Heavenly Date and Other Flirtations: And Other Flirtations

By Alexander McCall Smith

“A collection of offbeat stories about dating and love” by the New York Times-bestselling author of The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency (Booklist).

Known for his sharp-witted mysteries set in Botswana and Sweden and numerous other literary works, Alexander McCall Smith here presents an assortment of short fiction revolving around casual dates, romantic encounters, and other human entanglements—which often don’t proceed as expected and may turn shocking, compulsive, complicated, or sometimes, completely disastrous. But when it comes to matters of the heart, we human don’t give up easily…

“The author's fondness for globetrotting settings is once again in evidence, with the tales taking place in various European countries, Australia, and, of course, southern Africa. Some of the stories are curiously peculiar; some are darkly funny; but all of them remind us of why dating is such a precarious endeavor. Smith's characters possess the quirkiness of Hiaasen creations; just imagine them on an episode of Blind Date. For love stories without the sap, you can't go wrong here.”—Booklist

“Reminiscent of Roald Dahl in their dark ironies…deftly written and droll.”—Michel Faber, author of The Book of Strange New Things

“Captivating.”—Publishers Weekly

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Dec 1, 2007
• ISBN: 9780802197849

Alexander McCall Smith

Alexander McCall Smith is the author of the award-winning series The No.1 Ladies' Detective Agency, and he now devotes his time to the writing of fiction, including the 44 Scotland Street and the Isabel Dalhousie series. He is the author of over eighty books on a wide array of subjects, and his work has been translated into forty-six languages. Before becoming a full-time writer he was for many years Professor of Medical Law at Edinburgh.

Book preview

Wonderful Date

Herr Brugli’s bedroom was in the front of his mansion, looking out over the waters of the Lake of Zürich. In the early mornings he would stand in his dressing gown at the window, sipping a cup of milky coffee, while his valet ran his bath. The valet, Markus, was Polish, and had been with Herr Brugli for fifteen years. He knew the exact temperature which Herr Brugli preferred for his bath water; he knew the precise blend of coffee which his employer liked in the morning and the place on the breakfast table where Herr Brugli expected the morning’s copy of Die Neue Züricher Zeitung to be awaiting him. Markus knew everything.

Markus knew, too, that Herr Brugli liked Madame Verloren van Thermaat, a Belgian lady who lived two miles away, also on the shores of the lake, also in a mansion. Verloren van Thermaat – what a ridiculous name, he thought. Madame Lost Tomato, that’s what I call her!

Should I marry Madame Thermaat? Herr Brugli asked him one day, as he brought in the morning tray. What are your views, Markus? You know me well enough by now. What do you think? Should a widower like myself marry a widow like Madame Thermaat? Do you think that that’s what people expect of us?

Markus laid his tray on the bedside table, exactly where Herr Brugli liked it to be laid. Then he crossed the room to open the curtains, glancing as he did so at his employer’s face, reflected in the wardrobe mirror. Markus had to admit to himself that he was frightened. Everything about his job was to his liking. There was very little to do. He was paid handsomely by Herr Brugli, who never counted the bottles in his cellar, ever. He and his wife lived in a small cottage in the grounds, not more than a few paces from the private jetty. They had a small boat, which they liked to sail in the summer. Madame Thermaat might change all that. She had her own staff. She might edge them out.

I really couldn’t say, sir, he said, adding: Marriage is not always a bed of roses, of course. Some people are happier by themselves.

He saw Herr Brugli smile.

Anyway, perhaps I anticipate matters rather. Madame Thermaat is an independent person. Her life is very satisfactory at present.

Now Herr Brugli stood before the mirror in his dressing room and adjusted his tie. He was wearing his most comfortable suit, made, like all his suits, in London. Every year he went there for his wardrobe, ordering several suits and pairs of handmade shoes. Nobody made clothes like the English, he thought, which was rather surprising, bearing in mind what a scruffy group of people they were in general – young people in blue jeans with tears in the knees; men in shapeless, shiny jackets with zips in front; women in unflattering trousers and everyone, it seemed, in running shoes! And yet they made those wonderful clothes for other people – tweeds, cords, mohairs, checks, tartans.

