There’s somebody whose trust is being abused. Promises are being broken.”
Jamie looked down at the tablecloth, tracing an imaginary pattern with a finger. “I’ve thought of all that,” he said. “But in this case the marriage is almost over. She says that although they’re still married, they lead separate lives.”
“But they’re still together?”
“In name.”
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“In house?”
Jamie hesitated. “Yes, but she says that they would prefer to live apart.”
Isabel looked at him. She reached out and touched him gently on the arm. “What do you want me to say, Jamie?” she asked. “Do you want me to tell you that it’s perfectly all right? Is that what you want?”
Jamie shook his head. “I don’t think so. I wanted to talk to you about it.”
The milky coffee which Isabel had ordered now arrived, and she picked up the large white cup in which it was served.
“That’s understandable,” she said. “But you should bear in mind that I can’t tell you what to do. You know the issues perfectly well. You’re not fifteen. You may want me to give you my blessing, to say that it’s perfectly acceptable, and that’s because you’re feeling guilty, and afraid.” She paused, remembering the line from WHA’s poem: Mortal, guilty, but to me/ The entirely beautiful. Yes, that spoke to this moment.
The misery had not left Jamie’s voice. “Yes, I do feel guilty.
And yes, I suppose I did want you to tell me that it was all right.”
“Well, I can’t do that,” said Isabel, gently. And she reached across and took his hand, and held it for a moment. “I can’t tell you any of that, can I?”
Jamie shook his head. “No.”
“So what can I say?”
“You could let me tell you about her,” said Jamie quietly. “I wanted to do that.”
Isabel understood now that he was in love. When we love others, we naturally want to talk about them, we want to show them off, like emotional trophies. We invest them with a power to do to others what they do to us; a vain hope, as 5 0
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h the lovers of others are rarely of much interest to us. But we listen in patience, as friends must, and as Isabel now did, refraining from comment, other than to encourage the release of the story and the attendant confession of human frailty and hope.
C H A P T E R S I X
E
THE NEXT DAY it was Eddie who opened the delicatessen.
By the time that Isabel arrived, he had already prepared the coffee and was pouring her a cup as she entered the shop.
“Everything’s ready,” he said, handing her the cup. “And I’ve spoken to the delivery people about coming this afternoon.
They can do it.”
“Such efficiency,” said Isabel, smiling at him over the rim of her coffee cup. “You don’t really need me, I think.”
Eddie’s face showed his alarm. “No,” he said. “I do.”
“I wasn’t entirely serious,” Isabel said quickly. She had noticed that Eddie was very literal, and it crossed her mind that he might have Asperger’s. These things came in degrees, and perhaps he suffered from a mild version of the condition. It would certainly explain the shyness; the withdrawal.
Isabel sat at Cat’s desk, her coffee before her. The morning’s mail, which had been retrieved by Eddie, contained nothing of note, other than an inexplicable bill for which payment was demanded within seven days. Isabel asked Eddie about it, but he shrugged. Then there was a letter from a supplier saying that a consignment of buffalo mozzarella had been delayed in Italy 5 2
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h and would be delivered late. Eddie said that this did not matter, as they still had plenty.
Then the customers began to drift in. Isabel dispensed small tubs of olives and sun-dried tomatoes. She cut cheese and wrapped bread and reached for tins of mackerel fillets from the shelves. She exchanged views with customers—on the weather, on the contents of that day’s copy of the Scotsman, and, with questionable authority, on a local planning issue. So the morning drifted by, and not once, she reflected, had she had the opportunity to think about moral philosophy. This was cause for thought: most people led their lives this way—doing rather than thinking; they acted, rather than thought about acting. This made philosophy a luxury—the privilege of those who did not have to spend their time cutting cheese and wrapping bread. From the perspective of the cheese counter, Schopenhauer seemed far away.
If there was no time to think about the affairs of the Review of Applied Ethics, there was time enough to think about Jamie.
The entire previous evening, when Isabel had been catching up with Review work, she had found her mind wandering back to her conversation with Jamie. The news of his involvement with Louise—that being the only name he had revealed to her—had initially upset Isabel, and after a while she had found herself depressed by what he told her. There was nothing romantic in the situation, she felt, no matter how Jamie might wish to portray it. He was clearly infatuated, and Isabel doubted very much that Louise would reciprocate. Her picture of Louise was of a bored and rather hard woman, living with a husband who was probably unfaithful to her but staying with him because he provided material security. She would not leave her husband, and indeed Jamie might have been a way of her getting back at a F R I E N D S, L OV E R S, C H O C O L AT E
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man who paid her little attention. It was exactly the strategy which some people urged on ignored wives: make him jealous.
And Jamie would be perfect for that—a younger man, handsome, and, as a musician, slightly exotic.
Isabel ate her lunch at one of the tables in the delicatessen.
While Eddie attended to the customers, she picked up a copy of Corriere della Sera and flicked through the news. Much of it was of the internecine battles of Italian politicians; the shifting of coalitions, the pursuit of narrow advantage, the accusations by liars of lying by others. There was a statement from the Pope about the importance of papal statements.
Isabel looked up from her paper and reached for her sand-wich. A man was standing at the table, a plate in his hand, gesturing at the vacant seat.
“Would you mind?”
Isabel noticed that while she had been reading the other tables had filled up. She smiled at the man. “Not at all. In fact, I shouldn’t be sitting here much longer. I’m staff, you see.”
The man sat down, placing the plate in front of him. “I’m sure that you need a break, just as everyone does.”
Isabel smiled. “It’s not as if I’m real staff,” she said. “I’m standing in for my niece.” She looked at his plate, which had on it a small portion of tomato salad, a few hazelnuts, and a sardine.
He was on a diet, and yet there seemed to be no need. He was a man in his mid-fifties, she thought, not at all overweight—the opposite, in fact. She noticed, too, that he had that look about him which her housekeeper Grace described as distinguished, but which she herself would have described as intelligent.
He noticed Isabel’s glance at his plate. “Not very much,” he said ruefully. “But needs must.”
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“Looking after your heart?” Isabel asked.
The man nodded. “Yes.” He paused, moving the sardine to the centre of the salad. “It’s my second.”