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stood. There would be no shadow-boxing with him over price
– Harry would come right out with it, man to man, and you would know that the price he was asking was a fair one.
Harry began to page through his list. “France,” he said. “Main choices: Bordeaux and Burgundy. I can do both for you at very good prices – including, since you mention it, Chateau Petrus.
I did tell you about a Petrus opportunity, didn’t I?”
Bruce nodded. “I must confess I’ve never had a bottle of that,”
he said.
“Bottle!” said Harry. “Most people would count themselves lucky to get a glass! But . . .” He lowered his voice, although the bar was quite empty. “But I have my sources, and I can get you three cases, yes, three cases of the 1990! It’ll drink well in a few years, but it will keep for at least thirty. Not that it’ll be keeping on your shelves, Bruce! You put that stuff on your shelf, word gets round, and in no time at all you’ll have half of Scotland beating a path to your door.”
“What makes it so great?” asked Bruce.
“Oh, please Louise! – as our non-rugby-playing friends would say. That stuff is perfection. Balanced just right. Subtle aromas.
Deep purple. Bags of complexity. Everything, all in one bottle.
You taste it, Bruce, and you’ll think that you’ve died and gone to heaven. It’s the stuff the Pope drinks. Fantastic!”
“So that’s why it’s expensive?”
Harry nodded. “Look at the wine auction records. That wine goes through the roof. Two thousand pounds a bottle – easy! –
if it’s the right vintage. The 1990 goes for eight hundred a bottle.
That’s not per case, Bruce, that’s per bottle. So nine thousand quid a case, for starters. Unless . . .”
Bruce, who had been looking at the floor, now looked up.
“Unless . . .”
Harry lowered his voice again. “Unless you have contacts.
And I do. I have friends out there in Pomerol. Old friends. They see me right.”
“You’re very lucky,” said Bruce. “Contacts are important.”
“Well, you have contacts yourself, Bruce,” said Harry. “You’ve got me. I’m a contact of yours. I’ve got contacts of my own. My 226
Bruce looked doubtful. “I’m just starting,” he said. “I’m not sure if I’ve got the money.”
“Money’s not a problem,” said Harry quickly. “I’m going to sell you this at a price you won’t believe. It’ll be my gesture of support for your new business.”
Bruce caught a glimpse of himself in a brewer’s mirror on the other side of the room. The sight encouraged him.
“How much?” he asked.
“All right,” said Harry. “Three cases of the 1990 at eight hundred quid a case. Three times eight hundred makes two thousand. No, it doesn’t, ha, ha! Deliberate error! Two thousand four hundred. But . . . but there’s an additional discount of four hundred since you’re starting up. And then you take off the three hundred that I always take off when it’s somebody from the rugby club on the other side. That makes seventeen hundred! Can you believe that? Seventeen hundred for three cases of 1900 Petrus!”
Bruce thought about it for a moment. He had hoped to keep his initial stock purchases as cheap as possible and then to branch out into more expensive wines later on, but this seemed to be too good an offer to turn down.
“When can I get them?” he asked.
“They’re in the car,” said Bruce. “Round the corner in Royal Circus.”
Bruce hesitated. Harry looked at him.
“You’re never going to get an offer like this again, Bruce,”
said Harry gravely. “You know that, don’t you?”
“You’re on,” said Bruce.
considered a steal, Bruce returned to the flat in Scotland Street that evening in high spirits. He saw that Pat’s door was closed and knocked on it to offer to make her a cup of coffee. She was a strange girl, in his view, but she had proved to be a reasonably congenial flatmate and a reliable tenant.
She opened the door in her stockinged feet.
“I’ll make you coffee if you like,” said Bruce generously.
