The Unbearable Lightness of Scones (14 page)

Bruce had not expected to find his new job difficult. And it was not. “Anybody could manage a wine bar,” he said to Julia one morning over breakfast. “Even you.”

Julia looked up from the catalogue she was reading. Mauve was in this year; look at all that mauve. Even that full-length cashmere coat. Mauve. It was the sort of thing that she had seen at Barneys in New York when her father had taken her over there for her birthday. It was expensive, of course, but Barneys was worth it. Everything there had edge. That was pre-Bruce, of course. Perhaps she should take Bruce over for a weekend and show him round.

“Me?” she said. “Me what?”

“Nothing,” said Bruce, smiling. “You, nothing. I was just talking about running the wine bar and what a doddle it is.”

Julia returned to her catalogue. “That’s nice,” she said.

Bruce reached for his acai juice. He had looked in the mirror a few days ago and had experienced a bit of a shock. There was a line, a wrinkle even, at the side of his mouth. At first he had thought it was a mark of some sort, a smudge, but after he had rubbed at it, it was still there. That had made him think. It was all very well being drop-dead gorgeous, as he admitted to himself he really was, but could you be drop-dead gorgeous with wrinkles?

Moisturiser, he thought. More moisturiser and more anti-oxidants, such as acai juice, which was also good for the … in that department. Now, drinking his acai juice, he looked over the rim of the glass at Julia, his fiancée, sitting on the other side of the table. There was no sign of her being pregnant – no visible sign yet – and she was still a bit drop-dead gorgeous herself. Both of us, he thought; both drop-dead gorgeous.

Bruce had to admit that he was happy. He was not one to sit down and count his blessings, but they were, he decided, manifold. Firstly, he had this marvellous flat in Howe Street – it was in Julia’s name, actually, but a brief “I do” in front of
some minister wheeled out for the purpose and all that would be changed! God, it’s easy, he said to himself. Marriage brings everything: a flat, a job. Get married, boys; that’s the life!

And then there was the car, the Porsche – not quite the model he would have picked if he had been given a totally free rein, but a Porsche nonetheless. A Porsche was a statement. It said something about you, about how you felt about yourself. Of course there were always those wet blankets who said that you only drove a car like that if you were making up for something – some inadequacy, perhaps. But that was rubbish, Bruce thought. That was the sort of thing made up by people who would never get a Porsche and knew it. They had to come up with something to make themselves feel better about their Porsche-less state.

And of course there was money. Bruce had suggested to Julia that they have a shared current account.

“No need to double things up,” he said. “You know how banks slap on the charges. Keep it straightforward. One account for both of us. Simple.”

Julia, who received a monthly allowance of three thousand pounds from her father, and who had only the vaguest idea about money, was happy enough to do this. Bruce’s salary from the wine bar, once tax was deducted, also turned out to be three thousand pounds, and so together they had a disposable income of six thousand pounds a month. Bruce had discovered that Julia rarely used much more than a quarter of this, as she liked to try on clothes but not necessarily buy them. So he was in a position to spend more than his salary, if he wished, although that proved to be rather difficult. He could get more clothes, of course, and shoes and general accessories, but beyond that, what could one spend the money on? It was a bit of a challenge – a pleasant challenge, of course, but a challenge nonetheless.

Recently Bruce had bought himself five pairs of shoes and one pair of slippers from the Shipton & Heneage catalogue (he had acquired the habit of reading catalogues from Julia).
He had bought two pairs of single-buckle monk shoes – one pair in brown and the other in black; a pair of burgundy loafers; a pair of patent leather evening pumps, with discreet fabric bows; and a pair of George boots in supple black leather. The slippers were monogrammed, BA, and had embroidered gold Prince of Wales feathers on the toes for good measure. They were made of black velvet and had firm leather soles.

But all this material comfort was topped by having Julia herself. In the earlier days of their relationship, Bruce had wondered how he would possibly be able to bear her vacuousness and her simpering. He had gritted his teeth when she called him Brucie, and when she insisted on sharing the shower with him. Of course, she’s mad about me, he told himself. That was understandable – women just were. But I wish she’d give me a bit more room. You can’t have somebody stroking you all the time, as if you were a domestic cat.

