she said, between clenched teeth. “Put it back in the shower!
You’ve moved it again, and I told you, I told you. I want it in
the shower, on that little shelf. That’s where it lives. That conditioner lives there.”
“It’s amazing how petty some people are,” said Bruce. “They get really, really upset about tiny things. You know, really tiny things.” Julia Donald looked at him adoringly. “Such as?” she asked.
Bruce leaned back in his chair. “Well, Caroline was one of these OCD-types – you know, obsessive-compulsive disorder. She used to line the conditioner bottles up in the shower just like this, plonk plonk plonk, and she would go absolutely mental if you touched any of them. And of course you have to have a bit of room to move in a shower . . .” At this, he winked at Julia.
“Ideally, showers should have enough room for two. Saves energy.”
Julia giggled. “And it’s somehow more . . . more friendly.”
“Precisely,” said Bruce, glancing for a finely timed moment in the direction of the bathroom, which lay behind him in Julia’s flat. “Anyway, Caroline would go through the roof if any of her stupid conditioner bottles was moved. Ballistic. Stupid woman.”
“You’d think that she’d have better things to do,” said Julia.
“I can’t bear obsessively tidy people.”
Bruce glanced around her sitting room – their sitting room now. In the New Town, of course, he knew it would be called a drawing room, depending on how one defined oneself. As a surveyor, he had prided himself on being able to tell exactly when a living room would be described as such, or as a lounge (never), or when it would be a drawing room. It was not always easy, but there were many clues. A drawing room was genteel, and there were many drawing rooms in Edinburgh; this, he was sure, was one.
“It’s so comfortable,” he said, smiling at Julia. “It’s so comfortable, sitting here in the . . . in the . . .”
192
“Drawing room,” she supplied.
Well, thought Bruce, that settles that. There were few surprises in life if one had fine social antennae, which, he thought, I have.
He looked at Julia. She was very attractive – in a slightly outdoorsy way, and by that he did not mean rustic, or agricultural, but more . . . well, grouse-moorish. There was a breed of women who frequented grouse moors, standing around outside Land Rovers while their husbands and boyfriends peppered birds with lead-shot, an activity which, in an atavistic, tribal way appeared to give them pleasure. Some of these women themselves actually shot – ladies who shoot their lunch, as
They liked Labradors and Aga cookers, thought Bruce, and smiled at the thought. That was Julia.
And Julia, looking at Bruce, thought: he is so gorgeous, so hunkalato. It’s his shape, really – the whole shape of him. And that cleft in his chin. Do men have plastic surgery to put clefts in? Why not? Silly thought. I can just see him standing in his dressing gown in front of the Aga, cup of coffee in his hand, hair still wet from the shower, and mine, all mine! But who’s going to make the first move? He will, of course. Or he’d better.
He won’t wait long.
And what if he says to me: are you, you know . . . What should I say? No, it’s not wrong, not really. If I don’t get him, then some girl is going to get her claws into him and he may not be as happy with her as he is with me. I’ll make him happy – of course I will. He’ll be really happy with me, and the baby. Baby!
A real little baby! Mine. Mr and Mrs Bruce Anderson. Or, rather, Bruce and Julia Anderson. And little Rory Anderson? Charlotte Anderson? And we can still have lots of fun because we’ll get somebody to help. A Swedish girl, maybe. No. Not a Swede.
They’re pretty and we want somebody homely. So it’ll have to be a girl from . . . (and here she mentally named a town in Scotland, known for its homely girls).
Bruce stretched out his arms. “Yes, it’s really great being here, Julia. Thanks a lot.” He glanced at his watch. “I thought that I might have a shower, and then how about I cook some pasta?”
“Great,” said Julia. “Fab idea.”
Bruce rose to his feet. “Where’s the shower?” he asked.
Julia gestured to the corridor. “Along there.” She paused. “It’s a bit temperamental,” she said. “I need to get the plumber to come and take a look at it. But there’s a trick to working it. You have to turn the lever all the way to the right and then a little bit to the left. I can show you how to do it.”
Bruce smiled. “But won’t you get wet? Unless . . .”
She smiled encouragingly. “Unless what, Brucie?”
“Unless . . .”
She rose to her feet, kicking off her shoes as she did so. “You go,” she said. “I’ll just be a sec.”
Bruce went through to his bedroom and stood for a moment in front of his window. Julia was all right, he supposed, but it was clear to him that she would keep him occupied. There were some women who were simply high maintenance, in his terms, and she, he imagined, was one of them. That could be managed, he thought, but it could become difficult if they started to cling.
That was the point at which one had to make it clear to them that men were not there to be used, and that they should not be tied down too much. And that, thought Bruce, was the problem.
