“Geoffrey’s work is pretty challenging,” George continued. “The essential idea is that things either go forwards or backwards, but not in two directions at the same time. It’s a fascinating concept and he’s devoted much of his practice as an artist to exploring it. He had a big show down in London last year.
“One of his best-known works is called Time’s Chariot. He based it on an old tractor he found up near Dunblane. He painted it yellow and attached it to a plough. It caused a big sensation in London and there was talk of it going on to New York. A bit reminiscent of Koons, really, but maybe more radical. Important stuff.
“Then there was his Razor Blades of Memory which wowed them big time at the Venice Biennale. That was a large collection of used razor blades arranged in a very impressive fan-shape. That went for two hundred grand at Christie’s in South Ken. A very encouraging price. Hirst would have really loved that piece, I think.”
“My car,” muttered Stuart.
George looked down at the top of his desk. He was clearly embarrassed. “Yes, your car. Well, the truth of the matter is this: Geoffrey was nominated for the Turner Prize and was thinking about a work to be called Machinery IV. He told me that it would be a red car that would be given artistic preparation down in London, at the Tate. He said that it should be collected from Northumberland Street, outside my office …”
Stuart had worked out where this was going. He sat wide-eyed as the story continued to unfold.
“Well, I’m afraid I assumed that the red Volvo outside was it. So I arranged for it to be carted down to London. And now …” He paused. “And now comes the bad news. And the good news too. It went down to London where it was cut in half and then mounted on a large board. Not perhaps the best of news for you, but then … then, well I’m really happy to tell you: it won the Turner Prize!”
The effect of this news was to render Stuart speechless. Bertie, however, reacted in a more lively way. “You mean our car won the Turner Prize, Mr. MacGregor?”
“Yes,” said George. “That’s about it. Good news, isn’t it? Of course it’s now an art work rather than a car, but that’s the price of art, Bertie.”
“But it’s cut in two, Mr. MacGregor,” wailed Bertie. He had loved that car, had been so proud of it.
“True, Bertie. But just think: that’s what great art does. It obliges us to re-examine our relationship with the material world. And sometimes that means bifurcation.”
67. News for Bruce
Bruce returned from the office in a state of extreme discomfort. This state of mind was very unusual for him, as his normal mood was one of optimistic breeziness. After all, if one was a narcissist – as Bruce undoubtedly was – what was there to feel unhappy about? The person one really cared for – the object of one’s desires – was always there to hand, ready to agree with whatever was proposed and very rarely inclined to complain.
Now, however, Bruce felt both physically and emotionally uncomfortable. The cause of his physical distress was self-evident – anybody encountering him walking home that day would have immediately realised that there had been some difficulty with a yellowish substance – probably custard – that was spattered prominently across the front of his shirt and the lapels of his jacket. Such an observer, noting Bruce’s scowl, would perhaps have wondered why custard should provoke such an intense reaction; but of course it was not custard but a florescence of a very different, and more objectionable nature: pus from Freddie’s boil – and that, understandably enough, would have dismayed anybody in Bruce’s position, even those not afflicted with his vanity.
Bruce’s emotional discomfort stemmed from his awareness of having made a bad mistake. He had agreed to the ridiculous exchange of identities, but now, after only a few hours as Jonathan, he had had enough and was impatient to bring the whole episode to a close. That could be done, he decided, that evening. He would return to the flat, spend the day mindlessly watching some of the films he had noticed on Jonathan’s shelves, and then resume his real identity when his partner in deception returned from work.
