Bruce laughed. “It was more a case of the Chateau Petrus finding me. Three cases at an amazingly low price.”
There was a silence on the other end of the line. Then George spoke again. “There’s usually a reason for low prices. You get what you paid for.”
Bruce stiffened. George was an accountant, he thought, and they could be such pedants. “What do you mean by that, George?”
George sounded unusually assertive. “I meant just what I said, Bruce. I meant that if you get something at a knock-down price it’s either stolen or it’s not what it claims to be.”
“I know that this stuff’s not hot,” said Bruce quickly. “The person I bought it from is in the rugby club. He doesn’t go in for dealing in stolen property. And how could it not be what it claims to be? I’ve looked at it. The labels say Chateau Petrus –
complete with a picture of the man himself, Saint Peter.”
George let him finish. Then he said: “Have you heard of wine frauds, Bruce?”
For a moment, Bruce said nothing. He swallowed. Then, when he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “Wine frauds? Forgery?”
“Yes,” said George. “Everybody knows about those fake watches and designer jeans. But not everybody knows that there are gallons of fake wine out there. There’s been a big problem with it in the Far East. I’ve read all about it. There are gangs that make replica bottles and labels and slap them on bottles of 230
French plonk. Then they sell it to the victim. The patsy, they call him.”
Bruce looked at his reflection in the microwave again. Do I look like a patsy? he asked himself. And then it occurred to him that he had just called Pat “patsy”. And he was the real patsy all along.
Matthew was the first to arrive at Big Lou’s that morning. Big Lou, standing at her coffee bar, wiping the surface with a cloth, nodded a greeting to him.
“You know, Big Lou,” said Matthew, “you’re a bit like Sisyphus with that cloth of yours. Wiping, wiping, wiping.” He paused, and smiled at her. “Do you know who Sisyphus was?”
Big Lou bristled. “As it happens, I ken fine well who he was.
He had to push a rock up a hill until it rolled down again and then he pushed it up. And so on.” She gave the counter a furious wipe. “Do you know who Albert Camus was?”
Matthew shook his head. “Some Frenchman, I suppose.”
“Well, before you start condescending to me, Matthew, my friend, you might go and look him up. He wrote a book called
Matthew held up his hands in surrender. “Nope. Never read it. But you have, Lou? You must have.”
“Aye,” said Big Lou. “I’ve read it. And it’s all about finding meaning in life and getting through this world without committing suicide. Camus says that we can find meaning in a limited context and that is enough. He says we shall never be able to answer the really big questions.”
“I never thought we could,” said Matthew, taking his accustomed seat. “I’ve never even been able to find out what the really big questions are.”
Big Lou tossed her cloth aside and began to prepare Matthew’s cup of coffee. As she did so, the door opened and
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Angus Lordie walked in, accompanied by his dog, Cyril.
“Lou, my love, make one for me too,” said Angus. “Very strong. I have to paint a tricky sitter today, and I need my strength.”
“And what’s wrong with him?” asked Lou.
“Actually, it’s a woman,” said Angus. “And that’s the problem.
She’s got three chins too many and I don’t know what to do about them.”
“Leave them out,” said Lou. “No woman would object to that.”
“I could do that,” said Angus. “But then will it look like her at all? People expect one to get a fair likeness.”
“You’ll think of something,” said Lou. “Here’s your coffee.
And don’t let that dug of yours drink out of my saucer. I don’t want any of his germs to end up on the crockery.”
“There’s nothing so healthy as a dog’s mouth,” said Angus Lordie defensively. “Cats’ mouths are full of all sorts of dreadful beasties, but a dog’s lick is positively antiseptic. That’s well-known.”
Angus moved over to the table where Matthew was sitting and took the seat opposite him. Cyril, released from his leash, lay down at his master’s feet, his tail curled about him, his nose tucked into the hair of his stomach, but one eye half-open, looking at Matthew’s right ankle, which was just a few inches away.
“You went for that dinner with your father?” asked Angus.
“Weren’t you rather dreading it?”
“I was dreading it,” said Matthew. “But I went along.”
