she said. “That’s why I’m selling this place. One of Daddy’s friends has arranged for me to work with a woman who cooks directors’ lunches in the city. You know, they make lunches for the boardroom. And they cater for dinner parties. Party planners, sort of.”
Bruce turned a page of the magazine. There was an advertisement for perfume, with a flap down the side of the page. He ripped open the flap and sniffed at the page. “Great,” he said.
“That’s the stuff. It really is. Sexy, or what?”
Julia took the magazine from him and sniffed. “Mmm. Spicy.
It reminds me of Mauritius.”
“Yes,” said Bruce. “Mauritius.”
He laid the magazine back on the pile and turned to Julia.
“So. London.”
“Yes,” she said. “London.”
“When?” asked Bruce.
“Oh, I don’t know. After I sell this place. Or before. I don’t know.”
Bruce looked thoughtful. “Great place, London,” he said.
“But I’m pretty glad to be back in Edinburgh, you know. It’s great here too. And not so crowded.”
“No,” said Julia. “I’ve enjoyed myself here.”
“The important thing,” said Bruce, “is not to burn your boats.
Never make a decision in a rush.”
He rose to his feet, rubbing his hands together. “You going to show me around?”
Julia laughed. “Of course. I forgot. Where shall we start?”
“The kitchen,” said Bruce. “You’ve got a kitchen?”
Julia reached out and punched him playfully on the arm.
“Cheeky! It’s a great kitchen, actually. All the stuff. Marble tops.
Built-in wine racks. Everything.”
They moved through to the kitchen. Bruce ran his fingers over the marble surfaces. “Smooth,” he said. He looked at Julia.
“Are you hungry? Seeing the kitchen makes me realise that I haven’t had lunch. You had lunch?”
Julia had not, and Bruce offered to cook it for her, in her kitchen. “You’ve got pasta?” he asked. “And some butter?
Parmesan, yes? Well, we’re in business.”
“This is fun,” said Julia.
Bruce winked at her. “Better than selling a flat?”
Julia giggled. “Much better.”
Bruce found a bottle of white wine in the fridge and opened it. He poured Julia a glass and they toasted one another as Bruce cut a piece of cheese off the block of Parmesan.
“I went to the place where they make this stuff,” he said, breaking off a fragment of the cheese and passing it to Julia.
“Reggio Emilia. Near Parma. That’s where they make it. I knew an Italian girl. They lived in Bologna, but her father had some 40
Had Bruce been paying attention to Julia’s expression, he would have noticed the trace of a frown. But she recovered quickly. “An Italian girlfriend? Very exotic.”
Bruce looked at her from the corner of his eye. He appeared to be concentrating on slipping the pasta into the water, but he was watching her.
“No more Italian girlfriends for me,” he said. “I’ve had enough of all that. It’s settle-down time now. Comes to us all.”
He watched her response. She had picked up her glass and was gazing at the rim. But he could tell.
“You? Settle down?” She forced a smile, but there was a real point to her question.
“I’m serious,” he said. “I want a bit of quiet. I want a bit of domesticity. You know . . . going out for dinner, coming back and putting one’s feet up on the sofa with a . . . with a friend.
Lazy weekends.” He paused. “Long lie-ins on a Sunday. Then brunch somewhere. Some jazz. The Sunday papers.”
Julia had closed her eyes, just momentarily, but she had closed them. It’s working, thought Bruce: she’s imagining what it would be like. And there’s no reason for me to feel bad, because it really would be like that. That’s exactly what we could do in this place. It’s ideal. And the other great attrac-tion of it all was that the need to