After a long hot shower and change of clothing, Bruce felt distinctly better. Jonathan’s taste in films was not exactly the same as his, but once Bruce had settled into watching Surfing Boys IV, a film that had some exceptional shots of impressive waves, he decided that he could now enjoy the last few hours of being somebody else. And it was not too bad being Jonathan, he concluded: the flat was extremely comfortable, the clothes were pretty good, and there was something to be said for the stock of wines and gourmet snacks that he had unearthed in the kitchen. And as for Surfing Boys IV, the dialogue might not have been all that exciting but there was certainly plenty of action. Surfing Boys V and VI were also on the shelves and they would pass a few hours as well, although there were aspects of these films, he felt, that could become a bit tedious. Was it really necessary to flex one’s muscles quite so much before launching a surfboard? Bruce doubted it, but then he knew very little about surfing and perhaps this was some sort of ritual followed in the surfing world.
At four thirty the doorbell rang. Bruce had now reached Surfing Boys VI and the young men involved were about to investigate a beach on the Western Australian coast. Careful, thought Bruce: if you want to make Surfing Boys VII you had better be aware of great whites …
He paused the film and made his way to the front door. Opening it, he saw Freddie standing before him, a wide grin on his face. Remembering who he was – or who he was still meant to be – Bruce invited his workmate into the flat.
Freddie reached out to grasp Bruce’s upper arm. “Guess!” he said. “Just guess!”
Bruce was at a loss. Was this something to do with the recently lanced boil?
“You’re fully recovered. The boil’s disappeared altogether.”
Freddie shook his head. “Nothing to do with that,” he said. “Listen to this, Jono. You’re going to freak out, really freak out.”
Bruce raised an eyebrow.
“The syndicate,” said Freddie, the words tumbling out of his mouth almost uncontrollably. “The lottery … the Euro Millions lottery.”
Bruce remained calm. “So? What of it?”
“We won!” shouted Freddie. “We did it! I checked and spoke to them early this afternoon. Everything’s confirmed. They sent their rep round to see me and he examined the ticket and confirmed. We won! We won!”
Bruce fixed Freddie with an intense stare. Was this a practical joke? But Freddie met Bruce’s eyes with utter equanimity.
“Nine point nine million euros,” Freddie shouted. “Almost ten million euros between the four of us!”
Bruce did a quick mental calculation. Then he sat down. Just short of two and a half million euros each. Was that right? He repeated the calculation. Yes. “When do they pay?” he asked.
“They said they’ll come and talk to each of us,” Freddie explained. “They’ll come round with one of their investment adviser people. They are very concerned about people going crazy and doing stupid things.”
“Will they pay in cash?” asked Bruce.
Freddie nodded. “I asked them that and they said that it was unusual, but they would. Yes. Not that I want it in cash – a cheque’s fine for me.”
Bruce smiled. “And when will they come to see us?” he asked.
“Tomorrow,” said Freddie. “I gave them your address and phone number. They’ll get in touch.”
Bruce looked out of the window. He would have to remain in character for slightly longer now, but in view of this development it would hardly be a chore.
“What are you going to do with yours?” Freddie asked eagerly. “I’ve resigned already. I’m going to open a restaurant and bar in the West End. I’ve already seen a suitable place.”
“I’m not sure,” said Bruce. “I might go away somewhere.” He would have to go away, he decided. He really would have no choice. Barcelona, perhaps? Rio?
He returned to the subject of payment. “So they’ll pay up quickly?” he asked
. “There won’t be any hassle?”
“None at all,” said Freddie. “Just think, Jono: a couple of million quid each. In our hands within three days.”
Bruce allowed himself a laugh. “Amazing!” he said.
Freddie looked at his watch. “I’m meeting some friends for a celebratory drink,” he said. “Are you interested in coming?”
Bruce shook his head. “No thanks.” He paused. “Actually, Freddie, I’d like to keep this pretty quiet. Would you mind? I’d prefer if nobody knew about it.”
“Absolutely right,” said Freddie. “I haven’t told anybody yet and I won’t let on to my friends this evening. I’ll just tell them I’ve had a stroke of good luck.”
“Very wise,” said Bruce. “Discretion is the best policy when something like this happens.”
“In case somebody tries to take it away from you?” suggested Freddie.
