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

William had been unaware of the fact that he was humming “I Am Sailing” under his breath. He stopped, but then, a few minutes later, was afflicted by a loud and persistent attack of hiccups, during which he spilled his two remaining samples, splashing the woman seated at the neighbouring table. This had resulted in his being asked to leave the examination room.

It had been a shameful performance and he smarted at the memory. But it was past now, and he had begun to wonder whether he should not sit the examination again. He knew as much as he ever had – possibly even more – and it would mean so much to be able to put MW after his name. Why not?

He took the decision there and then, as he closed up that evening. He would sort his life out: he would get Freddie de la Hay back; he would register for the next round of Master of Wine examinations; and he would get in touch with that woman he had met in the park.

Sebastian Duck had given him his card, which William had kept in his wallet. He extracted it now and dialled the mobile phone number given on it.

Sebastian Duck answered. “Duck speaking.”

William had thought he might have to remind him who he was, but apparently that was not needed. “Mr French.” said Sebastian. “I take it all is well.”

“That’s what I’d like to find out,” said William.

Sebastian Duck understood. Freddie de la Hay, he explained was now in “the field”; William would be very welcome, if he liked, to telephone Tilly Curtain and get a first-hand report.

William’s heart leaped. It was exactly what he had hoped for. He noted down the number that Sebastian gave him, engaged in a few pleasantries about the weather, and then rang off. Next he made the call to Tilly Curtain, who answered almost immediately. He explained who he was and there was a silence. Had something happened to Freddie? But then her voice came down the line, warm and encouraging: “I’d hoped that you might phone.”

William closed his eyes in sheer ecstasy. “Look, I know it’s absolutely no notice at all, but would you by any chance be free for dinner tonight?” he asked.

Again there was a silence. And then, once again, came the words to boost any heart – even that of a middle-aged wine dealer, a failed Master of Wine, and a failed everything else – “What a lovely idea! Yes, of course.”

William chose Racine in the Brompton Road because he knew Henry Harris, the proprietor, and was sure that Henry would always find him a table, no matter how short the notice. And indeed a table was available at eight, and the staff said they looked forward to seeing him.

Now that he had invited Tilly, William found himself trying to remember what she looked like. It was almost like going on a blind date, he thought, something that previously he would never have dreamed of doing, but which he now found rather exciting. She was certainly attractive, he was sure of that, even if he had seen her only once, and for a very brief period. He had a memory of light brown hair, cut fairly short, pageboy-style perhaps, and he remembered, too, an appealing smile. Or was her hair more blond than brown, and was it maybe longer than he remembered? She was in her late thirties, he thought, or perhaps early forties. He could not be certain of that either, and even thinking about her age made him feel anxious. If she was in her early forties, then that would be fine, as he was in his very late forties, or had been last year, before his fiftieth birthday. If there were eight, or even ten years between them, it would not matter; in fact, it would be ideal, at least from his point of view, and probably even from hers. William had always believed that women liked men to be a little bit older than they were, even if there were some women these days who went in for younger men. He was not so sure about that; he knew there was no reason at all why women should not have younger partners, given that men often did – how many men in their fifties did he know who had girlfriends in their early thirties? Legions – practically everyone. Yet the thought that women might choose to do the same thing, to seek out younger men, secretly unsettled him. If more and more women chose younger men, then how many women would be left over for the likes of him?

More unsettling than this speculation about age was the realisation that he had no idea whether Tilly Curtain was single. He had not noticed a ring, but then he had not looked for one. Of course, if she were married she would never have accepted his invitation to dinner; she would have said something like, “Should I bring my husband?”, which would have had the merit of directness and unambiguousness. Or she could simply have made an excuse about having other arrangements. It was possible that she was encumbered in some way by a boyfriend but was looking for a way out. That notion was equally unsettling; William did not wish to become involved in anything messy.

He put these ideas out of his mind and set about preparing for the evening. Going to his wardrobe, he surveyed the jackets hanging within. He had neglected his clothes for a long time and it showed, but at least there was a navy-blue blazer in reasonably good condition, and there was a timelessness about blazers. He took it out and tried it on; the cut was good, and he had not put on weight since he last wore it. It would do, he thought. Trousers were more difficult. Two pairs of the charcoal-black trousers he favoured were out of commission, one because of a broken zip and another because of bad fraying at the cuffs. Jeans? He remembered that there was some of Eddie’s clothing still in the flat. He and Eddie were the same size, more or less, and when he lived with him his son had regularly borrowed William’s clothing – admittedly, though, and insultingly, for fancy-dress and retro parties.

He went to the cupboard where he had stored Eddie’s remaining possessions. There was, as he had remembered, a pair of jeans, and he that took these out and unfolded them. They were distressed, but no more so than new jeans were these days, and they appeared to fit. William examined himself in the mirror; the jeans took off ten years, he thought, possibly more, and they were perfect with the blazer. This was the very essence of casual smart, he thought – that vague concept that allowed you to wear anything as long as you looked as if you had at least made some effort. He could hold up his head in any company in an outfit like this.

The hour between seven and eight was an ordeal. He tried to relax. He tried reading, but could not concentrate and put the book down; he tried listening to music, but found that he was not in the mood; he tried writing a letter, but found that he had nobody to write to and put the pen and paper aside. At last it was time to go, and he made his way downstairs, conscious of the fact that his heart was beating faster in anticipation.

Tilly Curtain arrived at Racine a few minutes after William. They recognised one another immediately, and she came over to the table where he was waiting and shook his hand warmly. “I hope I’m not late,” she said. “You’ve probably been waiting for ages.”

He shook his head. He had been right about the smile – it was wonderful, transforming.

She sat down and William ordered drinks from the waiter who appeared at the table. They both took a gin and tonic. He looked at her and she smiled. It’s the teeth, he said to himself, that’s what I remember.

“I’m glad that you were free,” he said. “I was at a loose end and I thought … Well, why not?”

“Why not indeed?” she said. “No, I was glad that you phoned. I was going to phone you.”

“About Freddie de la Hay?”

The smile disappeared. She looked grave. “Yes.”