Then, slowly and almost imperceptibly, his attitude towards Julia had changed. From mild irritation at her apparent obsession with him, he had come to appreciate it. He found himself looking forward to coming back from work – if his job could be described as work – and finding Julia waiting for him with her cooing and her physical endearments. I’m fond of her, he found himself thinking. I actually like this woman.

Miracle
! thought Bruce, in French. I’m settling down at last. And what a way to settle: money, flat, Porsche, sexy-looking woman who thinks I’m the best thing ever – and who can blame her? All on a plate. All there before me for the taking. And I have taken it.

He drained his acai juice. “Let’s go out for dinner tonight,” he said. “The St. Honoré?”

Julia shrugged. “Maybe.” Then, after a pause, “Actually, I’ve been invited to a party. And I’m sure they won’t mind if you come too. I meant to tell you. There’s a party down in Clarence Street.”

“Clarence Street? Who do we know there?”

“I know them. I don’t think you do. Watson Cooke? Do you know him?”

Bruce thought. Watson Cooke? Where had he heard that name before? Somewhere. But where?

Bruce felt vaguely irritated. He had not particularly wanted to go out to dinner and had proposed that they should do so more for Julia’s sake than his own. What annoyed him was that she should not want to spend time with him in the intimate circumstances of a table for two at the St. Honoré; this both angered and surprised him, in fact. Most girls – every girl he had ever met – would jump at the chance to go out to dinner with him, thought Bruce, and who did Julia think she was to come up with a counter-proposal? Watson Cooke? Bruce was at first inclined to say No, I don’t want to go to a party in Clarence Street at Watson Cooke’s place. But then, just when he had decided to say this, Julia arose from the table and said, “I’ll tell Watson that we can come. You’ll like him.”

“Who …” Bruce began, but she had left the room and the rest of his question – which was who was Watson Cooke – would have been addressed to an empty kitchen.

Bruce’s feeling of irritation lasted for much of the rest of the day. That morning he had to conduct interviews for new bar staff, a task he did not really enjoy, as the applicants were, for the most part, unappointable. It was not that they lacked experience – some of them had served in bars for years – it was just that, well, he had to admit it privately, it’s just that they were so unattractive. The women were such frumps and the young men so pale and … He could not find quite the right word to describe the young men, but unappointable would have to do.

In desperation he telephoned the agency which had sent the candidates over. “Those people,” he said. “Not much of a bunch.”

The woman at the other end of the line sounded puzzled. “Not much of a bunch?”

“Useless,” said Bruce. “Dross. Human dross.”

There was a silence at the other end of the line. Then, “I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand. Are you saying that they weren’t suitable in some way? Not sufficiently qualified?”

“Unsuitable,” said Bruce. “I wouldn’t want any of them cluttering up my wine bar. We’re a place, well, I suppose one would just have to say, we’re a place with a certain coolness. Do you know what I mean?”

“So you’re saying that all of those young people weren’t cool enough? Do I understand you correctly?”

Bruce laughed. “
Exactement
,” he said. “Haven’t you got anything better? My customers like to have somebody half-way presentable serving them. They don’t want to be served by somebody who looks as if she’s on day release from Edinburgh Zoo.”

Again there was a silence at the other end. “I’m not sure if I understand you.”

Bruce sighed. “Well, let me explain. You sent four men and two women – right?”

“I believe so.”

“So,” said Bruce. “Take the two women first. There was one called Shona, I think. Now, I don’t like to be unkind, but, frankly, she was pretty gross. I don’t know where she got her nose from, but … there are limits, you know.”

“Her nose? Shona’s nose?”

“Yes. Helen of Troy’s face may have launched a thousand ships, but Shona’s nose must have sunk a few. More than a few, maybe.”

Bruce heard the woman breathing heavily. Asthma, perhaps. But then, “I suppose she got her nose from me,” said the voice. “I am her mother, after all.”

Bruce bit his lip. “Ah,” he said. “Her …” He stopped; the receiver at the other end had been put down.

He shrugged. Some people had no sense of humour and he had never liked that woman, anyway; not that he had met her, but one could tell. The call, however, had unsettled him and the rest of the day was spent in a state of discontent. By the time five o’clock arrived, he was ready to go home and to tell Julia that he had decided that they would not go to the party in Clarence Street after all. Julia, however, was not in when he returned to Howe Street.

“It’s me,” called Bruce, as he entered the flat, throwing a quick glance at the hall mirror. Nice profile. “It’s
moi
.”