“Exactly,” said Bruce, raising a finger to his lips in a gesture of conspiratorial silence. “In case somebody tries to take it away.”
68. Millions of Pounds
“It’s very unusual,” said the lottery official.
“Maybe,” said Bruce. “But then one size doesn’t fit all, you know.”
The official, a small man with a carefully combed middle parting, looked down at the file he had extracted from his briefcase. “We do try to accommodate our winners,” he said. “We are prepared to be extremely flexible in appropriate cases, but …”
Bruce frowned. “I don’t see what possible difference it makes to you. It’s exactly the same amount of money, whether it’s cash or a cheque. What’s the problem?”
“It’s not us,” said the official, now sounding slightly peevish. “It’s not our welfare that concerns us – it’s yours. Just over two million pounds is a lot of money. How are you going to keep two million pounds safe? Where will you put it?”
“I’ll be careful,” said Bruce. “I won’t keep it in cash for all that long. I just want to have the cash to begin with.”
“But why?”
Bruce smiled expansively. “I want to look at it,” he said. “I want to come to terms with the fact that it’s real. Can’t you understand that?”
The official looked at Bruce reproachfully. “I don’t think you should imply a lack of understanding on my part,” he said. “I’m doing my best to help you.”
“Well then,” said Bruce. “That’s what I want.”
The official sighed. “All right. I’ve been in touch with our bankers,” he said. “They’ve agreed to make the money available this afternoon. It will be delivered by a firm of high security couriers. They’ll come here at three thirty and I shall attend as well to ensure that all is properly counted and signed for.”
Bruce reached out to shake the official’s hand. “Good man!” he said.
“I do this reluctantly,” said the official. “I have the very gravest misgivings about it. And for that reason we’ll require you to sign a form stating that you are acting against our advice.”
“Fine, said Bruce. “I’m happy to sign that. No problems.”
There were further forms to sign that morning. There was an elaborate document that all four members of the syndicate had to sign, confirming that they were paid-up members of a syndicate and had agreed amongst themselves to share the proceeds of any win. That had already been signed by the other three when it was presented to Bruce, and his signature finalised it. Then there was a form about investment advice – Bruce had to sign this to confirm that he had received advice but that he had opted not to take it. Finally there was a form that stated that no form of fraud or deception was being practised in the claiming of the prize. Bruce read this and hesitated briefly.
“Everything clear?” asked the official.
Bruce closed his eyes. He thought of his parents. He thought of his father, who was an elder of his church in Crieff. He thought of his old headmaster at Morrison’s who had been a good man and much loved by the pupils. He thought of the day the Moderator of the Church of Scotland had visited Morrison’s and had spoken to the assembled school about the choices that life presented.
But then he thought of two million pounds. He thought of a low-slung powerful sports car with a large and effective spoiler; he thought of dinner at some expensive Michelinstarred place with an adoring woman on the other side of the table and the wine list in his hands; he thought of a new Hugo Boss suit he had seen in a shop window in George Street and a Patek Philippe watch he had spotted in Hamilton & Inches, and of how he had thought that this watch would look so good on his wrist, even if he was merely keeping it for the next generation.
“Something wrong?” asked the official.
Bruce shook his head. “I was remembering something I need to do,” he said. “Where do I sign?”
“Here,” said the official, pointing to a line at the bottom of the page. “And date it too please. We like to have everything legal.”
“Yes,” said Bruce. “Legal.”
The official departed, to return again that afternoon ten minutes before an ugly security van, all sharp corners and riveted steel, arrived outside Jonathan’s flat.
“That’s them,” said the official. “You stay here – I’ll go and let them in. Have you got an alarm by the way?”
Bruce looked down at the floor. Did Jonathan have an alarm? He had no idea. He had not seen one, but that did not mean that there was not one. And what if he said that there was no alarm and the official then saw one? Would he guess that something was wrong?
He shook his head. “No alarm.”
