“You need to find somebody. Now, I know that you had that brief dalliance with that young woman – the one who was interested in poetry. But that didn’t last, did it? And in my view – it’s just one view, of course – you should have tried again. You can’t expect these things just to happen.”

  Stuart bit his lip. He wanted to tell his mother to keep out of his affairs – or, lack of them, perhaps. But you did not say that to your mother. So, instead, he said, “Well, Mother, what do you suggest?”

  “I’ve put you online.”

  He stared at her. “You’ve…put me online?

  Stuart stared at his mother. She returned his stare.

  “I’m only trying to be helpful,” she said.

  Stuart struggled. What did you say to your mother when, without permission, she puts you online – like an unwanted item for which a buyer is sought?

  She sought to reassure him. “I haven’t activated you yet,” she said. “I’d obviously get your consent for that.”

  5

  Stereotypes, Bullfighting, Danger

  “Mother,” said Stuart. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do. I wouldn’t want you to think that I didn’t.”

  Nicola inclined her head. “I know that. I know you do, Stuart.”

  “But there are factors that make my position a bit complicated.”

  Nicola frowned. “I know that Irene isn’t the easiest of people,” she said. An understatement, she thought. Irene is unspeakable…A termagant without equal…She searched for the right Scots epithet: Irene was argle-barglous – that expressed it so well: she was an alagrugous, ackwart, pictarnie. The finding of just the right words made Nicola feel much better: linguistic revenge had its points.

  “It’s not that,” said Stuart. “Well, she enters into the equation, I suppose, but not in such a way as to make much difference to anything. No, it’s not her, Mother.”

  “Is it financial? You don’t have to worry too much in that regard, Stuart. As you are aware, I have my resources.”

  He knew that. Nicola had been well provided for in her divorce from her Portuguese wine-producer husband. In addition to that, she had her interest in Inclusive Pies (formerly Pies for Protestants), the pie factory in Glasgow that she had inherited. Stuart had his salary as a statistician, which was reasonable enough, and even with the payments that he made to Irene, he got by. The cushion made by Nicola’s contribution to the household was welcome, but hardly necessary.

  “It’s nothing to do with money, Mother.” He cast a glance towards the door that led off the kitchen, where they were sitting, to the bedrooms beyond, where Bertie and Ulysses were sleeping. Nicola followed his gaze.

  “Of course,” she said. “Of course.”

  “Yes,” said Stuart. “I’m not exactly unencumbered.”

  Nicola lowered her voice. “Plenty of people have children – plenty of people who make a go of it for a second time, that is.”

  Stuart sighed. “I know that. But very often, it’s the woman who has the children. The new man comes along and agrees to take them on, so to speak. It’s easier for a man than for a woman.”

  Nicola shook her head. “Where on earth did you hear that?”

  “Everybody knows it,” said Stuart.

  Nicola made a dismissive gesture. “What nonsense, Stuart.”

  “It’s not,” he said. “Women don’t want to take on other people’s children. They know the risks.”

  “The risks?” Nicola challenged.

  “They know that the children may reject them. Children don’t want somebody to replace their natural mother. They resent it, and it leads to all sorts of problems.”

  Nicola held up a hand. “Hold on, Stuart, let’s look at this dispassionately. Are you saying that you don’t want to meet somebody because you think the boys won’t accept her?”

  Stuart hesitated. “Yes, I suppose I am. I’ve been reading about it.”

  Nicola shook her head. “You’re complicating matters unnecessarily, you know.” She paused. “What have you been reading?”

  “Cinderella,” Stuart replied.

  She stared at him blankly. “Cinderella? As in the pantomime story?”

  “The pantomime gets the gist of it,” said Stuart. “It’s a bit more sophisticated than that, but the elements are all there.”

  She sat back as he continued.

  “Cinderella is kept at home, in the kitchen.”

  “I know that bit.”

  “And she has a stepmother, a wicked stepmother, of course.”

  “Not all stepmothers are wicked,” said Nicola. “Let’s not get bogged down with stereotypes.”

