Now, standing in the shower, Bruce poured on a bit of Caroline’s conditioner and rubbed it into his hair. His conversation with his hostess had not been an edifying one, and it was probably just as well that he was going out for dinner with Julia Donald that evening. He might even move out that very evening, which would give Caroline something to think about, but any decision could wait. For the moment, he had the sheer pleasure of the shower ahead of him; a shower first, then decisions, said Bruce to himself. That’s a good one, he thought. Just like Bertolt Brecht with his Grub first, then ethics.
He turned his head slightly and caught sight of his reflection in the glass wall of the shower cubicle. His profile, he thought, was the real strength of his face, that straight nose, in perfect proportion to the rest of the features – spot-on. It was amazing, he thought, how nature gets it just right. And the cleft in his chin – how many women had put the tip of their little finger 122 A Little Bit of Bottle Bother at the Tower in there? – it was almost as if they could not resist it, a Venus fly-trap, perhaps.
He pouted. “Drop-dead gorgeous,” he whispered, through the sound of the shower.
37. A Little Bit of Bottle Bother at the Tower Bruce had suggested to Julia that they should meet in the Tower Restaurant, above the Museum. He had been there once before when a client of Macauley Holmes Richardson Black had invited him to discuss over lunch the purchase of a piece of land near Peebles. Bruce had made a mental note to return for a more leisurely meal, but then he had become occupied with his wine business – a “semi-success” as he called it – and that had been followed by his removal to London. Eating out in London, of course, was ruinously expensive and, unless invited, he had avoided it as far as possible. Now, back in Edinburgh, he contemplated, with pleasure, the variety of restaurants he would be able to explore with Julia. She was the sort of girl who would pay the bill without complaint, although he would reach into his own pocket from time to time if pressed; Bruce was not mean.
The Tower Restaurant was above the new part of the National Museum of Scotland. As a boy, Bruce had been taken to the museum on several occasions, on school trips from Crieff, and had enjoyed pressing the buttons of the machines kept on display in great, ancient cases. The cavernous hall of the museum, with its vast glass roof, had been etched into the memory of those days, and could still impress him, but now it was the business of dinner that needed to be attended to.
He was early. Perched on one of the bar stools, he nursed a martini in front of him while waiting for Julia. Bruce did not normally drink martinis, but tonight’s date justified one, he thought; and the effect, he noted, was as intended – the gin, barely diluted by vermouth, indeed possibly unacquainted A Little Bit of Bottle Bother at the Tower 123
with it, was quickly lifting his spirits even further. How had Churchill made martinis? he asked himself. He smiled as he remembered the snippet he had read in The Decanter or somewhere like that – Churchill had poured the gin on one side of the room while nodding in the direction of the vermouth bottle on the other side. What a man, thought Bruce, a bit like me in some ways.
Julia arrived ten minutes late.
“Perfect timing,” said Bruce, rising from the bar stool to plant a kiss on her cheek. “For a woman, that is. And you look so stunning too. That dress . . .”
Julia beamed. “Oh, thank you, Brucie! It’s ancient – prehis-toric, actually. I bought it from Armstrongs down in the Grassmarket. You know that place that has all those old clothes.
Très retro!”
Bruce touched the small trim of ostrich feathers around the neck of the dress. “It’s a flapper dress, isn’t it?”
Julia was not sure what a flapper dress was, but it sounded right. “Yes,” she said. “It’s good for flapping in.”
“Very funny!” said Bruce.
They both laughed.
“Let’s go to our table,” said Bruce. “That’s the maître d’ over there. I’ll catch his eye.”
“You can catch anybody’s eye, Brucie,” said Julia playfully.
“You’re eye candy.”
“Eye toffee,” said Bruce, taking hold of her forearm. “I stick to people.” He smiled as he remembered something. “You know, we had a dog up in Crieff and he had a sweet tooth. I gave him a toffee once and he started to chew it and got his teeth completely stuck together. It was seriously funny.”
Julia laughed. “When I was at Glenalmond, we gave our housemistress a piece of cake with toffee hidden in the middle.
It stuck her false teeth together and she had to take them out to get rid of it!”
“The things one does when young,” said Bruce.
“A scream,” said Julia.
124 A Little Bit of Bottle Bother at the Tower They moved to the table. “You must let me treat you,” said Bruce as they were handed the menu.
“Oh, please let me,” said Julia.
“All right,” said Bruce quickly. “Thanks. What are you going to have?”
If Julia was taken aback, it was only momentarily. “I love oysters,” she said. “I’m going to start with those.”
“Make sure that you put a bit of Tabasco in,” said Bruce.
“And lemon. Delicious.”
“What about you?” asked Julia.
“Lobster,” said Bruce, examining the menu. “Market price.
That’s helpful, isn’t it? Everything is market price if you come to think of it. Anyway, I’ll start with lobster, then . . .” he examined the menu. “Which do you think would win in a fight? A lobster or an oyster?”
Julia looked out of the window. “That’s a very interesting question, Brucie. I’ve never thought about that, you know.”
“The lobster would have the advantage of mobility,” said Bruce. “But the oyster has pretty good defences, I would have thought. It would probably be a stand-off.”
“Yes,” agreed Julia. “Interesting.”
The waiter came and took their order. “And wine?” he asked.
Bruce looked at the list. “You know, I was in the wine trade for a while,” he said to Julia, but loud enough for the waiter to hear.
“I’ll fetch the sommelier,” said the waiter.
“No need . . .” Bruce began. But the waiter had moved off and was whispering something into the ear of a colleague. The sommelier nodded and came over to Bruce and Julia’s table.
“So, sir,” he said. “Have you any ideas?”
Bruce looked at the wine list. “Bit thin,” he said. “No offence, of course. No Brunello, for instance.” He smiled at Julia as he spoke. She made a face as if to mourn the absence of Brunello.
“Oh, but I think there is, sir,” said the sommelier. “Perhaps you did not register the name of the producers. Look, over there, for example. Banfi. We don’t always feel it’s necessary to describe Anyway, What Are You Going to Do, Brucie? 125
exactly where a wine comes from. We assume that in many cases people know . . .”
“Where?” snapped Bruce. “Oh, yes, Banfi. Wrong side, of course.”
“Of what, sir?”
“The river,” said Bruce.
“But there isn’t a river in Montalcino,” said the sommelier gently. “Perhaps you’re thinking of somewhere else. The Arno perhaps?”
Bruce did not respond to this; he was peering at the list.
“What about a Chianti?” he said. “What about this one here?”
The sommelier peered over his shoulder. “Mmm,” he said.
“I find that a bit unexciting, personally.”
“Well, why do you have it on the list, then?” Bruce said. His tone was now defensive, rattled.
“Well,” said the sommelier, smiling, “we like to have one or two – how shall I put it? – pedestrian wines for some of our diners who have . . . well, not very sophisticated tastes. We don’t actually carry Blue Nun, but that’s pretty much for the diner who would go for a bottle of Blue Nun. I would have thought that you might be interested in something much more . . . much more complex.”