Big Lou turned to her. “I don’t know the fellow, you see. It’s something I arranged on the internet.”
Pat grinned. “Internet dating! Lou, that’s really … really exciting. I didn’t know that you were into that sort of thing.”
“Neither did I,” said Lou. “But I decided to take the plunge. It’s not that …”
Pat waited for Lou to finish. “Yes?”
“It’s not that I’m unhappy by myself. I’m not desperate.”
Pat reassured her. “Lou, nobody would ever think that. You’re …” How could she put it? “You’re your own person, Lou – we all know that. But it would be nice if you found some nice man – somebody who appreciated you.”
Big Lou nodded. “Yes, it would be good. You see, I get back from work in the evenings and sit in my flat down in Canonmills and sometimes it gets … well, I suppose I must say that it gets a wee bit lonely. I think back to the days when I was in Arbroath, or even in Aberdeen, and there were folk about.” She paused. “It’s funny how you can be in a city, where there are thousands of people, and yet be by yourself. I never felt lonely when I was on the farm, even if everybody was away. Sometimes they went up to Stonehaven, to my aunt’s place, and left me by myself. But I never felt lonely, even if the nearest other person was three-quarters of a mile away.”
“Cities can be very lonely,” said Pat. “But tell me more about this man. What did it say about him?”
Pat’s coffee was now ready, and Big Lou was busy steaming the milk. “It was a site called Matching Scots. Funny name for a dating service, but I suppose it says what it means. It matches people who … well, who match.”
Pat encouraged her to continue. “And?”
“And there was a list of men with a few sentences about each of them – in their own words.”
“I know the sort of thing,” said Pat. “I read the New York Review of Books in the George Square Library and I always look at the personals towards the back. It’s fascinating. Highly talented, multifaceted individual, into Freud, wishes to meet SJF with view to LTR. That sort of thing. It makes me wonder whether they’re telling the truth.”
Big Lou carefully poured the frothy milk into Pat’s cup and passed it across the counter to her. “Yes. They don’t seem very modest, do they? But, talking of abbreviations, they used them on Matching Scots too.”
Pat looked interested. “Oh? And this man you’re meeting – what abbreviation did he use?”
“SM,” said Big Lou.
“Single male,” said Pat. “I hope. Maybe, Scottish male. And what else?”
“GSH and EI,” said Big Lou.
Pat frowned. “GSH I know about. Good sense of humour. But EI – do you know what that is, Lou?”
“No,” said Big Lou. “That’s why I wanted you to come with me. Just in case.”
33. The Meaning of EI
It felt very strange for Pat to be meeting Big Lou on the corner of George Street and Hanover Street. As she waited, a few minutes before the appointed time that evening, Pat reflected on the fact that she had never seen Lou out of the context of her coffee bar; had never seen her, in fact, anywhere but behind her counter, where she seemed to be engaged in the endless task of wiping away non-existent dirt with her cloth, her cloot, as Lou called it. The use of Scots words was one of the things that Pat liked in the older woman; that and her directness. Big Lou came from a Scotland that had been diluted in Edinburgh, a Scotland of unfussy, hardworking people who had no time for artifice or pretension, as hard-wearing and weatherproof as the land that produced them. Such lives, though, were discreet – they often followed a path that was set for them rather than chosen; they did not look for salience, they did not seek any limelight; they did not crave the things of this world; they believed, by and large, in sharing, even if they disapproved of not pulling one’s weight and complaining. Big Lou was like that; she was the woman who ran the coffee bar, and ran it with brisk efficiency; it seemed as if she had always been there and always would be. She was not, then, somebody Pat would have imagined herself waiting for on the corner of George Street, prior to going off to a bar together to meet a man identified only by the opaque acronyms of a dating site, a man endowed with a GSH, an SM, and, opaquely, an EI.