This suit was just right for the occasion. It was made of a thick brown tweed, with a double-breasted waistcoat, and would keep him warm if the day turned nasty, although that looked unlikely, he thought; the sky was quite clear and there were signs of spring everywhere. It would be a perfect day.

He ate his breakfast slowly, perusing the columns of the newspaper, noting the obituaries – nobody today, thank God – finally turning to the stock reports. There was satisfactory news there, too. Everything was up on the previous day’s trading, which is how it should be.

He laid aside the paper, wiped his mouth on the starched table napkin which Markus had patiently taught the Italian maid to iron in just the right way, and then he got up from the table. There was a short time to wait before the car would be at the door and he would set off. For a moment he was unsure what to do. He could write a letter, or read perhaps – he was half-way through The Magic Mountain, but he was out of sympathy with it for some reason.

German literature was so depressing, he felt; so heavy and full of woe. What a bleak vision they have, our neighbours to the north; what a frightful group of people for the most part, terribly greedy. But they eat our chocolates, I suppose.

He went to his bureau and took out his writing case. There was a letter to be written to his cousin in Buenos Aires. She wrote to him once a month, and he always wrote back within three days of receiving her letter. She had nothing to do, of course, and her letters reflected this; but he was dutiful in family matters and since he had been left on his own the burden of correspondence had fallen on him.

Dear Hetta: What a gorgeous day it is today – a real peach of a day. The lake is still, and there is no movement in the air. Yet spring is here, I can feel it, or almost here, and very soon we shall have blossom in the garden again! Alas, you will slide into autumn, and winter then, but I shall think of you as I sit in the garden.

He paused. She knew about Madame Thermaat, of course, but he did not want her to feel that there was any understanding which did not yet exist. Perhaps just a mention then: Today I am accompanying Madame Thermaat – I have told you of her, of course – into Zürich. We are going to take a short walk by the river, as it is such a lovely day, and I have one or two matters to attend to. Then we shall come back. He wondered if he should say more, but decided that this was quite enough. Let them speculate in Buenos Aires if they liked.

Markus came in to tell him that the car was ready outside. He got up from his desk and walked into the hall. There was another mirror there, and he looked anxiously at his reflection. The tie needed straightening, but he was sure he was right about the suit – it was exactly what the day required.

Good-bye Markus, he said. I shall be back at the usual time.

Markus held the door open for him, and the driver, seeing him emerge, started the engine of the car. They moved out on to the road, into the traffic, and edged their way up the lake to collect Madame Thermaat.

My dear Madame Thermaat!

Dear Herr Brugli!

They beamed at one another.

Would you like the rug across your knees? There’s still a bit of a nip in the air, isn’t there?

She shook her head. I am perfectly warm, she said. I never feel the cold.

You are so fortunate, he said. I feel cold in summer.

Thin blood, she said. You must have thin blood.

He laughed. I shall try to thicken it up. What do you recommend? Do any of those health magazines you read tell you how to do it?

Chocolate, Herr Brugli! Lots of chocolate!

He wagged his finger at her in mock disapproval. They were well on their way to Zürich now, and the large, high-powered car shot past slower vehicles. He asked her what she had been doing, and she described her week. It had, she said, been trying: she had two meetings of the village board, and they had ended in an impasse on each occasion, which was worrying. And then she had had three bridge evenings – three – all of which meant that she had had no time to herself at all.

He nodded sympathetically. He had weeks like that himself.

And you have your factories too, she said. You have to worry about them.

To an extent, he agreed. But thank heavens for my managers.

The car turned over the Cathedral Bridge and into the heart of the city. At the end of Bahnhof Strasse it pulled in to the side and allowed them both to alight. He got out first and held the door open for his companion.

Thank you dear Herr Brugli, she said. Now, where shall we start?

He wagged his finger at her again.

You know very well, he scolded. Sprungli’s – as always!

