“I don’t know,” she said. “I really don’t know. I haven’t got anywhere to go, you see. I can’t think . . .” She looked around her, mentally sizing up the gallery for living purposes. She could have a bed in the back room – it was easily big enough – and she could keep her clothes in the walk-in cupboard they used to store paintings. It would be possible, just possible, particularly if one ate at Big Lou’s and did not have to bother too much about cooking.
Matthew reached forward and took her hand again. “Now listen,” he said. “I have a suggestion to make, and I want you to take it very seriously. I’m not just saying this – I’m not. You come and stay in India Street. I’ve got plenty of room and you can have the spare room at the back. It’s nice there. It’s very quiet.”
Pat looked down at the floor. There was no doubt in her mind but that Matthew was trying to be helpful. There was no ulterior motive in this invitation – she was sure of that – but it would be a major step to share a flat with him. What if he wanted to be something more than her landlord, more than her Angus Lordie Prepares to Entertain 137
flatmate? And he would want that – of course he would; she was sure of that.
But in spite of this conviction, this certainty, she thanked him for his offer – and accepted.
“Good girl,” said Matthew, and closed his eyes at the thought.
44. Angus Lordie Prepares to Entertain Angus Lordie felt disgruntled. He had woken early that morning
– rather earlier than he had wanted to – and had found it difficult to get back to sleep. Now it was six o’clock, and still dark.
In the summer, when the mornings were so bright and optimistic, he would sometimes make his way into his studio and paint for several hours. He loved those summer mornings, when the city was quiet and the air so fresh. Life seemed somehow richer in possibilities at that hour; it was like being young again; yes, that was what it was like, he thought. When you are young, the world is in better definition, clearer; it is a feeling not dissimilar to that which one had after the first sip of champagne, before the dulling effect of excess. But now, in the autumn, with the drawing in of days, the morning hours lacked all that, and painting could only begin much later on, after breakfast.
What produced this sense of disgruntlement on that particular day was the fact that Angus was due to entertain that night.
He enjoyed dinner parties – in fact, he relished them – but in general, he preferred to be a guest rather than a host. It was such a bother, he thought, to have to cook everything and then to serve it. He found it difficult to relax and enjoy the conversation if he had to keep an eye on the needs of his guests. And at the end of it all, of course, there was the mess which had to be cleared up. Angus kept his flat tidy – it was rather like the galley of a well-run ship, in fact; somewhat Spartan, with everything neatly stacked and stored.
Of course, this preference for being entertained rather than entertaining had not escaped the notice of others. If records 138 Angus Lordie Prepares to Entertain were kept of these things, in the same way in which certain denizens of London society kept lists of the season’s parties –
and that was never done in Edinburgh – then Angus Lordie’s debit columns would heavily outweigh anything in his credit columns. In fact, his credit columns would be completely blank, unless one counted buying lunch for one or two friends in the Scottish Arts Club as a credit. And the friends for whom he had bought lunch were themselves noted more for the eating of meals than for paying for them. And as for those who had invited him to their large parties in places such as East Lothian, they did so in the sure and certain knowledge that their hospitality would never be repaid. Not that they minded, of course; Angus was witty and entertaining company, and nobody expected a bachelor to be much good at reciprocation.
“He’s such a charming man,” remarked one hostess to a friend.
“Men like that are such fun.”
“But he’s absolutely no good,” said the friend. “A convinced bachelor. No use at all.”
“Such a waste,” said the first woman.
“Criminal.”
They were both silent. Then: “Remember when” – and here she mentioned the name of a prominent lawyer who, some years back, had become a widower – “Remember when he came on the market and there was that mad dash, and she got there first?”
The other thought for a moment. She shook her head. There were other cases too, though none as egregiously tragic for a number of hopefuls as that one.
“Of course, Angus is very friendly with that woman who lives in Scotland Street. That frightful blue-stocking . . .”
“Domenica Macdonald.”
“Exactly. The one who went off somewhere on some madcap project.”
“But there’s nothing between them, surely?”
“No. They gossip together. That’s all.”
“So sad.”
“Criminal.”
But now Angus was cornered and found himself committed Angus Lordie Prepares to Entertain 139
to the holding of a dinner party in Drummond Place. This situation had come about as a result of an undertaking he had rashly given to Domenica shortly before her departure for the Malacca Straits. She had asked him to give her an assurance that he would invite to his flat Antonia Collie, her friend who was occupying her flat in her absence.
“She knows very few people in Edinburgh, Angus,” Domenica had said. “And she is an old friend. I don’t expect you to fall over yourself, but do at least have her round for a meal. Promise me that, will you?”
Angus felt that he could hardly refuse. He gave his word that he would invite her within a week of her arrival, and on the sixth day he had pushed an envelope through Antonia’s letter-box and walked down the stairs quickly in case she should come out and invite him in. He did not want to see much of her. She’s insufferably pleased with herself, he thought. And she has that arrogance of those whose modest amount of talent has gone to their head.
He considered how he might dilute her company. If he invited four other guests, then he could place her at the far end of the table, opposite his own seat at the head, and then he would have two guests on either side of the table between himself and Antonia. In this way, he would not have to listen to her at all and she would, in turn, find it difficult to condescend to him.
But it was not just the seating plan that Angus had been contemplating – there was also the menu to consider. His own taste tended towards uncomplicated fare – to lamb chops with mashed potatoes, to smoked salmon on brown bread, to venison stew with red cabbage. But he was aware that such dishes would not do for a dinner party of sophisticates – and Antonia would certainly consider herself a sophisticate. She may have drawn the conclusion that he knew little about fiction – but he would not allow her to draw a similar conclusion about his culinary ability. With this in mind, he had gone to some trouble to plan a meal of considerable complexity. He had consulted the book which he had received for his birthday from a female cousin some years previously, Dear Francesca, a book of memoirs and 140 A Memory of Milanese Salami
recipes, and had made a note of the ingredients he would need: pasta, extra virgin olive oil, anchovy fillets, Parmigiano Reggiano. His mouth watered.
“Come, Cyril,” he announced. “Time to go shopping.”
Cyril looked at his master. For some reason, he experienced a sudden sense of foreboding. But, being a dog, he had no means of articulating this, no means of warning.