The town was busy. George Street, which had previously been a street of staid businesses – banks, insurance offices, gas appliance showrooms and the like – had been encroached upon by bars, the bankers’ halls providing space for jostling crowds of twentysomethings. Some of these were Pat’s fellow students, or those of them whose means enabled them to enjoy a sybaritic existence. She saw two of them now, turning the corner, heading for one of the more expensive bars – a boy in her year, accompanied by a long-limbed blonde who rarely came to lectures and who was rumoured to be the secretary of a sex-addiction support group. She turned away; momentarily concerned that they might see her waiting on the corner and would wonder what she was doing. She could imagine the comments in the George Square coffee room, “We saw her, you know, standing – yes, just standing – on the corner of George Street – heaven knows why – no idea at all. Rather sad, don’t you think …” Those types were so condescending, thought Pat; and look at them, with their drawly voices and their arrogant ways. Come the revolution … But no, there was not going to be a revolution, or certainly not in Edinburgh.
“Sorry,” said a voice. “I’m late.”
Pat turned round to see Big Lou behind her. The transformation struck her immediately. She had not expected Big Lou to be wearing her working clothes – a sort of hodden skirt with an old-fashioned gingham blouse – but equally she had not expected black patterned tights, a suede pencil skirt, a slightly too tight red stretch top, and a wide belt round the waist. The shoes, she noticed, were scuffed cream kitten-heels. It was an outfit, she feared, that missed the mark.
“You look nice, Lou,” she said. She did not think before she spoke; it was what one said, as meaningless as good morning or good day. Poor Lou, she thought, she could look better if she …
“Aye, but my top is too tight,” said Big Lou. “So don’t make me laugh or it’ll split.”
Pat smiled. “Worse things have happened on dates. I knew somebody whose skirt fell down on her first date with this guy. He must have thought her a bit fast …”
They began to walk back along George Street. “How are you going to know who he is?” asked Pat. “There are bags of men about.”
“Most of them about sixteen,” said Lou. “Darren’s thirty-nine, same as me. He’ll stand out in this crowd.”
“Darren?”
“Yes, that’s his name. Darren Gow.”
“Gow means smith, doesn’t it?”
Big Lou knew about names. “Yes. It comes from ghoba in Gaelic. A ghoba is a smith.”
Pat savoured the name “Darren Gow. Yes, it’s … it’s a solid sort of name. It’s nice.” Hypocrite, she said to herself. It’s not a nice combination at all.
“We’ll see what he’s like. Here, Pat, is my mascara all right? I don’t want it running down my cheek.”
Pat peered at Big Lou’s face. “It’s fine, Lou. And don’t worry, hen. It’s going to be fine.”
They were nearly at the entrance to the bar, now, and they could hear music coming from within, and the hubbub of conversation. Big Lou hesitated. “What if he doesn’t like me, Pat? What then?”
“Of course he’ll like you, Lou! Everybody likes you. I’ve never met anybody who didn’t like you. Not one single person.”
They entered the bar. There were groups of people standing talking to one another; couples at tables. Pat looked about quickly. There seemed to be only one man by himself, and he was sitting on a barstool. As they went in, he turned in his seat and looked at them.
“Did you tell him you’d be bringing somebody?” whispered Pat.
“Aye,” said Big Lou. “I told him.”
Darren Gow stood up and walked towards them. He held out his hand. “Lou?”
Lo
u reached out and they shook hands. She looked down at the floor. Pat, though, was staring at Darren Gow. He looked like Elvis. He dressed like Elvis too.
“And you’re …” The voice was deep; the accent from somewhere in the west. Motherwell, perhaps.
“This is my friend, Pat,” said Big Lou. “Pat, this is Darren.”
“I’ll get you ladies a drink,” said Darren. “Let’s sit down over there. That table. What’ll you have?”
With Darren off to the bar, Pat turned to Big Lou and said, “Well, Lou, he’s good-looking, isn’t he?”
Big Lou nodded. “He’s braw.”
“And I think I know now what EI stands for,” Pat went on. “Elvis Impersonator.”
If Big Lou responded Pat did not hear her, her attention being suddenly distracted by the person who had just come into the bar: Bruce.
