Alexander McCall Smith - The Dog Who Came In From The Cold

James smiled. Extracting the bottle of wine from the bag, he held it up to show her. “See this?” he said. “This is not your average supermarket stuff. This is …” He looked at the label. “Chateau Greysac 2005. And 2005, Caroline, was a very good year for Médoc. I read that. There’s a chap called Will Lyons who writes about wines. He said that 2005 was an excellent year. He knows what he’s talking about.”

Caroline laughed. “What was I doing in 2005? Just started uni. Same for you.”

They moved through to the kitchen, where James started to unpack the rest of the contents of the bag. “We were so young,” he said. “Positively callow.”

Yes, thought Caroline, I was; and the things I wore …

James took a corkscrew from the cutlery drawer. “I must buy you a new one of these,” he said. “This one has had it. You have to be really strong to get the cork out.” He strained as he tugged at the cork, and Caroline found herself thinking: No, he’s not all that strong. He’s nice, but he’s not strong. But then you did not necessarily expect physical strength in someone like James, and she was not sure that she wanted it anyway. He was nice exactly as he was, with that profile of his and those eyelashes … She looked away. She felt a sudden strong tug of desire, and she was not sure that it was right, that it would lead to a place where she wanted to be.

Having at last extracted the cork from the bottle, James poured wine into two glasses. “We can taste this while I’m preparing dinner,” he said. “I love cooking with wine.” He smiled at her and raised his glass. “To you,” he said.

“And to you.”

She tasted the wine. There was an edge of tannin to it, something sharp, and she frowned. James noticed, and told her that this would go in seconds, once the air got to it. “It’ll be perfect,” he said.

And then he started to cry. At first Caroline said nothing, did nothing, such was her surprise, but then she put down her glass and went to him. She took his glass lest he spill the Chateau Greysac, and put it down on the table. She took him in her arms, embracing him, letting his head nestle against her shoulder.

“James,” she whispered. “Don’t cry, James. Don’t cry.”

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “I come for dinner at your house, and I start to cry.”

“Ssh!” She put a finger to his lips. She felt the moisture of his tears. “What’s wrong?”

She need not have asked the question; she knew, of course, what was wrong, and had known from the beginning, from virtually the first day when they had found themselves sitting next to one another in a lecture. She knew then, and she should have trusted her instinct. But she had not, because she felt that somewhere there must be a man who could be her soul mate, with whom she could talk about the things that really mattered to her, who would see the world in the same way. James was all of that – she could tell straight away – and, in her delight at finding him, she had ignored what should have been so very obvious. Now she had upset him, because she had encouraged him to be someone he was not.

She patted him gently on the back, a small gesture of reassurance, as one would comfort a child.

“It’s my fault,” she said. “I should never have let you think that it was possible. I was so selfish.”

She heard his muffled protest. “No. It wasn’t your fault. It’s nobody’s. It’s just …”

“It is. I should have said from the beginning, we’re just going to be friends. It would have been easy, but I was just thinking of myself – as usual.”

James drew away from her, although her arms were still around him. He looked at her. Again, she felt desire; she could not help herself. He is so beautiful, she thought. My own Botticelli. A Renaissance princeling incarnate, and in my arms, and …

“It’s not what you think,” he said. ‘You think that I … Well, it’s not like that. The real truth is something different.”

Caroline waited for him to continue.

“I don’t … I don’t like boys. That’s not it.”

She stared at him. “You like girls then …”

He shook his head. “Not in that way.”

“So …”

“Oh, Caroline, how can I explain it? I like neither. Can’t you understand? I just want to be your friend. I just want us to be like this, well, indefinitely, and I know that it’s terribly unfair on you because you’re going to want a lover and all the rest. And then there won’t be any room for me in your life – how could there be?”

She released him from her embrace. “I want us to be friends too, you know. I want that as well.”

“Yes, I know. But you’re going to want more. You’re going to want more than that, and Caroline, oh, it’s so hard to know how to say this. But I suppose I should just come right out with it.” He hesitated. “I’m just not into the physical side of things. I’m just not.”

Terence Moongrove – mystic, dreamer, Porsche-owner – led his sister to her bedroom on the first floor of his Queen Anne house outside Cheltenham. “I’ve put you in Uncle Eric’s room,” he said. “I know you like the view from that window. And I’ve asked Mrs Rivers to put some flowers in the vase that Uncle Eric once threw at that man who came to ask if we would vote for him. Do you remember? The man said something political to Uncle Eric and he threw the vase. Just like that. Bang. It was a jolly dangerous thing to do and Daddy was furious, really furious.”

Berthea did remember, and smiled at the recollection. “Uncle Eric wasn’t quite right. I think the man realised, and was very good about it. They get an awful lot of rudeness on the doorstep when they go canvassing.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Terence. “You’re eating your soup and some silly politician comes and rings the bell and asks if you’ll give him your vote. Really! Do they seriously think that anything they can say in a few minutes on the doorstep is going to change the way you were going to vote?” They were now at the top of the stairs, and he paused. “Do you think Oedipus does much canvassing?”

“I doubt it,” said Berthea. “Oedipus doesn’t exactly exert himself, as we well know.”

“I know he’s your son,” said Terence. “And I know he’s my nephew. And I also know I shouldn’t say things like this, but I’d hate to answer the door and find Oedipus standing there asking for my vote. I really would.”

“Yes,” said Berthea. “Not an attractive thought. What would you do?”

Terence gave it a moment’s consideration. “I’d give him a jolly good push,” he said. “I’d push him off the step and say, ‘I’m not voting for you, you Sam!’”

Berthea frowned. “What’s a Sam?”

“I’m not at all sure,” said Terence. “But it fits Oedipus. And a lot of other politicians.”

“Maybe.”

They made their way to the end of the corridor where an open door led into an airy, square room. The curtains were pulled back and the late afternoon sun was streaming in. “Lovely,” said Berthea. “And Mrs Rivers has done those nice flowers there. I must thank her.”

“She likes you,” said Terence. “She always has. And here, I’ve put out some magazines for you to read. This one is really interesting. There’s an article in it about morphic resonance. Do you know what that is?”

Berthea glanced at the cover of the magazine. “No, I don’t, I’m afraid. I’m a bit hazy about these things, Terence. It’s not really my—”

Her brother interrupted her. “That’s because you haven’t bothered to find out. If you did, you’d learn an awful lot, Berthy, you really would.”

She sighed. “Time, you know …”