They crossed the street and walked a few yards to a large glass door on which in ornate gold script the name Sprungli’s was embossed. They walked past a man sitting on a bench, whose eyes fixed on them as they went past. He muttered something, and held out a hand, but neither heard nor saw him.

The counters in Sprungli’s were laden with bank upon bank of chocolates. He paused before a tray of Belgian chocolates, and examined them carefully. Her eye was caught by a cake, which was topped by a small icing-sugar swan.

Such skilful sculpting, she said. It seems a pity to eat such an exquisite little work of art.

A trifle overdone, he said. I prefer a simpler approach.

Perhaps, Herr Brugli, she conceded. Simplicity is certainly an ideal in life.

They passed upstairs, where the waitress recognised them and led them immediately to a table in the corner. She was particularly attentive to Herr Brugli, who addressed her as Maria and asked after her mother.

Ah, said the waitress. She takes great pleasure in everything still. When the weather gets a bit better she will ride up to Rapperswill on the steamer to visit her sister.

Marvellous! said Herr Brugli, and turning to Madame Thermaat: Eighty one, almost eighty two! A positive advertisement for a healthy life, is she not Maria?

And schnapps, said the waitress. She drinks two glasses of schnapps each day. One before breakfast, and one before retiring to bed.

There you are! exclaimed Herr Brugli. You see!

They looked at the menu, which was quite unnecessary, as Herr Brugli never chose anything new, and expected Madame Thermaat to do the same.

I think we shall have our usual again, he said to the waitress.

A few minutes later Maria brought them their coffee, served in tall glasses with whipped cream floating on the top. Then a plate of cakes arrived, and they each chose two. Maria returned, topped up the coffee, and cleared the uneaten cakes away.

Take those back to your mother, said Herr Brugli. Charge them to us.

Maria beamed. She loves cakes, she said. She can’t resist them!

There were few people of note in Sprungli’s. There were several tables of tourists – a party of Italians and a table of sober, intimidated Americans. Herr Brugli’s gaze passed over these tables quickly.

Nobody’s in this morning, he began to say. I don’t see a soul …

He stopped. Yes, there was somebody, and he leaned over the table to whisper to Madame Thermaat.

Would you credit it? he said, his voice barely audible. There she is, that Zolger woman with her young friend. In broad daylight …

Madame Thermaat followed his gaze.

Eating cakes! she exclaimed. Look, she ’s feeding him one with her fingers!

Herr Brugli’s eyes narrowed.

He’s young enough to be her son, he whispered. Just look at that! Just look at the way she’s gazing at him.

Eyes for nothing else, said Madame Thermaat. Positively devouring him, in public.

They looked away, thrilled by their discovery. It was wonderful to see something as shocking as that; it added a spice to the day to see a late middle-aged Zürich matron – a prominent banker’s wife – with her young lover in public, in a chocolate shop! It really was astonishingly good fortune, and cheered them both up immensely.

They arose from their table. He left fifty francs for Maria, tucked under a plate, as he always did. Then, eyes averted from the Zolger table, they made their way out of Sprungli’s and into the street. It was even warmer now, and the city was bathed in clear spring sunlight; somewhere, over by the river, a clock chimed.

It was gallery time now, so they crossed the river again, skirted round the cheap shops which ruined the arcade, and began to climb up one of the narrow streets that wound their way up the hill to the Church of St John. She walked beside him, on the inside, and when they negotiated a tricky corner she took his arm – which he liked – but released it later once the danger had passed.

The Gallery Fischer was discreet. It had a display window, but only a small one, and this tended to contain some item from Herr Fischer’s private collection, and would have nothing to do with what was inside. The door was always locked, but there was a small bell, which said simply Fischer and this, if rung, produced a small, stout man wearing round wire-rimmed glasses.

So, Herr Brugli … and Madame Verloren van … van …

Thermaat, said Herr Brugli. Herr Fischer, you are well, I hope?

Everybody in Switzerland has a cold at the moment, said Herr Fischer. But I do not. So I am grateful.

There are so many germs around these days, said Madame Thermaat. You just can’t avoid them. They are everywhere.