  “The point about stereotypes,” Stuart said, “is that they’re there for a reason. Stereotypes exist because in so many cases they reflect reality.”

  “I’m surprised at you, Stuart,” Nicola scolded. “You’re meant to be a professional statistician. You believe in evidence, not prejudice. And here you are defending stereotypes.”

  “Not completely,” said Stuart. “When people say today that you shouldn’t pay attention to stereotypes, they’re the ones who are rejecting the evidence. If there’s a common stereotype, it’s because there are a fair number of instances of whatever the stereotypical feature is. The trouble with people who reject stereotypes is that they want to ignore that evidence.”

  Nicola was robust. “With good reason, I would have thought. Stereotypes are unfair. They preclude judgement on the basis of what actually is. You know that, Stuart.”

  Stuart shrugged. “So, we pretend that there are no such things as national characteristics? So there’s no difference between Scotland and England?”

  Nicola looked uncomfortable. “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “Or Spain and Sweden?”

  “Spain and Sweden? There are cultural differences – of course there are.”

  “Bullfighting is less popular in Sweden?”

  Nicola hesitated. “Marginally,” she said, and smiled at the familiarity of the scene: they were back to when he was a teenage boy – he used to argue just like this.

  “Well, there you are,” said Stuart. “Aren’t you proposing a stereotype – or two, in fact? The cool, rational non-violent Swede, and the fiery Spaniard who enjoys nothing better than getting into a tight-fitting uniform – with lots of glitter – and tormenting a poor bull in front of a roaring crowd?”

  Nicola sighed. “Not all Spaniards enjoy bullfighting. Don’t defame them all.” She paused. “I detest bullfighting. The mere thought of it.”

  Stuart agreed. “I don’t see how they can do it. How can they sit there and watch a terrified fellow creature being put to death? And then there is that ridiculous race through the streets where they run in front of bulls.”

  Nicola shook her head. “What drives people to do things like that?”

  “The quest for excitement. It would all be too tame if there were no danger.”

  “So, it’s not just that they enjoy the bulls’ suffering?” asked Nicola.

  “No, it’s more complex than that,” said Stuart. “People love danger, especially if all risk is removed from life – or as much risk as possible. The absence of risk makes life boring – for some people. Why do you think they watch Formula One racing? It’s noisy and smelly and consumes vast resources. It’s the danger, I think, that people love. We know that some of the cars are going to spin out of control. The crowd loves a good smash. Loves it. If it were entirely safe, it would be far less fun for everybody.”

  Nicola knew nothing about Formula One. She thought it was a shampoo, and she was still thinking of Spain. “Do you remember Kenneth Clark’s Civilisation programmes?” she asked. “Did you ever see them?”

  “Some,” said Stuart.

  “I always remember how it more or less ignored Spanish art,” said Nicola. “Clark didn’t have much time for it.”

  Stuart raised an eyebrow. “That’s extreme. He had his critics, of course.”

  “Don’t we all?” said Nicola, and added, “Except you, of course.” She paused. “I’m proud, you know, Stuart. I’m proud that I’m the mother of a son who treats others well.”

  He looked away. He was embarrassed. “I’m no better than the next person.”

  “No,” said Nicola. “You’re considerably better. The next person, as a general rule, is deeply flawed.” She thought about it a bit more. “And those who say they are no better than the next person, are almost always the very best of us. Fact. Well-known.”

  6

  A Strawberry-blonde Experience

  Bruce Anderson, surveyor and former narcissist, was waiting in his flat in Abercrombie Place for the arrival of his old school-friend, Borthy Borthwick. Bruce had known Borthy – whose real, never-used name was Arnold – from the age of five, when they had first eyed one another with suspicion on their first day of school in Crieff. The friendships of very early childhood are notorious for their fickleness, although a few survive those early years in which all others are, at best, potential rivals for attention. Bruce and Borthy continued to be friends as they went through school and through life. Both finding themselves in Edinburgh in their early twenties, they joined the same rugby club, shared common friends, and had even both been briefly arrested by the Polish police on a rowdy stag party in Kraków and found themselves sharing a cell for a few hours.

