44 Scotland Street: At the Canny Man’s

“I think I know what you’re going to ask me,” he said. “Am I right, or am I right?”

Matthew’s irritation at Bruce’s turn of phrase was mollified by the sudden realisation that he might not have to spell out what he and Pat wanted of him. “You’re probably right,” he replied.

Bruce sat back in his chair. “So,” he said, “you want me to … how shall I put it? You want me to distract this woman.”

Distract, thought Matthew. Yes, that was one way of putting it.

Bruce looked triumphant. “You’re pretty transparent, Mat, you know. I could see what you had on your mind, nae bother.” His smile became an enthusiastic grin. “So you want me to meet this chick. She takes one look at me and goes weak at the knees. MacGregor père sees what’s going on and puts two and two together. Gives her her papers. Problem solved.” He paused. “That’s what you had in mind, right?”

Matthew was surprised by his own sense of relief. For some reason it seemed to make a major difference that Bruce should articulate the plot for himself; it was as if it were his own idea, which made a moral difference, didn’t it? If somebody does something without its being actually suggested, then does the person who would have suggested it, had he had the opportunity, bear any responsibility for what happens? Matthew thought not; or, if there were some responsibility, then it would be considerably less than the responsibility that flowed from a suggestion actually made.

“Not a bad idea,” said Matthew, as if it was Bruce who had come up with the scheme.

The disingenuousness was blatant, and most people would have disclaimed credit for the plan, attributing it, quite rightly, to those who first thought of it – Pat and Matthew. But Matthew knew that Bruce would never resist basking in any credit on offer.

“Thanks, Matt.” He frowned, adding, after some hesitation, “What’s she like?”

“I haven’t actually met her,” said Matthew. “But I gather she’s attractive enough. She’s much younger than Dr MacGregor.”

Bruce seemed reassured. “Not that it matters to me, of course. Sense of duty, you see. Anything for the cause.”

“Of course,” said Matthew. “It’s really good of you, Bruce.”

Bruce made an airy gesture. “No sweat,” he said, and then added, “Where and when?”

Matthew had Pat had already discussed this. Now he explained to Bruce that Pat would have a dinner party in her flat and would ask her father and Anichka. Bruce would be invited, along with one or two others, and Pat would make sure to seat Anichka next to him at the table. “Thereafter, it’s up to you. Maybe you could arrange to meet her in a bar somewhere. Then, once you’ve set up the date and she’s accepted …”

“… which is likely,” interjected Bruce,

Matthew tried to conceal his feelings. What was it like, he wondered, to be so utterly and completely pleased with yourself, to be so sure that others would like you as much as you liked yourself? It was a gift possessed by infants, puppies, and young men like Bruce.

“You’ve set up the date,” Matthew continued. “You tell Pat where and when …”

“The Canny Man’s,” interrupted Bruce. “They have this dining section at the back.”

“All right. You book the table for a certain time and you let Pat know. She asks her dad to a film at the Dominion. Then she suggests getting a bite to eat afterwards. Carefully timed, of course.”

Bruce was enjoying himself. “They come in and find that what’s-her-name …”

“Anichka.”

“All right, they see Anichka sitting with me looking at me with mute adoration …”

Matthew could not stop himself from bursting out laughing. There was no end, it seemed, to Bruce’s self-regard.

Bruce looked puzzled. “I said something funny?”

Matthew adopted a straight face. “No, I was just thinking of their reaction – that’s all.”

“Oh yes,” said Bruce. “She sort of jumps back – you know, like this – and acts all innocent. But of course Pat’s old man, being a shrink, is too switched-on to be fooled.”

“That’s right.”

“So he does the mathematics and he realises that this Annetta …”

“Anichka.”

“… that this Anichka is bad news. End of engagement.”

Matthew nodded.

Bruce rubbed his hands. “Very funny. Serves her right.”

It occurred to Matthew then that Bruce actually did not like women. He was a misogynist – of course he was! He should have seen it before, but now he understood perfectly. Like all great lady-killers, he did not like women. And it was not that he liked men – not in that way: his sexual tastes were as they were advertised to be, but they were not accompanied by any feeling for women as people.

Now Bruce looked thoughtful. “One thing,” he said. “What’s in it for me?”

Matthew was momentarily at a loss for a response. But then something within him rebelled. “Why do you even ask that?” he snapped. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that you might do this just to help Pat – and Dr MacGregor too? Isn’t that enough?”

Bruce flinched. “Okay, okay, keep you hair on, Matthieu! I was just asking. We can’t all be St Francis.”

Matthew swallowed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bite your head off. It’s just that Pat’s worried sick about this.”

Bruce smiled. “You care for her, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do. She’s a nice girl.”

Bruce continued to smile. “Yes, she is. I wish she’d be nice to me.” He paused. “I mean, nice in a nice sort of way.”

Matthew closed his eyes. He could not believe that Bruce would be expecting …

Bruce laughed. “Only joking. No, I’m happy to be able to help her,” Bruce continued, “for nothing. Pro bono.”

“Yes,” said Matthew. “Pro bono, just as you say.”

“Virtue is its own reward, isn’t it, Mathsbury?”

Matthew reached for his glass of beer and took a sip. “What exactly are you doing these days, Bruce? I’ve lost track, I’m afraid.”

Bruce pointed to the ceiling. “My career’s taking off big time,” he said.

“Doing what?”

“I’ve bought a wine bar.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. There’s this guy I was at school with – at Morrison’s. His uncle owned a wine bar in Dundee and one in Edinburgh. The uncle wanted to retire and he said he’d sell the Edinburgh one to his nephew. He had another buyer for the Dundee place.”

“So your friend bought it?”

“He had no cash and that’s where I came in. I had a bit of dosh to invest, and so I bought most of it. I own eighty per cent and he has twenty. We split the profits fifty-fifty, but he has to do all the work.”

“Very satisfactory,” said Matthew. “For you, that is.”

“Too true,” said Bruce. “But then that’s the way things are, isn’t it? You have to look after numero uno, in this case moi.”

Matthew did not answer. What’s the point? he asked himself. And the answer, of course, was: none. But then he turned to Bruce and said, “What’s this place called?”

“Bruce’s,” said Bruce. “Natch.”