Herr Fischer nodded his head sagely.

I have great faith in Vitamin C, he said. I take Vitamin C every day, without fail.

They followed him into a small room behind the gallery. A young woman in an elegant black trouser suit came out from an office, shook hands solemnly, and then went off to a cupboard in the corner of the office.

Here it is, then, said Herr Fischer. It is, I hope, what you had in mind.

He handed the figurine to Herr Brugli, who took it in both hands and held it up in front of him. For a few moments there was silence. Herr Brugli moved the figurine backwards and forwards, the better to examine it in the light.

Yes, he said quietly. This is absolutely perfect.

Herr Fischer showed his relief. There are so few of them left, he said. At least there are so few of them in this condition.

Herr Brugli passed the small porcelain figure to Madame Thermaat, who took it gingerly and examined it closely.

Such lovely colours, she said. So true to life.

She passed it back to Herr Fischer, who looked expectantly at Herr Brugli.

I shall take it, said Herr Brugli. If you could ask your man …

We shall deliver it with pleasure, said Herr Fischer.

Madame Thermaat had moved to the other side of the room and was looking at a small bronze on a table.

Do you have anything – some small bibelot – which Madame Thermaat might like? Herr Brugli asked Herr Fischer. Some little present …?

Herr Fischer looked thoughtful. There is something, he said. A small egg, after Fabergé I’m afraid, not by him. But exquisite nonetheless.

Herr Brugli smiled. She would like that. Then, very quietly: The price?

Herr Fischer lowered his voice. He did not like talking about money, even with somebody like Herr Brugli. Eight thousand francs, he said. An absolute snip. If it were by Fabergé himself, then, well …

Herr Brugli was eager to save the proprietor embarrassment. Perfectly reasonable, he said. Could we see if she likes it?

Leave it up to me, Herr Fischer assured him. I shall fetch it immediately. It was a minute egg, fashioned out of silver, with gold lining and encrustation. The top, which could be pushed back, was lined within with mother-of-pearl, and the rest of the egg’s interior was covered with jet.

I believe that this might have been a pill box, said Herr Fischer. It is, I believe, of French manufacture.

Madame Thermaat took the tiny egg in her hands and peered at it intensely.

So delightful, she said. So modest. I’ll take it please.

Herr Fischer seemed momentarily perplexed. He looked at Herr Brugli, who waved a hand in the direction of the egg.

I should like to buy that for Madame Thermaat, he said. Put it in my account.

But I intended to buy it myself, protested Madame Thermaat. You’re far too kind to me.

It is a little present that I already planned to buy you, said Herr Brugli. You were not meant to buy it yourself.

Herr Fischer brushed aside Madame Thermaat’s objections and took the egg from her.

I shall wrap it in gold foil, he said. Afterwards, you may press the gold foil down on some special object and gild it.

Madame Thermaat’s eye alighted on a small painting on one of the walls. A haloed figure appeared to be floating several feet above the ground, surrounded by admiring bystanders and several surprised animals.

That is most intriguing, she said to Herr Fischer. What is it?

Herr Fischer took the painting down. Joseph of Copertino. A remarkable figure. He levitated on over seventy occasions and flew quite considerable distances on others. That, I believe, is why he is the patron saint of air travellers.

A charming painting, she said.

Late seventeenth century, Florentine, he said, lowering his voice even further. Remarkable value at nineteen thousand francs.

Would Herr Brugli like it? asked Madame Thermaat.

He would love it, Herr Fischer whispered. "Between ourselves, I gather that he is just the slightest bit frightened of travelling by air. This painting will undoubtedly reassure him."

Madame Thermaat inclined her head slightly. Will you send me the bill? she said to Herr Fischer. Madame Verloren van Thermaat.

Of course,

Reviews for Heavenly Date and Other Flirtations

[sirroger · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Rightly compared to Roald Dahl's "adult stories," this collection contains some good writing, but a bit darker than Smith's other series.

