Domenica said nothing for a moment. Of the problems that she had foreseen with this relationship, this was not one of them, and beside this, issues of communication seemed to fade into insignificance. ‘I’m very sorry,’ she said. It sounded trite, she knew, but it was what she felt – she was sorry.
‘It’s my own fault,’ said Antonia. ‘What else can one expect if one takes up with somebody who’s virtually a complete stranger?’
Domenica tried to console her. ‘We all make mistakes when it comes to matters of the heart,’ she said. ‘It’s part of the human condition. I’ve certainly made mistakes.’
Antonia shook her head. ‘One makes such mistakes in one’s twenties, perhaps,’ she said. ‘But not later. No, there’s no excuse for me. None at all.’
It seemed to Domenica that Antonia was berating herself unnecessarily. It had been foolish of her, perhaps, to get involved so quickly, but she had no reason to apologise for that. Antonia was the victim here, and so had no need to look for excuses. She thought this as she went to the kitchen cupboard to get the bottle of green ginger wine. As Domenica poured herself a small glass, Antonia continued to speak. ‘I’ve been such a fool. I really have.’
‘You haven’t,’ said Domenica. ‘You’ve been human – that’s all.’
‘And he’s been human too?’
Domenica looked up at the ceiling. ‘Men take comfort where they can find it,’ she said. ‘And all the evidence is, is it not, that they are genetically designed to take up with as many women as they can. It’s something to do with genetic survival.’ She paused. ‘But lest you believe that I’m condoning this sort of thing, I must say that we’re designed to do exactly the opposite. We have to raise children, who take a lot of time. So we’re designed to keep men under control and in the home, providing for everybody. That’s the way it’s meant to work.’
Antonia took a sip of her Earl Grey tea. It was all very well talking about genetic destiny, she thought, but she felt let down, both by herself and by Markus. ‘I’ve let myself down,’ she said. ‘Badly.’
Domenica did not agree. ‘How can one let oneself down?’ she said. ‘Unless one is going to be intensely dualistic?’
Antonia ignored the question. ‘Anyway,’ she said. ‘I’ve learned my lesson. From now on, I shall look for a very different sort of man.’
‘One to whom you can talk?’ Domenica regretted saying this the moment she spoke, but Antonia appeared not to have taken offence.
‘You know that I’m writing a novel about the early Scottish saints?’ she said. ‘Well, I shall look for a man who is the modern equivalent of the hero of my book.’
Domenica picked up her glass of green ginger wine and glanced at Antonia over the rim. ‘Are we being practical?’ she asked. ‘Are there any saints out there?’
Antonia met her gaze. ‘I’m sure there are. It’s only a question of finding them.’
‘And it will have to be an unmarried saint.’
Antonia nodded. ‘Naturally.’
‘But where exactly will you find a contemporary saint?’ said Domenica. ‘It’s hard enough to meet any half-decent man these days, let alone somebody saintly.’
Antonia thought for a moment. Then she said: ‘Saintly men presumably go to church. I shall find one at St Giles’ perhaps, or the Episcopal Cathedral over on Palmerston Place. I find Episcopalian men rather interesting, don’t you?’
Domenica stared at her neighbour. She wondered if she was perhaps not quite feeling herself, if she needed to see somebody. First, there had been the ridiculous affair with Markus, and now there was this absurd notion that she would meet a man in church. It really was ridiculous, she thought; quite unrealistic, risible really.
‘Are you quite serious?’ she asked gently.
‘Of course,’ said Antonia, setting her teacup down on the table. It was a blue Spode teacup, the companion of the one which had appeared next door and which Domenica believed had been stolen.
‘I’ve got a cup just like that,’ said Antonia casually.
Domenica drew in her breath sharply. Antonia was a dangerous, deluded woman – an unrepentant stealer of teacups, a Siren to Polish builders, a predator really. She – Domenica – would have to proceed extremely carefully.