  Borthy had always stood in awe of Bruce, whose style and general insouciance he admired but could never quite match. In his eyes, Bruce had that almost indefinable quality of coolness that, although difficult to explain, was immediately recognisable when one encountered it. It was not just a question of outward presentation, important though that might be; more significant was the projected sense of self-assurance, the unruffled confidence, that led people to believe that everything that Bruce did was planned and nothing was a response to the exigencies of the moment. While most of us have to accept the world as it presented itself to us, and do so with a varying degree of resignation, Bruce gave the impression of being in perfect command of the circumstances in which he found himself. It was this apparent mastery that so impressed Borthy and for which he would have given a great deal to possess himself.

  At Morrison’s Academy in Crieff, the school they had both attended until the age of eighteen, Borthy particularly admired Bruce’s ability to attract the attention of girls – even those with a reputation for despising boys. One of these girls, Candace Connaught, whose father owned a riding stables, and whose strawberry-blonde hair exactly matched the coat of the Highland pony she rode at Pony Club events, was a magnet to boys but utterly dismissive of any young male who dared so much as to address a chance remark to her. “Yeah, sure,” she would say in response to any such approach, and then, without saying anything more, would turn away and busy herself with more important business than the awkward teenager who had plucked up the courage to speak to her.

  Borthy himself had been amongst those who had dared to approach Candace. It had cost him a great deal of sleep, as he lay awake planning how he might engage her in conversation and how, one thing having led to another, they might find themselves seated next to one another in the back row of the cinema in Perth, a place well-known to the planets whose orbits determined the fortunes of love. He had finally decided that the best thing to do was to compliment her in some way, as he had read in a magazine an article that gave that particular advice to the reader. “Women like compliments – extensive psychological research has confirmed that. Factor compliments and flowers into your dating plans and you will never be disappointed. Fact.”

  That counsel had made a deep impression on Borthy, who had never gone out with a girl and whose secret fear was that he would die before he had the chance to do so. Knowing that Candace would be competing at the Strathearn Pony Club Day, he made sure that he was there too, ready to address her as she groomed her pony before her event.

  Candace looked at him. She had been aware that there was a boy watching her, but had given no indication that she had noticed him. But eventually, as Borthy edged closer to her, her irritation had broken through her affected indifference.

  “Do I know you?” she asked, glancing at him briefly before returning to her task of grooming.

  She then answered her own question. “Oh yes, you’re at Morrison’s, aren’t you? Bobby something.”

  “Borthy. I’m called Borthy.”

  Candace ignored this. She was not intending to call him anything and so this information was hardly needed.

  There was a brief silence. The hills towards Comrie were layers of blue. There was the smell of cut grass in the air. A loudspeaker cackled into life, announcing the next event. Somebody laughed somewhere.

  Then Borthy spoke. “I really like your hair,” he said.

  Candace’s hand, holding the grooming brush, faltered in its sweep of the pony’s flank before resuming its task.

  Emboldened by the fact that the earth had not opened to swallow him, Borthy continued, “I like the way it matches your pony. It makes you look the same.”

  The grooming hand came to a halt. A head was turned. Another head turned, too, as the pony gave Borthy a cold stare.

  “You trying to be funny or something?” said Candace.

  “No,” stammered Borthy. “I wasn’t. I meant it.”

  “So you think I look like a horse?”

  Borthy was appalled. His voice rose several notes, and he struggled to lower it. He had always tried to sound like Sean Connery. He had practised and practised, and now, just at the moment when it was all so important, it was all failing him. “Of course not. I never said that. I didn’t. I said that your hair is sort of the same colour as your pony. That’s all. I said I like that.”

  Candace turned her back on him. She did not even say “Yeah, sure” but was completely silent. From the depth of his misery, Borthy struggled to apologise, but was ignored. He walked off, burning with a shame that lasted for several days and was not alleviated in any way when Bruce later told him that he had been at the Pony Club dance that evening and had danced with Candace Connaught – at her request.

