-aged roue looking at a girl?
“Yes,” he said, resuming the interrupted conversation.
“Sydney was one of the lights of this city, one of our great makars. Would it be rude of me to say that I assume that you’ve not read any of his work? No? Well, there’s a treat for you. He was a great man – a great man. He loved his drink, you know, as all our poets have done. If the Scottish Arts Council had any imagination, it would have a system of whisky grants for poets, rather like the Civil List pension that Grieve got. Each poet would receive a couple of bottles a month – once they had produced a decent work between covers. What a gesture that would be!
“Sydney sometimes had these sessions that would last all night and into the morning. Conversation. Friendship. Wonderful ideas bouncing about. Beautiful invented words. And, do you know, he had this terribly funny toast that he would give from time to time. He’d raise his glass and say: ‘
Wonderfully funny.”
Pat frowned. “But why would he say that?”
Angus Lordie looked at her in astonishment. “But, my dear, he didn’t mean it! Good heavens! Do you think any of us here –” and with a gesture he embraced the entire room and GRIEVE: Christopher Murray Grieve, better known as the Scottish poet Hugh MacDiarmid.
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the northern part of the city from Queen Street onwards, “Do you think any of us here actually mean anything we say? My dear!”
“I do,” said Pat.
“You mean everything you say?”Angus Lordie exclaimed. “My dear, how innocent you are!” He paused. Then: “Would you mind posing for me – in my studio? Would you mind?”
Domenica and Pat left the reception at the Scottish National Portrait Gallery shortly before nine. Pat was hungry but she nevertheless turned down Domenica’s invitation to join her in her flat for a mushroom omelette. She liked her neighbour, and enjoyed her company, but she knew that if she accepted then she would not get to bed before eleven at least, as Domenica liked to talk. Her conversation ranged widely and it was entertaining enough, but Pat felt emotionally exhausted and she wanted nothing more than to take to her bed with a sandwich, a glass of milk, and a telephone. She had not spoken to her father for some time and she felt that a chat with him would help, as it always did.
She said goodbye to Domenica on the landing.
“I hope you’re feeling better,” said the older woman. “And remember what I said. Whatever you do, don’t let him upset you. Just don’t.”
Pat smiled at her. “I won’t,” she assured her. “I promise you.”
“Good,” said Domenica, and leaned forward and planted a kiss on Pat’s cheek. Her lips felt dry against her skin and there was a faint odour of expensive perfume. For a moment Pat stood still; she had not expected this intimacy – if it was an intimacy.
Everybody kissed one another these days; kisses meant nothing.
Then the moment of uncertainty passed, and she thanked Domenica for the evening. “You’ve been so kind to me,” she said.
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“I haven’t,” said Domenica, turning her key in the door. “I’ve been a neighbour, that’s all. And you’re a sweet girl.”
Domenica’s door closed behind her and Pat went into her own flat. The hall was in darkness as she entered and she reached to switch on a light. Then she stopped; light was emanating from under Bruce’s door. So he’s back, she thought. He can’t have had much of an evening.
The thought pleased her. She wanted him to be there – as in a sense that meant that he was with her. And that was what she wanted; she wanted it against all the promptings of the rational part of her being.
She stood still for a moment, in the darkness of the hall, debating with herself what to do. She and Bruce had parted on awkward terms that evening. She had been angered by his failure to apologise for giving away her painting, and she had stormed out of the kitchen. Now she felt that she wanted to make it up with him; she should tell him that she was not holding it against him and that all she wanted was for him to give her the telephone number of the people who had won the picture.
Getting it back from them might not be easy, and Bruce’s support might be needed in that, but in the meantime she could do all that was necessary.
She decided to knock on his door and speak to him. Perhaps he would suggest that they have coffee together or that . . . What do I really want? she asked herself.
She now stood before his door and knocked gently. There was silence inside, and then, hesitantly, Bruce’s voice called out.
