Bruce kept his eyes on the list. “We’ll have a bottle of this,”
he said, pointing wildly.
“Oh, a very good choice,” said the sommelier. “And well worth the extra money. I always say that when you pay that much, you’re on safe ground. Well chosen, sir.”
38. Anyway, What Are You Going to Do, Brucie?
Bruce ate his lobster with gusto, watched by Julia, whose oysters had slipped down with alacrity. He offered her a claw, but she declined, a small appetite for one so curvaceous, Bruce thought.
126 Anyway, What Are You Going to Do, Brucie?
“I prefer really small courses,” she said. “We went to a restaurant in New York once, you know the one near the new modern art thingy. Mummy, or whatever it’s called.”
“MoMA,” muttered Bruce, wiping mayonnaise from the side of his mouth.
“That’s the place. Strange name.”
Bruce reached out and patted her gently on the wrist.
“Nothing to do with mother,” he said. “It stands for the Museum of Modern Art.”
Julia thought for a moment. “I don’t get it. Anyway, this place, you wouldn’t know that it’s a restaurant, as there’s nothing on the door. Just a glass door. It’s really cool.”
Bruce nodded. “That’s to keep the wrong sort out,” he said.
“They have to do that. It’s the same in London. There are no signs outside the really good clubs. Nothing to tell you they’re there. You could spend weeks in London and not see any of the really good places because you just wouldn’t know.”
Julia looked at Bruce. She was studying his chin, which had a cleft that she found quite fascinating. She watched that and she noticed, too, how when he smiled the smallest dimple appeared in each of his cheeks. It was unfair, she thought, it really was that a man should have a skin like that and not have to worry about moisturisers and all the expensive things that she had to use. Unfair, just unfair. He put something on his hair, though, something with a rather strange smell. What was it?
Cloves? Perhaps she should ask him. Would he mind? Or she could find out by going through his things in the bathroom, that would be easy, and interesting. Julia liked going through men’s things in the bathroom; it was a sort of hobby, really.
She brought herself back to the present. “Yes,” she said. “That restaurant in New York served tiny portions. Tiny. This size.”
She made a tight circle with her thumb and forefinger.
Bruce speared a piece of lobster meat. “Really?”
“Yes. I filled up on olive bread and Daddy asked for a banana.
Everything cost thirty-six dollars. Except for the banana, which was free.”
Anyway, What Are You Going to Do, Brucie? 127
“There you are,” said Bruce. “Every cloud . . .”
Julia interrupted him. “Anyway, Brucie, what are you going to do, now that you’re back?”
Bruce, the lobster finished, pushed his plate to one side. “Well, I’m not going back to being a surveyor. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt. Pas plus de ça pour moi. So I’ve been thinking and I’ve had one or two ideas.”
“Such as?”
Bruce sat back in his chair. “Personal training,” he said. “I think I’ll be a personal trainer.”
A shadow of disappointment crossed Julia’s face. She had not envisaged settling down with a personal trainer. “You mean one of those types you see in the gym?” she said. “The ones who hold their stopwatches and tell you how long to spend on the treadmill?”
It was clear to Bruce that she did not think much of his plan.
He would have to explain; Julia was a bit – how might one put it? – limited in her outlook, poor girl. Rich, but limited.
“Personal trainers do much more than that,” he said. “Getting people fit is one part of it, but there’s much more to it. Lifestyle advice, for example. Telling people how to dress, how to deal with anxiety, stress and all the rest. Sorting out relationships.
That sort of thing.”
Julia’s reservations evaporated. “Brilliant!” she said. “I’m sure that there’ll be a demand for that sort of thing. Lifestyle coach.
Style guru. That sort of thing.” She paused. “And personal shopper?”
Bruce looked doubtful. “I’ve heard of them. But I’m not sure what a personal shopper does.”
Julia knew. “They usually have them in big shops,” she said.
“If you go somewhere like Harrods or Harvey Nicks, they have these people who will get you what you need. You tell them your general requirements and they find it for you. But one could do it as a freelance. Then you could shop all over the place.”
“I don’t know if I could do that,” said Bruce. “I don’t know enough about shopping.”
128 Anyway, What Are You Going to Do, Brucie?
“I do,” said Julia quickly. “I’ve done a lot of shopping.”
Bruce smiled. He had no doubt about that; Julia was certainly a shopper. Then a possibility came to him. He and Julia could enter into a . . .
“Partnership?” said Julia. “Do you think it would work, Brucie?
You do the personal thingy and I’ll do the personal shopping.
We can offer a complete service.”
Bruce nodded. “There are start-up costs,” he said. “There always are.”
Julia waved a hand dismissively. “How much?”
It was a fine calculation for Bruce. It was always difficult to decide just how much to ask for. The trick, he had read, was to try to put oneself in the shoes of the person with the funds and work out how much they would think reasonable. In this case, the start-up costs would be quite small – a few advertisements, a brochure, perhaps a press launch. But then there would be a salary for him, for, say, six months.
“Thirty thousand,” he said. “Give or take a couple of thousand.”
He watched her face. “Thirty thousand?” She hesitated. “All right. We’re in business.”
She looked down at her plate. I’m buying him for thirty thousand, she thought. But if that’s what it costs to get a husband, then that’s what it costs. And her father, she knew, would not quibble over a small sum like that. He had been hoping that she would settle down with a suitable man, and he would certainly approve of Bruce. Dear Daddy! He had said to her once, when she was twenty or so: “When you eventually decide to settle down with somebody, darling, don’t for God’s sake go for some dreadful spiv or intellectual. Go for good stock. You know what I mean by that? Do you? Do I have to spell it out to you?”
He would like Bruce, she knew it. And that would complete her happiness. A husband, a contented father, and before too long a couple of children. For that’s what her father had meant, and she had known it. Good breeding stock. And Bruce was definitely that. Just look at him.
The Builders Who Began with a Bow 129
She looked at Bruce and smiled. And as she did so, she thought: maybe I should just forget to be careful. It’s so easily done, particularly if you want to forget.
39. The Builders Who Began with a Bow Antonia Collie sat in her flat in Scotland Street, a set of architect’s drawings on the table before her; to her side, in a Spode blue and white cup, possibly stolen from Domenica Macdonald’s family – or removed by mistake – the Earl Grey tea she so appreciated. Antonia was engrossed in the drawings and in their complexity; what seemed to her to be a simple business of extracting old kitchen units and inserting new ones, of removing an old and uncomfortable bath and installing a modern and inviting one, and of doing one or other minor improvements to the flat, had been translated into page after page of detailed drawings by her friend Alex Philip, the architect. These were all executed in black ink with careful instructions to the builders as to the thickness of materials, the positioning of screws and wiring, about plaster and skirting-boards and tiles. A copy of the plans had been given to Antonia by Alex, and it was these that she was now trying to understand.