Dorothy doesn’t know what you are—faking soft edges will cut no ice. The thought’s meant to count, isn’t it? Or the gesture. You’re dressing up for her, or not dressing up for her—you’re old enough that you ought to know your own mind. You’ve been kicked in the teeth by love often enough that you should have figured out who you are by now. But you’ve fallen into an existential trap with this vocation of yours, haven’t you? It’s easy to know how you’re meant to function when you wear a uniform: You do the job and follow the procedures, and everyone knows what you’re meant to be doing. What you wear dictates how you behave.
. . . But there’s no uniform for a date with Dorothy.
You panic and get changed again, and in the end you make yourself late enough that you end up calling a taxi, sitting twitchily on the edge of the grey-and-orange seat as it grumbles uphill towards George Street. It bumps across the guided busway that bisects Queen Street and chugs up Dundas Street, wheezing to a halt at the corner: You pay up and climb out, and a trio of miniskirted girls nearly stab you to death with their stilettos as they stampede to get in. Just another night out on the tiles in Auld Reekie, nothing to see here but a single thirtysomething woman in sensible shoes walking towards a wine bar full of braying bankers.
Dorothy has found a stool at the bar and is sitting with her back to you, nursing a caipirinha and keeping a quiet watch on the huge mirror behind the bar. Stylish as ever, she makes you feel like a gawky schoolgirl just by existing. You make eye contact through the looking glass, and she gives a little wave of invitation as you walk towards her, a flick of the wrist. Then she’s turning, smiling, and you embrace self-consciously. She smells of lavender water. “Hey, darling, you’re looking gorgeous! How are you keeping?”
“I’m good. Yourself?” You step back, find there’s a gap in the row of bar-stools—but the next one over is already occupied by a bloke who’s the spitting image of a kiddie-fiddler you helped put away ten years ago. (Only ten years younger, of course.) You turn away from him hastily as Dorothy’s smile opens up like the sun, and she waves past you, attracting the barman’s hypnotized gaze.
“I’m in town for the next two weeks”—she runs a hand through her hair, which is a deeper chestnut red than it was last time you saw her, and about ten centimetres longer—“visiting the Cage out at Gogarburn for an ongoing evaluation at the bank: Then I’ve got a spot evaluation on some American company’s local operation.” The Cage is the secure zone within the National Bank of Scotland campus: Dorothy is an auditor, the kind who gets to travel a lot. Her little black dress is more boardroom than cocktail bar—doubtless her brief-case and jacket are waiting in the cloakroom—but with her string of pearls and porcelain complexion, she could make it work anywhere. “They’ve stuck me in a tedious hotel in the West End, Julian is in Moscow this month, so of course . . .” She raises a meticulously stencilled eyebrow at you.
“We can see about that.” The barman pauses in front of you. “White wine spritzer, please,” you tell him, and flash your ID badge before he can card you. You wait until he delivers before continuing: “Have you eaten yet?”
“No. But there’s a place round the corner that’s been getting good reviews.” She looks at you speculatively.
“Do you have any plans? Outside of work?” You can’t help yourself: You have to ask.
“I don’t know yet.” For a moment she looks uncertain. “This is an odd one.” You catch the warning before she continues. “I may have to put in lots of overtime. I was hoping we could catch up if the job permits.”
Dorothy’s always like this. Babs accused you of being married to the job (and she wasn’t wrong), but Dorothy makes you look like a slacker. That alone would be enough to
. . . But there’s no uniform for a date with Dorothy.
You panic and get changed again, and in the end you make yourself late enough that you end up calling a taxi, sitting twitchily on the edge of the grey-and-orange seat as it grumbles uphill towards George Street. It bumps across the guided busway that bisects Queen Street and chugs up Dundas Street, wheezing to a halt at the corner: You pay up and climb out, and a trio of miniskirted girls nearly stab you to death with their stilettos as they stampede to get in. Just another night out on the tiles in Auld Reekie, nothing to see here but a single thirtysomething woman in sensible shoes walking towards a wine bar full of braying bankers.
Dorothy has found a stool at the bar and is sitting with her back to you, nursing a caipirinha and keeping a quiet watch on the huge mirror behind the bar. Stylish as ever, she makes you feel like a gawky schoolgirl just by existing. You make eye contact through the looking glass, and she gives a little wave of invitation as you walk towards her, a flick of the wrist. Then she’s turning, smiling, and you embrace self-consciously. She smells of lavender water. “Hey, darling, you’re looking gorgeous! How are you keeping?”
“I’m good. Yourself?” You step back, find there’s a gap in the row of bar-stools—but the next one over is already occupied by a bloke who’s the spitting image of a kiddie-fiddler you helped put away ten years ago. (Only ten years younger, of course.) You turn away from him hastily as Dorothy’s smile opens up like the sun, and she waves past you, attracting the barman’s hypnotized gaze.
“I’m in town for the next two weeks”—she runs a hand through her hair, which is a deeper chestnut red than it was last time you saw her, and about ten centimetres longer—“visiting the Cage out at Gogarburn for an ongoing evaluation at the bank: Then I’ve got a spot evaluation on some American company’s local operation.” The Cage is the secure zone within the National Bank of Scotland campus: Dorothy is an auditor, the kind who gets to travel a lot. Her little black dress is more boardroom than cocktail bar—doubtless her brief-case and jacket are waiting in the cloakroom—but with her string of pearls and porcelain complexion, she could make it work anywhere. “They’ve stuck me in a tedious hotel in the West End, Julian is in Moscow this month, so of course . . .” She raises a meticulously stencilled eyebrow at you.
“We can see about that.” The barman pauses in front of you. “White wine spritzer, please,” you tell him, and flash your ID badge before he can card you. You wait until he delivers before continuing: “Have you eaten yet?”
“No. But there’s a place round the corner that’s been getting good reviews.” She looks at you speculatively.
“Do you have any plans? Outside of work?” You can’t help yourself: You have to ask.
“I don’t know yet.” For a moment she looks uncertain. “This is an odd one.” You catch the warning before she continues. “I may have to put in lots of overtime. I was hoping we could catch up if the job permits.”
Dorothy’s always like this. Babs accused you of being married to the job (and she wasn’t wrong), but Dorothy makes you look like a slacker. That alone would be enough to
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