[carolo_77 · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

As much as I have enjoyed everything else that I have read by Alexander McCall Smith, I really did not enjoy this book. The subject matter is disturbing – including child prostitution – and the characters are unlikable. I do not recommend this book.

[mrslee_1 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Boring and depressing stories, at least the first three. I'm not willing to give the rest a chance. Ick.

[helenliz_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

 This was my first attempt at an audiobook. I drive ~ 9-10 hours a week, and usually listen to the radio, but I figured that I might actually be able to use that time to get the odd book in. Started with this one as it is a series of short stories over 6 CDs - so there's the opportunity to stop at regular intervals. A series of dates and relationships are explored, some more successful that others. An interesting bunch, with a range of characters, some more likable than others. I'll certainly give this author another go and will try another audiobook as well.

[lynn_barker_14 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Stories about dating--variously tragic, depressing, baffling, other-worldly--one character has a date with an angel followed by a sort of immaculate conception. Absurd--a woman has a date with an Australian who first bores her by droning on about fishing and then gets eaten by a crocodile while she looks on horrified but helpless. Further horror ensues when she is accused of his murder, though all's well in the end. Uproarious--A psychiatrist (probably a cohort of Von Igelfeld of Portuguese Irregular Verbs)details three case studies of psychosis brought on by dating. Overall, though, a bit more heavy than expected from this author.

[quincidence · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Truly intelligent short stories about love, tragedy, humor, innocence and perception of romance, perception of love, reasons to unite, reasons to leave, reasons to be disturbed with love, relationships and certainly how awkward dating and love can be. Love, commitment and all it's strange expectations leave us wondering "what happened?" and this book shows us a few heartwarming and few awkward moments. Hope, can be found.. you just have to see it through what you planned. I was unsettled, I loved it, and I was again unsettled. But still as I love true love stories, I loved the reality of how love is seldom stories of swoosh, and being swept off ones feet, and then super easy...probably not a great read for children, but certainly it is realistic in its disappointment, and happiness. This is what Alexander McCall Smith can be expected to do. Have a little twist.

[clara53_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

One can always depend on A. McCall Smith for a wonderful read. This collection of short stories is no exception. These insightful and well-written cameos say so much about human nature, they are full of wisdom, humanity, and humor. At the end of each story I was tempted to say either "that's how it is..." or "what now?...", as the author makes you reflect on life and sometimes imagine your own endings.

[vivl_6 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

None of these stories grabbed me. I found them dreary and uninspiring. The only story for which I felt anything other than antipathy and/or disappointment at the end was I think called 'Far North', but even that was just ok. The actual quality of writing is, as one would expect, not at all bad, but the plotting... I don't know. I've come to accept and even enjoy the lack of traditional plot arc in McCall Smith's Philosopher's Club series, but he doesn't get away with it in short story form in my opinion. Some mention similarities with Dahl's Tales of the Unexpected. Well, I found that collection boring, with endings that were entirely predictable, so perhaps the comparison is apt.

[jennyo_587543 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I enjoyed this little collection of short stories, but it's rather darker than McCall Smith's Mma Ramotswe books. The language is simple and gentle as in the Ramotswe stories, but the characters and events in these stories are often troubling. Still, I enjoyed it.

[blackbelt2librarian · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Those who love his series "The Number One Ladies Detective Agency" might be surprised and/or disappointed with this book. Although it's written in a different style than No. 1 Ladies, it is still an enjoyable books. Smith proves to be a great storyteller - my favorite being "Far North".

[name99_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Cute and gentle, as I've learned to expect from McCall Smith.

[niecierpek · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

It is a collection of short stories on dating. They explore the funny, nice, nasty and all other possible sides of meeting the opposite sex. Warning: They are good, but not as “nice” and heartwarming as the #1 Ladies Detective Agency. They don’t all have happy endings either.

[erasmusbee · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

These stories have little of the charm that McCall Smith's other series (No.1 Ladies Detective Agency and 44 Scotland St) have. The plots are contrived and the endings abrupt.

[clogwog · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A collection of short stories about casual dates and romantic encounters. Very quirky and most entertaining!!!