44 Scotland Street by Alexander McCall Smith Read Free Book Online Page A

forearm.
    “They’re here,” he whispered. “Ronnie, with Mags in tow.”
    Matthew turned round to look. Ronnie was making his way down the steps, followed by a woman in a flowing Paisley dress and light brown suede boots. The woman was carrying a bulging shopping bag and a folded copy of a magazine. As they entered the coffee bar, Ronnie exchanged a glance with Pete and then turned to Mags to point to the booth where his two friends were sitting. She followed his glance and then, Matthew noticed, she frowned.

     
    Ronnie approached the booth.
    “This is Mags,” he said, almost apologetically. “Mags, this is Matthew. You haven’t met him before. Matthew’s a friend of mine.”
    Matthew stood up and extended a hand to Mags.
    “Why do you stand up?” she said sharply. “Do you stand up for everybody, or is it just because I’m a woman?”
    Matthew looked at the floor. “I stand up because I intend to leave,” he said evenly. “Not wishing to be condescended to, or whatever, I intend to leave. You may have my seat if you wish.”
    He walked out, and started up the perilous steps. He was shaking, like a boy who had done something forbidden.

 
     
     
     
    12. Chanterelles Trouvées
     
    Bruce had offered to cook dinner for Pat that evening. The offer had been made before he left the flat in the morning as he popped his head, uninvited, round her half-open door.
    “I’m cooking anyway,” he said. “It’s as easy to cook for two as it is for one.”
    “I’d love that,” said Pat. She noticed his glance move around her room as they spoke, resting for a moment on her unmade bed before moving to the suitcase which she had not yet fully unpacked.
    Bruce nodded. “You will,” he said. “I’m not a bad cook, if you don’t mind my saying so. I could teach Delia a thing or two.”
    Pat laughed, which seemed to please Bruce.
    “Only about surveying,” he went on. “Not about cooking.” He finished, and waited for Pat to laugh again, but she did not.
    “I’m sure it’ll be very good,” she said solemnly. “What will we have?”
    “I only cook pasta,” said Bruce. “Pasta with mushrooms probably. Chanterelles. You like mushrooms, don’t you?”
    “Love them,” said Pat.
    “Good. Chanterelles in a butter sauce, then, with cream. Garlic. Black pepper and a salad dressed with olive oil and a dash of balsamic vinegar. Balsamic vinegar comes from Modena, you know. Has to. How about that?”
    “Perfect,” said Pat. “Perfect.”
    When she returned to Scotland Street that evening, late – because Matthew had asked her to show a painting to a client who could only come in after six – Bruce had laid out the ingredients of his pasta dish on the kitchen table. She sat there as he cooked, explaining as he did so some troubling incident at work that day, a row over defective central heating and a leaky cupola.
    “I told them they’d have trouble with these people,” he said. “And I was right. It always happens. You get people moving up in the world and they start putting on airs. They probably had to look up the word ‘cupola’ in the dictionary before they complained about it. Cup-er-lah. That’s what they call it. I’ve got a leaky cup-er-lah. ”
    “It can’t be any fun having a leaky cupola,” Pat pointed out, mildly. “You can’t blame them.”
    “All cup-er-lahs leak,” said Bruce. “People who have cup-erlahs are used to that. It’s just when you get promoted to having a cup-er-lah that you get all uptight about it. Nouvelle cup-er-lah . That’s what they are.”
    The pasta cooked, he had tipped helpings onto two plates, had added the yellow sauce, and sat down at the table opposite her. The sauce, although too rich for her taste, was well-made, and she complimented him.
    “Where did you get the mushrooms?” Pat asked.
    “From my boss,” said Bruce. ” Mr Todd. He found them and gave them to me.”
    Pat paused, looking down at her plate.
    “He picked them?”
    “Yes. He