He spent his second day in the shop taking delivery of stock he had ordered from a wholesaler in Leith. It was good, knock-about wine, in Bruce’s view – the sort of wine that Stockbridge people would buy to drink with their dinner or take to their parties – large Australian reds, various Chardonnays and even a range of sweetish German wines which he planned to place in
a special section called Wines for Her. That last idea he considered rather good, and he thought it not unlikely that other wine shops would follow suit when they saw how appealing it was to women.
The shelves in his shop were now filling up. The New World was in the front, in accordance with Bruce’s personal tastes, and France and Italy were at the back. Spain was only represented in a very small way – again based on Bruce’s belief that Rioja was virtually undrinkable (“I wouldn’t even gargle with the stuff,” he was fond of saying; a rather witty remark, he felt) and there was a similarly small South African section. This was based on Bruce’s dislike of the tactics of South African rugby, he being of the view that South African supporters had poisoned the All Blacks on more than one occasion when they were due to play the Springboks. “Entire rugby teams don’t all get diarrhoea on the eve of a match by accident,” he observed. And had the Scottish team been similarly poisoned?
Bruce laughed at the question. “Who would bother?” he asked, bitterly.
The Petrus was not displayed. It was in the back room, under a table, three unopened cases with the keys of St Peter sten-cilled on the side. Bruce looked at them and felt a pang of doubt and regret. If the wine was not what it purported to be, then he would not be able to try to sell it. The last thing he could afford to do at the beginning of his new career was to get mixed up in that sort of scandal; that would obviously be the kiss of death. But how could he confirm these uneasy suspicions? That was far from clear.
Towards mid-afternoon, when he had almost finished stacking the shelves, Bruce decided to telephone George. He would have to arrange a meeting to sort out the financial arrangements so that he could pay the invoice of the Leith wholesaler – slightly over eight thousand pounds – which had to be settled within fourteen days.
George initially did not answer his telephone, but eventually he did, and agreed to come to the shop after work and meet Bruce there.
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“I’d like to bring somebody,” he said. “Somebody I’d like you to meet.”
“Who?” asked Bruce.
“A friend,” George replied opaquely. “A girlfriend, actually.”
Bruce chuckled. “George! Got yourself fixed up at last? A real stunner, no doubt!” Which is exactly what he thought she would not be. He could just imagine the sort of girl George would end up with. She would be the absolute bottom of the heap; bargain-basement material. Sensible shoes. Markedly over-weight. Dull as ditchwater. And probably from Crieff into the bargain! That girl he used to see – what was her name? – Sharon somebody or other, who lived with her parents in one of those little bungalows off the Comrie Road; that sort of girl. Poor George! Bruce was uncharitable about his home town. There was nothing wrong with Crieff, of course, but that was not the way he saw it. He had escaped to Edinburgh and he entertained the idea that one day he might even escape from Edinburgh to a wider world beyond that. New York? Sydney? Perhaps even Paris? Any of these was possible, he thought, if one has talent, which, he told himself, he had. But poor old George! It was back to Crieff for him.
George and Sharon arrived at Bruce’s new shop in St Stephen Street shortly before six. They were slightly late, which irritated Bruce, and indeed caused him more than passing concern. But at last there they were, standing outside the door, peering in through the glass panel. And it was that girl with him, Bruce observed. He had been right. That girl from Crieff, Sharon McClung, had finally got her talons into George. He smiled to himself as he went to open the door to his friend. We all get what we deserve in this life, he thought.
Now that was tempting the intervention of Nemesis! For Bruce, of all people, to invoke the principle of desert was asking
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for any lurking Greek goddess, underemployed, perhaps, because of the caution of others, to strike in a demonstrable and convincing way. And indeed it was Bruce’s bad luck that Nemesis had been stalking around that part of Edinburgh at precisely that time, hoping to detect members of the Scottish Parliament managing their expense accounts in a way which might be expected to attract her attention. She had failed to find anything but good behaviour, though, and so she was receptive to any reckless talk by the unworthy. And there it came in the form of Bruce’s thoughts from St Stephen Street. Swiftly she turned the corner and poked her comely head into the basement premises into which a slightly fleshy couple had been admitted by the occupant. Nemesis took one look at Bruce and knew in an instant that here was one who had been in the long tutelage of her fellow myth, Narcissus. She rubbed her incorporeal hands with glee.
“George!” enthused Bruce. “Welcome to the shop!” He turned to Sharon. “And you, Sharon! It’s amazing to see you after how long? Yonks and yonks! And you’re looking great, too!”
And he thought: look at her hair! Poor girl. And that haggis-shaped figure. Imagine being married to her. Mind you, he thought, poor George looks like a mealie-pudding himself, so perhaps it’s a good match.
He moved forward and gave Sharon a peck on the cheek.
Poor girl. How she had longed for him to do that all those years ago when she had sat there in the chemistry class at Morrison’s Academy and stared at him in utter longing (along with nine other girls – all the girls, in fact, except one, and Bruce knew the reason why she was cool towards him. Oh yes, he did. With her short hair and her lack of interest in him. It stuck out a mile).
He shook hands with George. “So you and Sharon are an item! You kept that pretty secret!”
George smiled proudly. “Actually, Bruce, you’re going to be one of the first to know. Sharon and I are getting engaged.”
He looked fondly in Sharon’s direction and gave her hand an 254
affectionate squeeze. “We decided yesterday, didn’t we, Shaz?”
Shaz! thought Bruce. Shaz! And what would she call him?