There was no reply, and Bruce, frowning slightly, walked through to the bedroom. Julia sometimes had long afternoon naps, which could last into the early evening, and he half-expected to find her on the bed, amidst scattered copies of the
Tatler
or
Vogue
, fast asleep.

There was no sign of her in the bedroom. When he went into the kitchen he saw a note on the table. He picked it up and read it. Julia’s writing was strangely childish, all loops and swirls.
Gone to have dinner with P. and B. at some Italian place they know. Don’t know the name or where it is. See you at Watson Cooke’s place later on. Nine o’clock. Maybe later. Don’t arrive before nine as Watson’s coming with us for a bite to eat and we won’t be back until then, he said. Love and xxx’s Julia.

Bruce reread the note, and then, crumpling it up in a ball, he threw it into the bin. So Watson Cooke was going for dinner at … wherever it was, with … P and B, whoever they were. How dare she?

He went through to the bathroom, turned on the shower and stepped out of his clothes, throwing his shirt angrily onto a pile of unwashed laundry. She couldn’t even wash their clothes when she had nothing to do all day but sit about in the flat and read those stupid magazines of hers.

He stood under the shower, feeling the embrace of the hot water, shaking his hair as the stream of the shower warmed his
scalp. I don’t have to put up with this, he thought. Julia is going to have to have one or two things explained to her, and he would do so that very night, after they came back from Clarence Street. She would probably cry – women tended to when you spelled it out for them – but he would be gentle afterwards, and she would be grateful to him, and it would all be back to normal. And tomorrow he would approach another agency to get the bar staff – attractive ones this time. He would tell them: Don’t send anybody who looks like the back of a bus. No uglies. Just cool,
s’il vous plaît
.

That evening, while Bruce fumed and Julia dined, Angus Lordie painted. He did not normally paint at night, but it was the high summer and the light would be good enough until nine and even beyond. He was working on a portrait, that of a prominent Edinburgh commercial figure, and he was trying to get the nose right. Everything else had worked out very well – the eyes were, he thought, exactly right and the mouth, often a difficult feature to capture, was, he thought, very accurate. But the nose, which in this case was large and bulbous, was proving more difficult. Angus had several photographs of it, taken discreetly from various angles, and was now attempting to capture it in paint; it was not working.

One should not underestimate, he thought, the significance of the nose. Angus believed that this organ, so aplastic compared with those expressive, mobile features, the lips and the eyes, was often the focal point of a painting. He had learned this lesson at the Edinburgh College of Art when a visiting lecturer had spent an entire hour enlightening the students about the importance of the nose in Rembrandt’s paintings and engravings. It had been a memorable lecture, illustrated with slides of any number of Rembrandt’s self-portraits and his studies of
derelict vagabonds, all possessed of noses weighed down with significance.

Now, looking at the nose that he had been painting on the canvas in front of him, Angus remembered what it was that made Rembrandt’s noses so memorable. “Look at the nose,” the lecturer had said, pointing to the slide behind him. “See how it sits. It is not pointing towards us, you will observe, as we stand before the painting; it goes off at an angle, thus. That gives life to the face, because the nose has energy and direction. Whatever the subject’s eyes may be doing – and in this painting they are looking directly at us – the nose has business of its own, off towards the right of the painting. And our eye, you will notice, goes straight to that nose, somewhat bulbous and over-prominent. The nose says it all, doesn’t it?”

Yes, thought Angus; the nose says it all, and yet what could one do with one’s nose to mediate the message, whatever it was? One might wrinkle it, to convey distaste; one could certainly not turn it up, as the metaphor suggested one might. Some of Rembrandt’s noses were wrinkled, but that conveyed, in the etchings in question, not so much distaste as madness and terror. One might, he supposed, look down the nose, and convey haughtiness. But could the static nose say anything? Could the nose in repose, the sleeping nose, be made to convey a message of human vulnerability? Or the vanity of human dreams: one might have ambitions, one might wish to assert the essential dignity of the human creature, but the nose would act as a constant reminder of simple humanity. The sleeping nose: it made him think. Auden’s beautiful lullaby enjoined him to whom the lines were addressed: “Lay your sleeping head, my love …” Would those lines have had the same grave beauty if written, “Lay your sleeping nose, my love …”? Angus smiled to himself, and then laughed. The nose was simply too ridiculous to be the subject of lyricism.