It hardly did to think of all this, and Bruce, turning over crossly in his bed, tried to think of something else. There were 78
plenty of other girls waiting for him, positively counting the minutes before he would say something to them, give them some sign of favour.
That morning he stayed in bed until twelve. Then, lazily swinging his legs over the side of the bed, allowing himself just the quickest of glances at the full-length mirror at the other end of the room, he dressed himself slowly – a pair of jeans, a rugby shirt, slip-on brown shoes. Then there was hair gel to apply and a quick shave in front of another mirror, one that enlarged the face. He stroked his chin, applying a small amount of sandalwood cologne. There was no sign of ageing, he thought; no wrinkles –
yet – no sagging. Some people began to age in their twenties, or even before; not me, thought Bruce. I do not sag.
He left the flat, bounding down the common stairway two steps at a time, his footsteps echoing against the walls. Then out on to the street and a quick walk uphill and around the corner to the Cumberland Bar, where George Salter was waiting for him.
They shook hands. “Long time,” said George.
Bruce nodded. He liked George, whom he had known since Crieff days. They were an unlikely pair, in many respects; George, who was much shorter than Bruce, with fair, close-cropped hair and a slight chubbiness, lacked Bruce’s dress sense and feeling for the cool. His clothes, which always seemed slightly too tight for him, would never have been worn by Bruce; poor George, thought Bruce, with amusement; he really doesn’t get it.
For all his failure to keep up with Bruce, George admired his old friend immensely. At school, he had worshipped him, to be rewarded with the occasional invitation and the general sense of privilege that went with being associated with somebody such as Bruce. He would have liked to have been as confident as Bruce was; to have had his flair; to have been able to talk like him – which I shall never be able to do, he concluded miserably, simply because I’m not clever enough. Bruce is clever.
George bought Bruce a drink and they made their way to a table.
“I hear you’ve resigned,” said George. “Fed up?”
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Bruce looked carelessly at the door. “Absolutely,” he said. “I was bored out of my skin. It was the same thing every day, that job. Sheer tedium.” He paused, and took a sip of his pint of Guinness. “Of course, they begged me to stay.”
“Offered more money?”
“That sort of thing,” said Bruce. “But no deal.”
George smiled ruefully. “I admire your determination,” he said. “Last time I was offered more money to stay, I accepted it like a shot.”
Bruce looked at his friend. Would anybody seriously have offered George money to stay? It seemed a somewhat unlikely claim.
“So what now?” asked George. “Are you looking around?”
“I’ve got a few irons in the fire,” Bruce said casually. “One, in particular. The wine business.”
George’s expression revealed that he was impressed. Bruce would be an ideal wine dealer in his view. He looked the part.
Bruce inspected his fingernails. “Yes,” he went on. “It’s an interesting business, one way and another. You have to know what you’re doing, but I’ve got the basics and can pick up the rest as I go along. I thought that I might do the MW course.”
George was enthusiastic. “Great idea. You’d have no difficulty with that. You’d walk it. Remember how easy you found Higher Physics.”
“Maybe,” said Bruce. “It’s not in the bag yet, though.”
There was a silence, during which Bruce glanced at George once or twice. An idea was forming in his mind. It was strange, he thought, that it had not occurred to him before, but it was really very obvious once one began to think of it. George, for all his shortcomings, had one major asset. He had capital.
“Are you interested in wine?” Bruce asked.
“Very,” said George. “I don’t know as much about it as you do, of course. But I like it. Sure.”
Bruce thought quickly. If he had some capital at his disposal, then he would not have to look for a job in the wine trade: he could make his own job. He could take a lease on a shop somewhere in the New Town and start from there. Wine was 80
expensive, and one would need . . . what? One hundred thousand to start with?
He picked up his glass and tipped it back to drain the dregs of the Guinness.
“Let me buy you a drink,” he said to George. “And then I want to tell you about a scheme I’ve just thought up. And it involves you!”
George looked up at his friend with frank admiration. He had always wanted to be Bruce, but never could be; a silly, irrational desire.
“Great,” he said. “Me? Great.”
