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jobs in public relations or possibly at Christie’s. At Christie’s, they were the ones who were sometimes allowed to hold up the vases and paintings at the auctions (provided, of course, that they had studied history of art at university, although sometimes a declared intention to study history of art was sufficient qualification). That was the problem; they had no desire to remain in Perthshire. That was until they became broody; things changed then, and the idea of living in the country with dogs (Labradors, usually, the dog of choice for such persons) and children suddenly became an attractive one. Bruce sighed. Life seemed very predictable, whatever choice one made.
    He looked back at his father, and held his gaze for a few moments. Then he looked away again. He knows, he thought. He knows exactly what has happened. “I think I’ll try something different,” he replied quietly. “The wine business is interesting. I might try that.”

    â€œYou always had a good nose for wine, Brucie,” said his mother. “And for sniffing things out in general.” She cast a glance at her son’s hair. “Is that cloves, I smell, by the way? I love the scent of cloves. I think it’s marvellous that boys have all those different things to choose from at the chemist’s these days. Hair things and shaving things, that is.”
    Over the next few days, he was looked after by his mother, and felt reassured. It still riled him to think of Todd and the injustice that had been done him, but after three days in Crieff the pain seemed to ease–unconditional maternal affirmation had its effect–and he found himself in a position to make decisions. He would return to Edinburgh, plan a holiday–a month or two perhaps, since he had the opportunity–and then he could start seriously to look for a job in the wine trade. He had some leads there. Will Lyons had more or less guaranteed that he would find something, and so, with any luck, he would be fixed up by, say, late September. That would be a good time to start in the wine trade, with Christmas and New Year sales coming up.
    Bruce felt positively buoyed by the thought of a couple of months off, and spent the first few days after returning to Scotland Street in deciding where he would go. He had never been in the Far East, and he spoke to one or two people in the Cumberland Bar who had been to Thailand.
    â€œTerrific country,” one of them said. “Just terrific. South–terrific. North–terrific. Unconditionally terrific.”
    That helped Bruce a bit, but gave him very little concrete information. What about Vietnam?
    â€œNot quite as terrific as Thailand,” said the same person. “But terrific in its own way.”
    Bruce was still seeing Sally, the American girl he had met in the Cumberland Bar. The relationship had not progressed as far as he had imagined it might, and he had decided that he most definitely would not ask her to marry him, but it was a convenient arrangement for both of them and they met one another once or twice a week, usually in the Cumberland Bar, and thereafter they went to 44 Scotland Street, where they were able to continue their conversation.
    â€œI find him a bit of a drag,” Sally had written in an e-mail sent to her friend, Jane, who lived in Nantucket. “You don’t know Scotsmen, do you? Well, I’ll tell you a bit about them. They’re usually quite pale, as if they’ve spent too much time indoors, which they often have (although I must say that Bruce is really good-looking, and a few months in Arizona or somewhere like that could really improve him). They like drinking, and they go on and on–and I really mean on and on–about soccer, even the relatively civilised ones (the ones you meet in the Cumberland Bar–and you should just see the rest!). Bruce doesn’t talk about soccer, but he makes up for it with rugby. You won’t have