34. A Miracle Wrought by Nature
It is easy not to see somebody. But try not to notice them when you know they are there – that is infinitely more difficult. The gaze may be firmly averted, the eyes resolutely fixed on something else, but both have a nasty habit of turning in the forbidden direction, as surely and as inexorably as the needle of a compass swings back to magnetic north. And so although Pat looked intently at the floor, then at Big Lou, and then up at the ceiling – such a fascinating pattern, she told herself – her gaze swung back to the doorway through which Bruce Anderson, surveyor, perfect narcissist, user of clove-scented hair gel, Lothario – his honours were piled one upon the other, as Pelion was piled upon Ossa – had entered.
No field mouse can look away from the cobra; no startled deer, once transfixed, can drag itself away from the beam of the headlights. Pat struggled to look away but could not; her gaze stayed where it was, and, after the briefest moment, was picked up by Bruce. He looked momentarily surprised, but then broke into a smile and started to move across the floor towards the table where the two women sat.
“Oh no …” muttered Pat.
Big Lou, who was looking towards the bar, where the Elvis-like figure of Darren could be made out amongst a crowd of younger, smaller men, turned round. “Oh no what?”
Pat did not have time to answer, as Bruce had now reached them and was holding out both arms in a gesture of discovery. “My two favourite people!” he said. “Pat … and you, Lou. This is seriously cool.”
Big Lou looked up. She had never had much time for Bruce, and her feelings had not changed. “Oh,” she said. And then, whispering to Pat, “I see what you mean.”
Bruce sat down in front of them. “Well, who would have thought it?”
“Aye,” said Big Lou. “Where have you been, Bruce?”
“Where have I been? I’ve been right here. Action central. Where have you been? Same old, same old?”
“Same old, same old,” echoed Big Lou.
“Busy, busy,” said Bruce. “And you, Pat? Still at uni?”
Pat glanced at Big Lou. “Yes. But I’m working part-time for Matthew.”
Bruce smiled. “Matthew? God, I haven’t thought about him for yonks. Still there? I suppose he is. Same sweater? Remember that one? The beige number.”
“Distressed oatmeal actually.”
Bruce let out a snorting laugh. “That’s seriously funny. Distressed oatmeal! Poor old Matthew. He didn’t get it, did he?”
Neither Pat nor Big Lou said anything. After a moment or two, Bruce continued. “Not that everybody can.”
“Can what?” asked Pat.
“Get it.”
Big Lou flashed a disparaging look at Bruce. “Matthew gets it,” she said. “He gets it fine.”
“They’ve had triplets,” said Pat.
Bruce looked wide-eyed. “Triplets? Matthew managed triplets? Amazing!”
“What are you doing these days, Bruce?” asked Pat.
Bruce touched the side of his nose. “Hush-hush.”
“You’re a spy?”
He laughed. “Hah, hah. No, sensitive commercial stuff. Development projects. Big time.”
“Tell us,” challenged Big Lou.
Bruce looked at her playfully. “Wouldn’t you like to know …” he began, but was cut short by Darren’s return to the table.
“Hello,” said Bruce, getting up. “The King, no less.”
“This is Darren,” said Big Lou.
Darren put the tray of drinks down on the table and offered a hand for Bruce to shake. Pat watched: Darren was frowning; he was obviously unsure as to where Bruce fit in. And at this point Pat made up her mind. Big Lou’s date with Darren was rapidly being ruined by Bruce’s arrival, and the only thing that she could do to rescue the situation would be to take Bruce away. “Listen,” she said. “I haven’t seen Bruce for ages and we need to catch up. Would you mind if we left the two of you? It’d get pretty boring for you if we talked about friends all the time.”
Pat could see that Big Lou was relieved, as was Darren, who, understandably, looked as if he had taken an immediate dislike to the new arrival. The King! What a rude thing, Pat thought, to say to somebody who looked like Elvis. What if he just happened to look like Elvis and had made no effort to do so?
Bruce approved of her suggestion. “That’s cool with me,” he said. “See you, Big Lou. And you too … EI Darren.”
They walked over towards the bar, where Bruce shouted an order to the barman.
“So, Pat,” he said. “Here we are. After all that time. You’re looking great.”
