The Unbearable Lightness of Scones (17 page)

Under the appreciative gaze of the urbane stranger at the bar, Bruce thought: These chaps find me attractive, which is quite understandable; who wouldn’t? But sorry, I don’t play for your team! The difficulty, he felt, was conveying this delicate social message without appearing to be hostile. And sometimes the message was just not received, as it seemed that some people took the view that one never knew one’s luck. That could be awkward, and occasionally one just had to be blunt.

He took a sip of his beer and, as he did so, cast an eye around the room, studiously avoiding looking in the stranger’s direction.

Suddenly the stranger addressed him. “Bruce Anderson?”

Bruce gave a start. He had not expected this. “Yes. That’s me.”

The stranger put his glass down on the surface of the bar and extended a hand. “Nick McNair. Remember? Morrison’s. I was two years above you. We were in the photography club together. You came with me to take a photograph of that eagle up in Glen Lyon. Remember? The geography teacher drove us up there in his clapped-out Land Rover. Remember?”

Bruce looked at the other man and it came back not vividly,
or clearly, but in patches. Crouching in the rain holding a tripod for the older boy. Feeling the rain trickle down the back of one’s neck. Brushing away the midges.

“Of course. That’s some time ago, isn’t it? Sorry that I didn’t recognise you. You know how …”

“How it is. Of course I do. I doubt if I’d recognise half the people in my year if I saw them again.”

Bruce smiled. “There are some you’d want to forget. Some you’d like to remember.”

“People remember you, though, Bruce. They wouldn’t forget.”

Bruce looked away in modesty. Why would they remember him?

“You were a real looker then.”

Bruce blushed. It was true, he thought, but did one want it spelled out, particularly by Nick McNair?

“Thanks.”

“Not at all,” Nick said. “In fact, that’s the business I’m in these days. Photography. I do adverts.”

Bruce looked up. “Magazines? That sort of thing?”

Nick nodded. “Yes, for my sins. Fashion photography, it’s called. I went down south, you see, to London and did a course at Saint Martins. Had a few lean years taking wedding snaps, that sort of thing. Then I got lucky with a series of shots in
Tatler
and
Vogue
. After that, no problem.”

Bruce listened with interest. Who would have thought it: from taking photographs of eagles in Perthshire to international fashion photography? He looked at Nick McNair. There was nothing special about him, and it seemed to Bruce fundamentally unfair that he should lead such a life while he, Bruce, was stuck behind in Edinburgh.

“Where are you based?” Bruce asked.

“Right here,” said Nick. “I have a flat in Edinburgh. Down in Leith, in one of those new places, you know. Infinity pool on the eighth floor.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Infinity pool?”

“Yup. Not that I use it all that much. But it’s great when you do.”

Bruce swallowed. “It’s your own? Just for your … your flat?”

“Yup.”

There followed a short period of silence. Then Nick reached for something in his pocket and handed it over to Bruce. A card. Nick McNair, Photographer. Fashion. Cars. Places.

Nick was studying Bruce, who found it rather disconcerting. Is he? Bruce asked himself. He had an infinity pool, after all. And Saint Martins. “It’s fortuitous our meeting,” Nick said. “I’ve been given a big job by the Scottish Government. A bit of a change from women draping themselves over cars and such like. It’s a big project on developing the Scottish image abroad.”

Bruce nodded knowingly. “Promotion?” he asked. “Scotland the brand?”

Nick warmed to the theme. “Dead right. They want to get the idea over that Scotland is somehow – well, not to put too fine a point on it – sexy.”

Bruce smiled. That’s where I come in, he thought.

“And it just occurred to me,” Nick continued, “that this is where you might come in.”

“Could be,” said Bruce. “What’s your angle?”

“Well, we need a face, a body, the whole deal. We need somebody who would look good in posters. Somebody who can wear a kilt and not look like Harry Lauder. We need to have somebody who says: Scotland.”

“Scotland,” said Bruce, and smiled.

Nick raised his glass. “I can’t guarantee anything at this stage,” he said. “I have to go back to the clients and show them the images. But you might just be the answer to my prayers. I’ve been hanging about for weeks looking for somebody who looks just right. Trying different bars, looking for a face. I’ve had some funny looks in the process, but it’s work.”

