The World According to Bertie

“London,” said Pat. Bruce winked at her. “Fantastic place. London’s just great. You should go there some time, Pat. Move on.”

Bruce Enjoys Telling His London Story 61

Pat looked at Bruce. He had not changed at all, she decided.

There was the same slightly superior look – a knowing expression, one might call it – and the hair . . . yes, it was the same gel, giving forth the same faint smell of cloves.

“How was the job down there?” she asked. “What did you do?”

Bruce ran a hand through his hair; cloves released. “Two jobs, actually. I left the first one after a week. The second one was more . . . how should I put it? More to my taste.”

She was interested in this. Bruce would never admit to being fired, but if he left the job after a week, then that must have been what happened. “Oh. What went wrong?” she asked.

Bruce began to smile. “You really want to know?”

Pat nodded. She did want to know.

“All right,” said Bruce. “I went for an interview for a job handling the commissioning of a portfolio of service flats. Not just any service flats – these were high-end places, Bayswater and so on. Diplomats – ones from serious countries, not Tonga, you know. Saudi, Brunei, places like that. Big Arabs. Fancy Japs.

Eurotrash. Serious money.

“This firm was doing the decorating, installing the bits and pieces – everything, really. And money was going to be no object.

Persian rugs – large ones – all the stuff you put in these places, you know – busts of Roman emperors, Hockney drawings, and so on. We were going to do the whole thing.”

Pat raised an eyebrow. “But you’re not a decorator, Bruce.

You’re . . .”

He did not let her finish. “Questioning my versatility, Patsy-girl? I’ve got an eye, you know.”

Pat shrugged. Bruce had known nothing about wine, but that seemed not to have stopped him being a success in the wine business. So perhaps it was confidence that counted, and he was definitely not short of that.

Bruce sat down on Pat’s desk. He adjusted the crease in his trousers. Chinos, Pat thought.

“So anyway,” he continued, “I went for the interview with 62

Bruce Enjoys Telling His London Story this guy. You should have seen him. Mr Colour Co-ordination himself. He knew how to match his trousers with his jacket. He was very nice. He asked me how I thought I could contribute, and I told him that I had managed properties in Edinburgh.

Then he showed me a picture of an empty room and asked me what I’d put into it. He fished out this catalogue full of antiques and said I should pick something from there. I did, but I had a feeling there was something else going on. He was looking at me, you see. Like this.”

Bruce turned sideways to Pat, glanced at her with widened eyes, and then looked away.

“Oh,” said Pat.

Bruce smiled. “See what I mean? What do you think a look like that means? Well, you’ll find out. The next thing he says is this: ‘Let me guess, Bruce – you’re Aries, aren’t you?’ Just like that. Coming on hard.”

Pat thought for a moment. She remembered Bruce’s birthday, and it was true. He was an Aries.

“He got it right,” she said.

“Yes. He got it right. But then he said: ‘Do you like cooking?’

Cooking! And that made it even clearer. So you know what I did? I knew that there were three or four people after this job – I’d seen them outside – and so I decided that I’d play along with all this. If that’s what it took to get the job, I was ready.

So I said: ‘Cooking? I adore it!’ Yes, I did! And he brightened up and said: ‘That’s great, just great. I love being in the kitchen.’

Or something like that. Then he looked at his watch and said:

‘If you want the job, Bruce, it’s yours.’ And so we got it all tied up there and then and I started at the beginning of the following week.”

Pat looked down. She did not like this, and she did not want to hear anymore. But Bruce continued.

“It was a great job. I was meant to source the things we needed for the flats and to chase up the painters and plumbers and whatnot. I made up the spreadsheets for the projects with time-lines and completion dates and stuff like that. It was great. But Bruce Enjoys Telling His London Story 63

then Rick – that was his name – invited me to a dinner party at his place. Boy! You should have seen it. Furniture to die for.

Big paintings – none of this Victorian junk you sell here. Big splashes of colour. And there was Rick in a caftan. Yes! I look around and think: where are the other guests? Surprise, surprise!

No other guests.

“‘Unfortunately, the others cancelled,’ said Rick. ‘So inconsiderate of them!’ He turns on the music.”

Pat listened to Bruce with growing horror. I can’t stand him, she thought. I can’t stand him. He led that poor man on just to get the job. I can’t stand him.

Bruce grinned. “So you know what I did? I said: ‘Rick, I’m terribly sorry. I’m just developing this terrible headache. Really bad.’ And I started to leave. So he says: ‘But Bruce, you haven’t had a thing to eat, not a thing! I