The World According to Bertie

She guessed at what he was talking about. “For when you’re seeing what’s-her-name? Elspeth Harm . . .”

“Harmony.”

“Yes, her. Well, let me see. Don’t think that . . .”

“I won’t wear my sweater. Don’t worry.”

“Good. Well, look, Matthew. You have to decide what your colour is. Then go for that. Build around it.”

Matthew looked interested. “Build around my colour?”

Pat looked at him intensely. “Yes. And your colour, I would have thought is . . . ultramarine.”

Matthew stared at her. “As in Vermeer?”

“Yes,” said Pat. “Do you know how Vermeer got that lovely shade of blue? By crushing lapis lazuli.”

A Shopping Trip for a Special Dinner Date 279

“Of course I knew that,” said Matthew.

“And that’s why there’s that terrific light in his pictures. The girl with the pearl earring, for instance. That blue in her head-scarf.”

“Do you think I should wear that exact blue?”

Pat nodded. “I think so. But you shouldn’t wear everything in that blue, of course. Maybe a shirt in that blue and then get some trousers which are . . . well, maybe blackish, but not pure black. Charcoal. That’s it. Charcoal trousers, Matthew, and an ultramarine shirt.”

“And a tie?”

“No, definitely not. Just the shirt, with the top button undone.

And don’t, whatever you do, have a button-down collar. Just have it normal. Try to be normal, Matthew.”

Pat went off to the university at lunchtime, leaving Matthew to spend the afternoon in the gallery by himself. He closed early, and made his way up to Stewart Christie in Queen Street. The window was full of brown and green clothes – a hacking jacket, an olive-green overcoat with corduroy elbow patches, green kilt hose – but they were able to produce several blue shirts which struck Matthew as being close to ultramarine. He chose two of these, along with a pair of charcoal trousers and several pairs of Argyle socks, which he needed anyway. Then he made his way down Albany Place, crossed Heriot Row, and was in India Street, where his flat was.

India Street was, in Matthew’s view, the most appealing street in the New Town. If he thought of the streets in the immediate vicinity, each of them had slight drawbacks, some of which it was difficult to put one’s finger on, an elusive matter of feng shui, perhaps, those almost indefinable factors of light or orien-tation that can make the difference between the presence or absence of architectural blessedness. This, he thought as he walked down his side of the street, is where I want to live – and I am living there. I am a fortunate man.

And he discovered, as he thought of his good fortune, that what he wanted to do more than anything else was to share it.

280 The Matthew He Wanted Her to Know In recent days, he had given two valuable gifts, and the act of giving had filled him with pleasure. Now he would give more; he would sweep Elspeth Harmony up, celebrate her, take her from whatever place she now lived in, and offer her his flat in India Street, his fortune, himself, everything.

He looked at the parcel he was carrying, the parcel in which the ultramarine shirt and the charcoal trousers were wrapped. He saw himself in this new garb, opening the door to Elspeth Harmony, ushering her into the flat. In the background, the enticing smell of cooking and music. I have to get this right, he thought. If this doesn’t work, then there’s no hope for me.

He climbed the stairs to his front door and let himself in. On the hall table, a red light blinked insistently from the telephone: somebody had left a message.

He dropped the parcel and pressed the button to play the message. It will be from her, he thought.

It was.

83. The Matthew He Wanted Her to Know Matthew listened to the message left for him by Elspeth Harmony. In the rather sparsely furnished hall of his flat in India Street, the recorded voice, with its clear diction – it was, after all, the voice of a teacher – echoed in the emptiness. And it seemed to Matthew that the chambers of the heart were themselves empty, desolate, now without hope.

“I’m really very sorry,” Elspeth began. “It was very sweet of you to ask me to dinner, but I can’t make it after all. I’m a bit upset about something and I don’t feel that I would be very good company. I’m so sorry. Maybe some other time.”

He played the message through and the machine automa-tically went on to the next message, which was from a company that had tried to deliver something and could not. The company spoke in injured tones, as if it expected that people The Matthew He Wanted Her to Know 281

should always be in to receive its parcels. Matthew ignored that message; his thoughts were on what Elspeth had said.

Women had all sorts of excuses to get out of an unwanted date: family issues – my mother’s in town – I’d much prefer to be seeing you, but you know how it is. And then: I’ve had a headache since lunchtime and I think I should just get an early night, so sorry. He listened again to what Elspeth had to say. There was no doubt that the tone was sincere, and from that Matthew took a few scraps of comfort. This was not a diplomatic excuse concealing a simple reluctance to have dinner with him; this was the voice of somebody who was clearly upset, and for good reason.

He switched off the machine and stood up from the crouching position in which he had been listening to the message. How he reacted to this would, he thought, determine whether he saw Elspeth again. If he did nothing, then she might think that he simply did not care; if, on the other hand, he tried to persuade her to come, in spite of everything – whatever everything was – then he might appear equally selfish. He decided to call her.

As the telephone rang at the other end, Matthew tried to imagine the scene. Her address was on the other side of town, in a street sandwiched between Sciennes and Newington, and he thought of her flat, with its modest brass plate on the door, harmony, and its window box with a small display of nasturtiums. Or was that mere romanticism?