The official left the room. Bruce remained where he was, his heart beating loudly within him. Adrenalin, he thought. Two million pounds’ worth of adrenalin. When he returned, the official was accompanied by two burly men in uniform, each carrying a large metal case attached to his wrist with a form of handcuff.
The official called Bruce aside. “You said there was no alarm,” he whispered. “And yet I see there’s an alarm box outside and a control panel in the hall. Why did you say you had no alarm?”
Bruce thought quickly. “Oh that,” he said, trying to sound as casual as possible. “I meant no working alarm. That’s kaput – has been for months.”
The answer seemed to satisfy the official. “You should get it fixed,” he said. “Once you’ve got two million pounds hanging about the place you should get it working. You’ll be able to afford it now.”
Bruce laughed. “Of course. Thanks to you.”
The official produced a form and placed it on a table. “Please sign at the bottom there,” he said. “This is a receipt for the money.”
Bruce sat down at the table, with the official standing over his shoulder. Picking up the pen given to him by the official, he removed the cap and signed carefully along the line indicated to him. His hand shook slightly, but not noticeably. He could hear the blood rushing through his veins. He felt his pulse hammer at his temples. This was the most significant, important moment in his life so far. Two million pounds, and all he had to do now was to sign his name.
He moved the pen over the paper. Two words. It was so easy. Bruce Anderson, he signed.
69. Big Lou Goes Viral
After the filming in Big Lou’s cafe, Matthew returned unaccompanied to his gallery across the road. He had imagined that Bo would stay with him all day – that was certainly the impression that the Danish film-maker had given him – and it was a bit of a let-down to discover that the rest of his day would go unrecorded for the viewers of Danish television. Nothing had been spelled out to Matthew, but Bo’s attitude was clear enough: he found Matthew’s existence every bit as uneventful as Matthew found it, and that meant it would not make the documentary that Bo wanted.
“I’ll catch up with you later,” Bo said to Matthew. “Perhaps I shall do a little bit more filming in this place and then I think I’ll go and get some street shots.”
Matthew did his best to appear unconcerned. “Of course,” he said. “And perhaps
if I have some meetings this afternoon that you’d like to attend I can call you and let you know.”
Bo nodded politely. “Perhaps,” he said.
Matthew knew, of course, what was going on. Not only had Bo decided that he, Matthew, led too dull a life, but he had also decided that Big Lou was somehow more authentically Scottish than he was. The injustice of that cut deep in Matthew’s mind. Why should people treat one sector of Scottish society as being more Scottish than another? Not everybody could be Rob Roy – there were plenty of people who did not sound particularly Scottish but were every bit as Scottish as Big Lou. It was a delicate issue, something to do with accents, that nobody liked to talk about. Matthew could not help the way he talked, which was in the accent of South Edinburgh, refined perhaps here and there as a result of his education at Watson’s. If he did not sound as Scottish as Big Lou’s braid Scots, then that showed that you should never judge a book by its cover, nor a person by his voice. What counted was what was said, not how it was said. If, Matthew thought, one said I have gone rather than I have went; if one never pluralised the word you; if one said goodbye rather than a jaunty see you later; if one never prefaced a remark with see, one could still be authentically Scottish. Not that Bo could be expected to understand that, of course.
And as for Bruce suddenly turning up and hogging the camera, that was equally galling. Of course it was perfectly obvious why that should have happened – Bruce was immensely photogenic and the people in Denmark whom Bo kept mentioning would presumably love just to gaze at his features on their screens. It did not matter that everything that Bruce had ever said, or was likely to say, was completely superficial: the people in Denmark would not be looking for pearls of wisdom from him.
Matthew’s assessment of the situation, carried out as he sat in the gallery and fumed, was broadly correct. Bruce was of much greater interest to Bo because the Dane understood the appeal of a well-sculpted face. Bruce would make good television whatever he did, and as for Big Lou, she was an out-and-out gift. They would love her in rural Denmark in particular, and it was possible that her appeal could be even wider than that.