“And you too.” The compliment slipped out; she had not meant it, although she immediately realised, with sinking heart, that it was absolutely true. Bruce did look great. Bruce looked wonderful.
“Yeah, thanks. I’ve got this new body trainer. You know what a body trainer is, Pat?”
She shook her head.
“He’s like a personal trainer. But while a personal trainer makes you work out in the gym to tone up the muscles.” And here Bruce took Pat’s hand and laid it on the biceps of his right arm. “No tone-up needed there! Anyway, a body trainer looks after your personal grooming. I read all about it in GQ. You know GQ, Pat? Gentleman’s Quarterly – it’s really cool. All the stuff. Cars. Personal grooming products. The works. There was this article about body trainers, and I thought Hey, that’s for me!”
The barman pushed Bruce’s drink across the counter and Bruce raised it in a toast to Pat. “Cheers, dears, here’s to the queers!” He smiled. “Heard that one?”
Pat wanted to shudder, but did not. There was a strange fascination about Bruce – there always had been – and she found now that she wanted him to carry on.
“This body trainer?”
“Yes,” said Bruce. “So I found one here in Edinburgh. Great guy. He’s called Louis. I went to see him and he took one look at me, and you know what he said?”
Pat shook her head.
“He just whistled. Then he said, ‘Tops.’ Just that. ‘Tops.’ He was obviously impressed.”
“And then?”
“He said, “I need to make an assessment, get your shirt off.”
Bruce winked; Pat looked down at the floor.
“So I get the shirt off and he says, ‘Fantastic! We’re going to start with depilation. Just a touch off the chest. Then we’re going to attend to the hairstyle, moisturiser, tan, nails – but honestly, it’s going to be hard to improve much on the miracle that nature has already wrought.’ That’s what he said.”
35. The Benefits of Brotherhood
Stuart sat in an uncomfortable straight-backed chair, a small roundel of carved mahogany pressing into his back in just the wrong place. It reminded him of the chairs in his aunt’s house in St. Andrews, chairs he had sat in as a boy when visiting her on the last Saturday of every month. She was the widow of a professor of mathematics, a specialist in non-linear partial differential equations who had come close, she claimed, to solving the Navier-Stokes problem. “He would have done it,” she said, “had he survived a few years more, but it was not to be.”
The house in w
hich this aunt lived was filled with chairs of varying degrees of discomfort, none of them designed to let the human form, in any of its known configurations, relax. Had the chairs been more accommodating, Stuart felt, then it is possible that his late uncle might have been able to concentrate sufficiently to solve the mathematical problem with which he wrestled; as it was, having something digging into one, he thought, above or below – some prominence or protuberance – was inimical to focused thought.
Just as it was now, in this small room in a building tucked away in a discreet Southside street. From the outside, the building was unexceptional; a small nineteenth-century warehouse, the passer-by might think, a tiny Victorian school perhaps, or the office of some ancient printer, now defunct. Nothing on the building’s façade would indicate otherwise except for a small stone device above the front door’s fanlight – a set of callipers – that gave the game away.
Stuart was now in the anteroom of Lodge No. 345, Star of the Heavenly Firmament, a branch of the Antient Free and Accepted Masons of Scotland (founded 1736). He had been initially quite alone, left to contemplate in silence the step that he was about to take, but was now joined by another initiate, who sat down in the apparently equally uncomfortable chair next to his.
Stuart smiled at the new arrival. “You too?” he said.
The other man was considerably younger than Stuart. He smiled warmly and extended a hand. “My name’s Keith, by the way. We aren’t allowed to give the proper handshake just yet,” he said. “But we shall be in … what, half an hour’s time?”
Stuart introduced himself. “They said we’d have a bit of a wait. They have a lot to do in there.” He nodded in the direction of the closed door on the other side of the room. From underneath this door, a light could be made out burning in the room beyond – a light that was suitably dim for the mysteries it illuminated.
“I’ve been meaning to join for the last three years,” said Keith. “Ever since my twenty-first birthday. My grandfather was in this lodge, you see, and my father too. My father lives in Australia now and so he’s in a lodge in Adelaide. But he kept nagging me to join here. So this is it.”