was used to being turned down by women, and had come to expect it. He was not sure why he should be so unlucky, but had a suspicion that it was something to do with his eyes. He knew that they had strange grey flecks in them and he feared that there was something about that which disturbed women – some primeval signal that warned them off men with grey-flecked eyes.
He had noticed women looking into his eyes and then frowning; indeed, he had seen Pat do that when they had had that conversation on the way to their encounter with Ian Rankin.
It was very unfair. There was Pat, who was attractive in every sense, throwing herself away on that vain flatmate of hers, who presumably had an insufferable conceit of himself. And there he was, Matthew, who only wanted to give Pat some fun and take her to dinner at the Cafe St Honore and spoil her. Bruce would treat her badly – that was obvious – and she would be horribly upset. He would treat her well and maybe, just maybe, there would be some future in it for both of them. There would be no future with Bruce.
He almost wanted to tell her, to warn her, but it would seem odd to speak like that, like an older brother, or even a parent.
And so he was silent, at least on that subject, and she spoke no more of it either.
The Cumberland Bar, when they reached it, was already filling with early-evening drinkers.
“Busy,” said Matthew, scanning the heads for signs of the crowd. None of them was there, which rather pleased him. He wanted to be with Pat, and the presence of members of the crowd could distract her attention.
They found a couple of seats together and Matthew went to the bar to buy Pat the glass of Chardonnay she had requested.
Then, glasses in hand, he made his way back to their table and sat down beside her.
“Do you know many of these people?” asked Pat, looking at the crush of figures that was forming around the bar.
“A few,” said Matthew, raising his glass of Guinness in a toast.
“Here’s to you. Thanks for getting the picture back.”
“To Ian Rankin,” Pat replied. “What a nice man.”
241
“A real softie,” said Matthew.
Pat was not sure what to make of this. Did Matthew consider him a softie because he had given the painting back? That was nothing to do with being a softie. That was to do with principles.
For a few moments she felt irritated. Who was Matthew to call anybody a softie, when he so obviously was the softie? No, Ian Rankin was no softie, what with his designer stubble and the black tee-shirts.
She decided not to say anything about this. “And now what?”
she said. “What do we do about that painting? Shouldn’t we get an opinion on it now?”
Matthew agreed with her. He was not sure, though, who they would get to do this. That would require some thought because he did not like the idea of being humiliated by some condescending art expert. He had already secretly imagined the scene in which the expert, looking down his nose, would sneer at him. “Peploe? You must be joking! What on earth makes you think this is a Peploe?”
She was waiting for Matthew’s reply when she looked up to see a familiar figure coming towards her. For a moment she had difficulty placing him, but then she remembered: Angus Lordie, the man she had talked to at the Scottish National Portrait Gallery after the lecture. He had come into the bar, looked around him, and seen her at the table. She noticed, too, that it was not just him, but his dog as well – a black collie with a lop-sided ear and sharp eyes.
Angus Lordie had entered the Cumberland Bar in low spirits, but seeing Pat he broke into a wide smile.
“My dear!” he exclaimed, as he approached their table. “Such a perfect setting for you! Even a bar in the St Germain could do no more justice than this simple establishment! And at your side, your young gallant . . .”
“This is Matthew,” said Pat quickly. “I work with him at his gallery.”
Angus Lordie nodded in Matthew’s direction and extended a hand. “I would normally not shake hands with a dealer, sir,” he said with a smile. “But in your case, I am happy to do so. Angus Lordie.”
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Matthew rose from his seat and shook the outstretched hand.
Pat noticed that he did not seem to be very enthusiastic, and for a moment she felt pity for him. Their private celebration, it would seem, was over.
“And now,” said Angus Lordie, handing his dog’s lead to Pat,
“if you wouldn’t mind holding Cyril for a moment, I’ll go and get myself a drink.”
Pat took the end of the lead and tugged gently to bring Cyril towards the table. The dog looked at her for a moment and then, to her astonishment, gave her a wink. Then he took a few steps forward and sat down next to her chair, turning to look up at her as he did so. Again he winked, and then bared his teeth in what looked like a smile. Pat noticed the glint of the gold tooth which Domenica had mentioned at the reception.
Pat leant over towards Matthew. “This is a very strange dog,”
she said. “Do you see his gold tooth?’
Matthew looked down into his Guinness. “I had hoped that we would be able to have a celebration. Just you and me. Now it looks as if . . .”