73. Julia Makes a Joyful Discovery
It was now almost two weeks since Bruce had moved into Julia’s flat in Howe Street. It had been for both of them a blissful fortnight. For Bruce, it had been a period marked by the discovery of just how comfortable it was to have one’s every whim catered for. Julia cooked for him, and made just the dishes he liked – risotto, truffle oil salad, venison pie – while she also attended to his wardrobe, sewing buttons back on those shirts from which they had dropped, pressing his trousers and generally making sure that he had everything that he wanted. She also drove Bruce about town in the small sports car which her father had given her for her last birthday, taking him to the gym and spa, to the squash club, and wherever else he needed to go.
For Bruce, the bargain was a good one. He was looked after in return for his company – not a bad arrangement, he felt, even if there were times when he found her a bit overbearing and perhaps just a little bit too anxious to please. Although he had his own room in the flat, it had rapidly become no more than a dressing room, where he kept his clothes and his supplies of hair gel and what he referred to as his après-rasage. He and Julia now shared her bedroom, which was dominated by a queen-size bed on which large red cushions were scattered. On each side of the bed, there was a small table stacked with magazines – Vanity Fair, Harpers & Queen, Cosmopolitan on her side, and on Bruce’s, Gentleman’s Quarterly and High Performance Car, all of them bought by Julia.
Julia liked to lie on top of the bed, paging through the magazines, a small plate of cashew and macadamia nuts beside her. ‘This is bliss,’ she said. ‘I’m so happy.’
‘Good,’ said Bruce. He wanted her to be happy – not too happy, perhaps, but happy enough. If she were to become too happy, then he feared that she might start talking about commitment and permanence, as women tended to do, and this was not on the agenda, as far as he was concerned.
Julia had a small diary in which she noted certain facts. On one page of this diary – a day which coincided with Bruce’s moving into the flat, she had written, enigmatically, day fourteen. That was two weeks ago, and now, while Bruce sat watching television in the kitchen, she made her way through to the bathroom off the main bedroom. It was not very tidy, and there was a riot of shampoo bottles cluttering the shelf above the basin. But from a cupboard behind that – one of those flat medicine cupboards fronted with a mirror – she extracted a small box. From this she took a plastic tube. Her hands were shaking as she read the leaflet that came with this; the instructions were clear enough, but Julia read them through twice, just to be certain.
In the kitchen, Bruce rose from his chair and fetched a bottle of mineral water from the fridge. Pouring himself a glass, he downed it quickly and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He noticed that the fridge was, as usual, almost completely full, and this gave him a particular pleasure. He could barely remember when he had last had to do any shopping for food, which he had never liked doing very much. And now here was a constantly refilling cornucopia, including that delicious sparkling mineral water tinged with the merest hint of lemon. He poured himself another glass of that, drank it, stretched his arms above him, and then flopped down on the chair in front of the television.
In the bathroom, Julia held the tube up to the light. A small marker tab inside would reveal the result, the leaflet had promised: a blue line would appear if the test were positive. She peered at the tab. Five seconds, ten seconds . . . a blue line! She closed her eyes and then looked again. This time, the blue line was even more clearly present.
She disposed of the tube carefully. Bruce would probably not know what it was, but she did not want to run the risk of his finding it and asking any awkward questions before she was ready to
answer them. Then, standing in front of the mirror, she placed a hand gently against her stomach. I’m pregnant, she whispered. I’m pregnant!
It had been very quick, and this was the very first day on which she could perform the test after that first passionate encounter when she had shown him how to use the shower. What a place for it to happen! But how lovely, she thought. If it were a girl – which she rather hoped it would be – then perhaps they could even call her Doccia, which was Italian for shower. It was a very nice-sounding name, she thought – Doccia Anderson; but no, it could be awkward for the poor child later on. One wouldn’t want a child to know that she originated in a shower; one could never tell what the effects of that might be.
Julia looked at her watch. Where would her father be now? Probably in his office in Melville Street, from which he ran the hotels and other businesses in which he dabbled. She picked up the telephone and dialled the number.
‘Daddy?’
