36
The owner looked down at the floor. “All the wiring has been renewed,” he said. “And everything in the kitchen’s new, or next to new.”
“Hard to see that,” said Bruce.
“Well, I assure you it is.”
Bruce pointed to a door leading into gloom. “Is that a dark room?” he asked. “Do you do photography?”
“It’s the dining room.”
The owner now became silent, and he remained silent as Bruce made a cursory inspection of the remaining rooms. Then they moved back to the entrance hall and Bruce thanked him for showing him round.
“You didn’t like it,” said the owner miserably. “You didn’t, did you?”
Bruce reached out and patted him on the arm. “You’ll find somebody,” he said. “Just lower your price far enough and you’ll get a buyer. I’m a surveyor. I shifted dumps like this. It’s just a question of getting a buyer who’s desperate enough.”
“That’s very reassuring,” said the owner.
Outside in the street, in the light, Bruce took out the scrap of paper on which he had noted the address of the third flat he was to look at. This was in Howe Street, a street which went sharply down the hill from the end of Frederick Street and then curved round into Circus Place. It was one of Bruce’s favourite streets in the Georgian New Town, and he had a good feeling about the flat that he was about to see.
It was not only a question of the address, but the name of the owner. It was a woman called Julia Donald, and if Bruce was not mistaken that was the name of somebody he had known when he had first come to Edinburgh. She had, he thought, been rather keen on him, but he had had his hands full at the time with . . . it was difficult to remember who exactly it was, but it was some other girl; there had been so many.
Bruce hummed a tune as he walked towards Howe Street. It
was grand to be back in Edinburgh, grand to be back on the scene, utterly in control, the world at his feet. And what feet!
he thought. Just look at them!
“Brucie! So it was you!” exclaimed Julia Donald. “My God, what a surprise! I thought, you know, when the lawyers phoned and said that a Mr Bruce Anderson would be coming to look the place over, I thought: Can it be the one and only? And here you are!”
“And I thought just the same,” said Bruce. “I thought, there’s only one Julia D. in Howe Street that I want to see again, and here you are, it’s you!”
He leaned forward and planted a kiss on her cheek. “Long time no kiss,” he said. “And here’s another one.”
“Brucie! You haven’t changed!”
“Why should I? No point changing when you’ve got things just right, is there?” He paused. “But you’ve changed, Julia.”
A shadow passed over her face. “Oh? Have I?”
Bruce smiled. “You’ve become more beautiful. More ravishing.”
“Brucie!”
“No, I mean it. I really do. Look at you!”
38
“And it shows.”
“Thank you. What about you? Do you still play rugby?”
Bruce did not. “Now and then. Not much really. Too busy.”
Julia nodded. “I know what it’s like. I almost got a job the other day, but I found I couldn’t. I was just far too busy.”
He looked about the living room. A large sofa, piled with cushions, dominated one wall. Opposite it was an ornate, gold-framed mirror above a large marble chimney piece. Bruce noticed, too, the expensive glass table piled with fashion magazines.
“You’re quite a reader,” he said, gesturing to the copies of
Julia seemed pleased with the compliment. “I like to keep my mind active. I’ve always liked to read.”
Bruce, who had seated himself on the sofa, reached forward and flicked through one of the magazines. “No!” he said. “Would you believe it? I knew these people in London. That girl there, in the black dress, I met her at a party in Chelsea. And that’s her brother there. The tall one. Terribly dim, but a good chap once he’s had a drink or two.”
Julia joined him on the sofa. “I can’t wait to get to London,”