“You could be misunderstood,” said Bruce.

Nick shrugged. “Photographers have thick skins. We get
used to going about sticking our lens into people’s faces. You get used to it.”

“When …” Bruce began.

“When can we get started? Well, I need to do an exploratory shoot – we could do that any time. Tomorrow? And then I have a conference with the agency people and they see whether you’re right. I’m sure there’ll be no problem there.

“They want an open face, good looks, a hint of West Coast and
Braveheart
. In other words, the sort of face that projects a dynamic, good-looking country that’s … well, also a bit sexy. In other words, you.”

Bruce looked at his watch. “All right. I do dynamic. I also do sexy. I’ll get in touch with you tomorrow.” He took the card out of his pocket. “This is the studio address?”

“That’s it. I want morning light, so ten o’clock?”

“Perfect,” said Bruce. “But listen, I have to go. I’m going to a party with my fiancée.” He thought that he might just mention Julia, before the photo shoot. “Round the corner. Clarence Street.”

“I used to live on Clarence Street,” said Nick. “Before I emigrated to Leith. Whose place are you going to?”

“Watson Cooke,” said Bruce.

“Oh,” said Nick. “A rugby player. I thought about him for a beer advertisement I was doing once, but decided against.”

That was all the information Nick offered on Watson Cooke. Bruce took his leave and walked down St. Stephen Street. As he walked past the window of a small shop, he glanced at his reflection in the pane of glass.

He saw the face of Scotland looking back at him.

Watson Cooke occupied a first-floor flat in Clarence Street. His front door, recently painted with a thick black gloss paint,
had a small brass plate on it on which “Watson Cooke” had been engraved. To the right of the door, a folded piece of paper had been stuck, which, when unfolded and read by Bruce, bore the message: “Watson, Please don’t forget to put Nancy’s rubbish out on Wednesday, bearing in mind that she won’t be back from Brussels until Friday. You’re a trouper. Thanks, Kirsty.”

Bruce refolded and replaced the scrap of paper. So Watson Cooke was a trouper. And where exactly does he troupe? He reached for the old-fashioned bell and gave it a firm tug; too firm in fact, as he heard the bell chime loudly at the same time as he felt the wire within give way. This released the brass bell-pull lever, which flopped uselessly out of its housing. Quickly he pushed the end of the wire back in and tried to stuff the lever back; to no avail. Then the door opened.

A tall well-built young man, somewhere in his late twenties, stood in the doorway in front of Bruce.

“Watson?” asked Bruce, stretching out a hand. “I’m Bruce Anderson.”

Watson looked at Bruce and frowned. He seemed puzzled. “Oh, Bruce … Yes.” He glanced at the protruding bell-pull. “No, don’t touch that again. I’ll get it fixed.”

Bruce realised that further explanation was necessary. “I’m Julia’s …”

Watson’s frown deepened. “Did Julia …?” He turned to face the hall, where several people were standing, drinks in hand.

“You are expecting me, aren’t you?” Bruce asked. “Julia said that there was a party.”

Watson now smiled. “Yes, there is. Of course. Come in … Sorry, what was your name again?”

“Bruce.”

“Oh. Right. Well, come in. No, just leave the bell, I can get it fixed. The party’s just started. Julia’s through in the kitchen, I think.” He gestured towards the back of the hall and then, as Bruce entered, closed the door behind him.

“Nice place…” Bruce began, but Watson had walked away and begun to talk to a group near the door to what looked like a sitting room. Nice welcome, thought Bruce, mentally rehearsing what he would say to Julia. Your friend, Watson, made me feel seriously
bienvenu, n’est ce pas
… He moved in the direction indicated by his host and looked through the kitchen door. Julia was there, alone, arranging savoury crackers on a plate. She looked up as Bruce appeared in the doorway.

“Oh, there you are, Brucie.” She flicked a strand of hair from her forehead. “Great party, isn’t it?”

Bruce moved over to stand beside her. He looked down at the crackers. Was this the best that Watson Cooke could do when it came to snacks? “I wouldn’t know about that,” he said. “I’ve just arrived.”