Her father chuckled. ‘Julia! And how is Daddy’s girlie today? Working hard?’
‘Of course. But I shouldn’t overdo it. Not in my condition.’
There was a silence at the other end of the line. Then her father spoke. ‘What did you say? What condition?’
‘You’re going to be a grandfather.’ She had rehearsed that in her mind, and it was what she thought would give him greatest pleasure.
Again there was silence for a few moments. Then he said: ‘Please say that once more. Slowly this time.’
Julia repeated herself, but was then cut off by a whoop of joy from her father. She was now slightly concerned that she was being a bit premature in conveying the news, but her instinct had been right as to her father’s likely reaction: he was evidently thrilled. But then a hesitant note crept into his voice. ‘Do you mind my asking,’ he said, ‘but who’s the young man?’
‘He’s called Bruce, Daddy. And you’ll love him.’
‘Has he asked you to marry him?’ her father asked.
‘Not quite. But I’m sure he will. With a little . . .’
‘Yes, with a little what?’
‘With a little help from you,’ said Julia. ‘And I know how good you are at getting people to do the things you want them to.’
74. Bruce takes a Bath
When Julia went back into the kitchen, still light-headed from the discovery she had made in the bathroom – a discovery which she knew would change the course of her entire future – she found Bruce sitting with his feet up on the breakfast table. On the other side of the room, the small portable television set which she kept in the kitchen was disgorging some football match which appeared to interest Bruce greatly.
‘They’re rubbish,’ said Bruce, gesturing towards the television. ‘They can’t play. They just can’t play.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Julia. ‘That’s bad.’
Bruce grunted, and Julia crossed over to the fridge to pour herself a glass of milk. Calcium, she thought. I must get some calcium.
She turned to Bruce, the container of milk still in her hand. ‘Calcium, Brucie?’
Bruce looked up from the football match. ‘What?’
Julia blushed. The word calcium had slipped out unintentionally. ‘Milk?’ she asked.
Bruce made a dismissive gesture. ‘No thanks. But if you’re making coffee, I wouldn’t mind.’
Julia picked up the kettle and began to fill it with water. There is nothing she would have wished for more than to be able to tell him, to share her news with him, but she realised that it would be unwise to do so – just yet. There would be time enough for that in the future, when the moment was right, and when she would perhaps have the support of her father. For the moment, though, it might still be possible to test the temperature of the water by making one or two pertinent remarks. She suspected that Bruce would be a good father, and a willing husband, of course, but it might be an idea just to ascertain exactly where he stood.
Joining him at the table, she made a determined effort to ignore the fact that his feet were on the surface from which they ate. Men were like that, she reminded herself; they were really quite unsanitary in their habits.
‘I bumped into an old friend this morning,’ she said casually.
Bruce did not take his eyes off the television set. ‘Oh yes,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Julia. ‘I was at school with her. A girl called Catherine. We were actually very close friends at school.’
‘The best sort of friend,’ said Bruce. ‘As long as they don’t change. Sometimes you find these people you knew a while ago have become all gross and domestic.’
Julia caught her breath. Did he think that grossness and domesticity went together? ‘Well, she is married,’ she ventured. ‘But it hasn’t really changed her. She’s even happier than she used to be, in fact.’
‘Chacun à son goût,’ remarked Bruce. Then he added: ‘Glad to hear it.’
Julia looked at her fingernails. ‘She told me she’s pregnant.’
‘That happens,’ said Bruce. He was not interested in this sort of thing; women’s gossip, he thought.
Julia persevered. ‘You couldn’t tell yet, of course. But, anyway, she’s really pleased about that. She and her husband have been hoping for this to happen.’
‘They may as well get some sleep now – while they can,’ said Bruce, reaching for his glass of sparkling water. ‘They won’t get any for the next ten years.’
‘But sleep isn’t everything, Brucie!’ Julia teased. ‘And lots of babies sleep quite well, you know. They can be fun.’