  “She was eying me up,” he said. “She usually doesn’t do that sort of thing – as you know. But she really wanted to dance with me. I had to let her. It’s unkind to keep girls hanging around.”

  Borthy struggled to conceal his envy. “And?”

  Bruce shrugged. “A close number. You know – cheek to cheek. Hah!”

  Borthy’s eyes widened.

  “And you know what?” Bruce continued. “I licked her hair.”

  It was a few moments before Borthy could speak. Then he said, “While you were dancing?”

  “Yes. Up close and personal. I licked the hair just above her ear. And you know something? It tasted of strawberries.”

  Borthy closed his eyes. That such things could happen in Crieff…but not to him. Life was so unfair. Here was he, with whom Candace Connaught would never dance, and here was Bruce, who had actually licked her famous strawberry-blonde hair. It was all so unfair.

  7

  Borthy Arrives

  Poor Borthy, thought Bruce, as he heard his old friend come up the final stairs to his landing. Poor Borthy, with his wistful look and his perpetual air of injured longing – as if he knew that he was missing out on so much. There had been a time when Bruce had been bemused by that – Borthy was a loser, poor fellow, and the world was full of people like him…wall-to-wall losers as Bruce had once put it – and laughed at the pithiness of his observation – but he would no longer find that sort of thing amusing, because this was the new Bruce, who inexplicably felt quite different about people like Borthy Borthwick…Except that in reality the change was not so inexplicable: that extraordinary event in Dundas Street – that ultimate electrifying moment, as it had been described – had been the beginning of a new chapter in Bruce’s life, a chapter of which the full implications were only now beginning to become apparent.

  Bruce opened the door to a grinning Borthy Borthwick. It was a very particular sort of grin – almost apologetic – and it brought back so much, from such a long time ago: Borthy standing on the sidelines at the tennis club, waiting for an invitation to play mixed doubles – an invitation that rarely came his way, and then only to play with the novices; Borthy at some birthday dance at the Hydro, wearing a kilt and Prince Charlie jacket when everybody else was in jeans; Borthy, as a boy of eight, being rescued in the swimming pool during the boys’ under-ten one hundred metres breaststroke when he had swallowed water and somehow lost his way while traversing the pool.

  “Yo, Bruce!” said Borthy.

  Bruce smiled. Nobody said yo any more, but Borthy was the sort of person who would start saying yo well after everyone else and continue to say it for years after everyone had stopped staying it. This, however, was the new Bruce, and so rather than reply, sarcastically, Yo yourself, he said, in a voice devoid of any irony, “Yo, there, Borthy.”

  Borthy began a high five. Bruce swallowed. Borthy obviously did not know that you never did high fives in the Edinburgh New Town; you just did not. What, after all, was the point of conserving such a large area of Georgian architecture if people were going to walk around saying yo in it and giving each other high fives? But, once again, not wishing to embarrass Borthy he responded with the appropriate gesture.

  “Good to see you, Borthy,” he said. “Come in.”

  “Thanks,” said Borthy, gazing at Bruce in admiration. “How are you doing, Bruce?”

  Bruce nodded. “I’m alive,” he said.

  Borthy nodded. “Aren’t we all?”

  They went into Bruce’s living room.

  “Cool,” said Borthy, looking about him. “This is really cool, Bruce.”

  Bruce tried not to wince. Poor Borthy; he always got the words wrong. He tried so hard, but somehow…“Yah,” said Bruce. “It’s done me fine.” Done…He had thought that his flat was ideal, and he had been proud of it, but life was different now. He no longer needed all this – this surround-sound stereo system, this minimalist post-IKEA furniture from the Danish Living shop in Bruntsfield, this large Bellany watercolour of a seagull sitting on a sailor’s shoulder that he had bought in an auction at Lyon & Turnbull; this plaster head of Athene he had brought back from Lefkas a few years previously when he had gone on an Ionian Sailing Adventure cruise with those girls he had met in the Cumberland Bar. None of that meant much to him now, even if it was capable of impressing – as it clearly did – somebody like Borthy Borthwick.