“Well it is,” said Julia, returning to her task. “It’s really great. Watson has some very interesting friends.”

Bruce’s lips twisted down at the edges. “Yes, sure. And the dinner?”

“A really nice restaurant. Watson knew the chap who owned it.”

“Oh, did he?” Bruce sneered.

“Yes. He did.”

“And who was there?” Bruce asked.

Julia hesitated, only for the briefest moment, but Bruce noticed. “A friend of Watson’s. And me. That’s all.”

Bruce knew immediately that she was lying. He reached for a can of beer that was on the table and opened it. He looked out of the window behind her. It was still light, and he could see the roofs of the street behind; a man standing at a window, the sky above, the last of the evening sun on the clouds. She was lying to him, and he knew at that moment that there was something between her and Watson Cooke. It had never occurred to him that she would even contemplate looking at another man when she had him, but she had. And she had looked at Watson Cooke.

He turned away. “Good,” he said. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.” Then he left the kitchen and went back into the hall. He did not see how Julia reacted; he did not want to look at her.

Watson Cooke was not in the hall, and so Bruce went through to the sitting room. There were about twenty people in the room, some sitting, some standing. The room was a large one and so there was no sense of its being overcrowded. One or two people looked at Bruce as he entered and one young woman, standing near the door, smiled at him. Bruce ignored her.

“Watson?”

Watson Cooke looked round. “Oh. Yes. Hi.” He turned to the man he had been talking to and introduced Bruce. “Sorry, what was your name again?”

Bruce grinned. “Bruce. I told you.”

Watson laughed. “Yes, sorry about that.” He gestured to his head. “One game of rugby too many. Memory gets a bit mixed up in the rucks.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “Rugby? Do you play these days?”

The man to whom Watson Cooke had been talking now smiled. “Watson has a Scottish cap.”

Bruce swallowed. “Oh …”

“Only the Scottish schoolboy squad,” said Watson modestly.
“I played against Ireland at Lansdowne Park. We won, actually.”

“But you almost got into the Scottish squad a couple of years later,” said the other man. “Come on, Wattie. No false modesty.” He turned to Bruce. “He captained Watson’s when he was at school. Then he played for Watsonians.”

Bruce took a sip from his can of beer. “You were a Watsonian, Watson?”

Watson had not been listening. “What?”

“You played for Watsonians?”

“Yes. Watson’s. Then Watsonians.”

There followed a silence. Then Watson asked, “Do you play, Bruce?”

Bruce felt the moist cold of the beer can against his hand. “Used to,” he said. “But these days, you know how it is.”

“Injured?” asked Watson.

“Engaged,” said Bruce.

Nobody said anything. Bruce had been avoiding Watson’s eyes; now he looked up and saw that his host was staring at him. “Is she here?” Watson asked.

Bruce felt his heart beating wildly within him. Watson Cooke was taller than he was. “In the kitchen, actually. Julia. You know her, don’t you? You had dinner with her tonight.” He held Watson Cooke’s gaze. I’m in the right here, thought Bruce. He’s the one who should be feeling it.

The other man present, sensing the undercurrent of feeling, shifted awkwardly on his feet. “I must get myself another drink,” he said, and turned away.

Watson continued to stare at Bruce. “What position did you play?” he asked.

“I said that I was engaged. Engaged to Julia.”

Watson laughed. “Yes, sure. I heard you. But you said that you played rugby. Who did you play for?”

“Morrison’s,” muttered Bruce.

“We beat them,” said Watson Cooke. “Watson’s beat Morrison’s. Always.”

Olive had come to play house. From her point of view, the presence of Tofu did not enhance the afternoon, as she enjoyed a very uncomfortable relationship with Bertie’s friend. In fact, as she told her friends in the class, she hated Tofu like poison itself, to use her carefully chosen expression, and let pass no opportunity to undermine him. Sometimes her goading seemed to pass over him unnoticed; on other occasions, a carefully prepared dart might just hit home, as on the occasion that Olive, having just read a manual on palmistry, offered to read everyone’s palms.