There was a silence. On the television set, in some unspecified distant place, a man kicked a ball into a goal. There was cheering and despair. Bruce raised a finger and shook it at the set. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘That’s what comes from having a cripple for a goalkeeper.’
‘Some babies you hardly even notice,’ Julia went on.
‘These people are seriously useless,’ said Bruce. ‘Did you see that? They’ve just let the other side score a goal and now they’re risking having somebody sent off. Incredible. Just incredible.’
He rose to his feet and walked across to switch off the television set. ‘I can’t bear any more,’ he said. ‘I’m going to go and have a bath. Should we go out for dinner tonight? You choose.’
Julia nodded vaguely, but her mind was elsewhere. This was not going to be easy, she thought. She watched Bruce as he left the kitchen, and she realised that, quite apart from anything else, quite apart from the baby – their baby! – she had to secure this man, this gorgeous, gorgeous man, as she thought of him. This Adonis – what exactly did that word mean? – this rock star – this husband!
Bruce went into the bathroom and slipped out of the moccasins he was wearing. He loved the bathroom floor, which was made of limestone, and had a cool, rough feel on the soles of the feet. And he liked the decor too, the stone-lined shower cubicle – even if the shower itself required special handling – the double basins with their designer bases, the entire glass shelf which Julia had cleared for the hair gels and shampoo she had seen him unpacking in his room. It was a bathroom for living in, Bruce had decided. One could move one’s stuff in here and just live in it.
He bent over and started the bath running. There was a cube of bath salts on the edge of the bath, left there by Julia, and he picked this up and smelled it. Lily of the Valley. Well, not what he would exactly have chosen – he preferred sandalwood – but he liked the feel of these things and the way they made the water milky white. So he unwrapped it and broke it into the rapidly filling bath. Then he turned round and his eye caught the small leaflet which was lying on the floor at the end of the bath. He reached forward and picked it up. He became quite still.
For a few moments after he had finished reading the leaflet that came with Julia’s pregnancy testing kit, Bruce did nothing. Then, quite slowly, he pivoted round and turned off the running water. Now there was silence in the bathroom.
Bruce looked at the leaflet again. She told me, he th
ought. I asked her and she told me. I very specifically, very considerately, asked her, and she reassured me. And now . . . What if the result had been positive? What if he was already responsible for . . . He suddenly remembered the conversation they had had in the kitchen. He had dismissed it, thought nothing of it. Women always talked about babies, but now he realised that there was a very good reason for Julia’s having raised the subject.
He looked at the bathwater. He would get in and do some serious thinking in the bath; thinking about his future; thinking about escape routes.
75. From the Depths of Despair
Angus Lordie had painted very little since the fateful day of Cyril’s arrest. He had been finishing a portrait which had been commis-sioned by the board of a whisky company; the sittings were done, and he was now working from photographs, but his heart was not in it. It seemed to him that although Cyril was no longer lying at his feet, as he normally did, he was somehow insinuating himself into the very painting, somewhere in the background, a canine presence, a shadow. No, it was hopeless: a painter could not work when his muse lay somewhere in a cold pound, awaiting trial for something that he did not do.
On that morning, although Angus knew that he would have to force himself into his studio, he sat unhappily at his breakfast table, toying with his food; even a Pittenweem kipper seemed unappetising while he was in this frame of mind. Food was a problem. The previous evening, to tempt himself to eat, he had treated himself to several thick slices of the smoked salmon sent down to him from Argyll by his friend Archie Graham. Archie’s salmon, which he steeped in rum and then smoked himself, was, in Angus Lordie’s opinion, the finest smoked salmon in Scotland, but he had found that in his current mood he had little appetite even for that. Indeed, since Cyril’s arrest, Angus had lost a considerable amount of weight. He now had to wear a belt with the trousers that had previously fitted him perfectly ungebelt, and his collars, normally slightly tight because of the age of his shirts, could now have two fingers inserted between them and his neck and waggled about without discomfort. If a dog could pine for a man, thought Angus, then a man could just as readily pine for a dog.