Matthew laughed. “Actually, this place gets quite busy. I don’t know . . .”
“Oh, people go home sometimes,” she said, “if they’re really stuck.”
Matthew gestured towards the barman. “Could I get you a drink?”
He had expected a rebuff, but it did not come. Instead, there was ready acceptance, and after the barman had served him again they went together to the table which Matthew had occupied.
She introduced herself, smiling at Matthew in a way which immediately lifted Matthew’s depression. She likes me, he thought. I can see it in her eyes.
Her name, she revealed, was Leonie Marshall and she was an architect, barely qualified, but still an architect. Matthew listened carefully. The accent was difficult to place. “Australian?” he asked.
She nodded. “Melbourne – originally. Until I was ten. Then we moved to Canada, to Saskatoon, and I lived there until I was eighteen. Then, when my parents went to live in Japan, I went back to Melbourne to uni, did my architectural degree there, and my office years, and then came and did my diploma year at Newcastle.” She paused and took a breath while Matthew, watching her, mentally compared their lives: Australia, Canada, Japan, England, Scotland (her); Scotland (him).
“I finished in Newcastle,” she continued, “and had to decide what to do next. I could go back to boring old Melbourne, or I could get a job somewhere over here. There was a vacancy in a practice here in Edinburgh – a firm called Icarus Associates –
and I applied and got it. So here I am.” She took a sip of her drink and looked at Matthew. “What about you?”
Matthew stared at the table. Small rings of liquid had formed
83
where the glasses had stood. He moved a beer mat sideways and mopped one up. Then, in the other, he traced a pattern with a finger.
“I run a gallery,” he said. “I try to sell pictures. It’s in Dundas Street, near . . .” He stopped.
“Yes?”
“Would you like to come and have a pizza in my flat?”
“Yes.”
They walked back towards India Street along Cumberland Street. “I really like this street,” said Leonie. “You see the windows? Look at those ones over there. Astragals. Perfect proportions. And the buildings themselves are not too big. A comfortable size.”
Matthew had not paid much attention to Cumberland Street, but now, through Leonie’s eyes, he did. “This street is not as impressive as the next one up,” he said. “Great King Street has great big houses. It’s much higher.”
“Social distinctions revealed in architecture,” said Leonie.
“Big houses – big people. More modest houses – more modest people.”
“Have you seen Moray Place?” asked Matthew. “It’s just round the corner from me.”
Leonie nodded. “Yes, I know it. One of the people from Icarus took me round and gave me the architectural tour of the New Town. We had a look at Moray Place.”
“And what did you think?” asked Matthew.
“Well, I wondered who lived there,” she said. “That’s what I thought.”
“Very grand people,” said Matthew. “The very grandest people in town.”
She made a gesture of acceptance. “I suppose that’s no surprise,” she said. “It’s very classical. Grand people gravitate to 84
the classical. I suppose one wouldn’t find any funky people there?”
Matthew thought for a moment. Were there any funky people in Moray Place? He thought not. He was not at all sure whether there were any funky people in Edinburgh at all. Some towns were distinctly funky – San Francisco was an example – but Edinburgh was not one of them, he thought. He answered Leonie’s question with a shake of the head.
“I thought not,” she said. “Mind you, Edinburgh has its groovy side. There are some quite groovy places.”
“Groovy?” asked Matthew.
“Yes,” said Leonie. “I was in quite a groovy street the other day. I forget what it was called. But it was definitely groovy. The doors were all painted different colours and there was this strange old shop that sold the most amazing old clothes.”
“Stockbridge,” said Matthew. “It must have been in Stockbridge. St Stephen’s Street, probably.”
“I can’t remember,” said Leonie. “But it was just like one or two streets we have in Melbourne. In fact, there’s a street there that has the same sort of old clothes shops. Vintage clothing, they call it. They sell all sorts of things. Old military uniforms.
Flapper dresses. Sweaters just like yours . . .”
It slipped out. She had not thought about what she was saying, and the remark slipped out. And she knew immediately what she had done, and regretted it. For his part, Matthew was assailed by the remark. It came from
