Jamie examined the menu while Isabel discreetly looked at the other diners. Her friends, Peter and Susie Stevenson, out for dinner with another couple, nodded and smiled. At the nearest 2 1 8
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h table, sitting by himself, the heir to a famous Scottish house, weighed down by history and ghosts, turned the pages of a book he had brought with him. Isabel glanced at him and felt a pang of sympathy: each in his separate loneliness, she thought. And I, the lucky one, able to come to this place with this handsome young man, and it does not matter in the slightest if they look at me and think, There is a woman out for dinner with her younger boyfriend. But then the thought occurred to her: they might not think that at all, but think, instead, Cradle snatch.
That was a disturbing thought, and a melancholy one. She consciously put it out of her mind and looked across the menu at Jamie. He had been in a good mood when she had entered the restaurant and found him already at the table. He had risen to his feet, smiled, and leant across to plant a quick kiss on her cheek—which had excited her, and made her blush, even if it was only a social kiss.
Jamie smiled back at her. “I’ve had some good news,” he said. “I’ve been looking forward to telling you.”
She laid down the menu. Asparagus and red snapper could wait. “A recording contract?” she teased. “Your own disc?”
“Almost as good,” he said. “Oh yes, almost as good as that.”
She felt a sudden sense of dread. He had found a new girlfriend, would get married, and that would be the end for her.
Yes, that was what had happened. This was a last supper. She glanced at the man at his single table, with his book; that would be her lot from now on, sitting at a single table with a copy of Daniel Dennett’s Consciousness Explained open in front of her among the salt cellars and butter dishes, and the olive oil, of course.
“I don’t think I told you,” he said, “that I was having an audition yesterday. In fact, I’m pretty sure I didn’t tell you. I F R I E N D S, L OV E R S, C H O C O L AT E
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wouldn’t want to have to say to you that I didn’t get in. I suppose it’s a question of pride.”
Isabel’s anxiety was replaced by relief. Auditions were no threat. Unless . . .
“The London Symphony,” he said.
For a moment she said nothing. The London Symphony was in London.
“Well!” she exclaimed with a Herculean effort of fellow feeling. “That’s very good.” Was “very good” too faint praise? She decided that it was—if she were to conceal her sudden, overwhelming despair. “That’s wonderful!”
Jamie sat back in his seat. He was beaming with pleasure.
“It was the most intimidating experience of my life. I went down just for the day, and they heard me at noon. There were about ten other players hanging around. One of them showed me his new CD, complete with his picture on the back. I almost gave up there and then.”
“What an ordeal.” She could not manage an exclamation mark. She was too dispirited.
“It was. Until I started to play.” He threw up his hands.
“Something came upon me—I don’t know what it was. But I could hardly believe the sound of my own playing.”
Isabel looked down at the table, at the knives and forks.
I have to expect this, she said to herself; it was inevitable that I would lose him, quite inevitable. And when one lost a friend, what was the right thing to do? To mourn the loss, or to take pleasure in the memories of the friendship? Of course it was the latter—she was well aware of that—but it was difficult, in the Café St. Honoré, to behave correctly when one’s heart was a cold stone within one.
Jamie continued with his story. “They told us that they 2 2 0
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h would not reach a decision that day, but they called me anyway, just as I was getting on the train to come home. And they said that they had chosen me.”
“No surprise that,” said Isabel. “Of course you’ve always been a very fine player, Jamie. I’ve always known that.”
He seemed embarrassed by the praise, and waved it aside.
“Anyway, we can talk about that later on. What about you?”
“Working,” said Isabel. “At the job I’m meant to do, and . . .”
Jamie cast his eyes up in a gesture of mock impatience.
“And at what you’re not meant to be doing, too, no doubt.”
“I know,” said Isabel. “I know what you’re going to say.” And she thought of what it would be like when Jamie had gone and they could not have these discussions. Could she get involved in what she called her issues if she had nobody to sound them out with, nobody to advise her? For that is what the loss of Jamie would mean to her.
Jamie reached for the glass of water that the waiter had brought him. “But I’m not going to say it,” he said. “Instead I’m going to give you a piece of information which I hope will—”
Isabel reached out and touched him on the arm. “Before you do, let me tell you something. I know you feel that I should disengage from this issue. I know you think I’ve followed totally the wrong path. I know that. But I heard today from that journalist we saw. Remember him?”
“The one you shared a bath with?”
“The very one. We were extremely small then, let me remind you. And the bath, as I recall, was quite large. Anyway, he found out from some medical contact the name of the donor.
And it’s Macleod.”
She lowered her voice to impart this information, although nobody was in a position to hear, except possibly the man F R I E N D S, L OV E R S, C H O C O L AT E
2 2 1
immersed in his book. But he did not know who Isabel was, although she knew exactly who he was, and he would never have eavesdropped.
She had expected her announcement to have a marked effect on Jamie, but his reaction was mild. In fact, he smiled and nodded his agreement. “Just so,” he said.
Isabel leant forward. “Macleod,” she repeated. “Macleod.
And that means that that woman lied to me. And it also means that Graeme, her man, could be the man whom Ian sees—if he really sees anybody, but let’s just imagine for the moment that he does.”
Again Jamie received this with equanimity. “Yes,” he acknowledged. “Macleod.”
Isabel felt her irritation grow. “You don’t seem to be in the least bit surprised,” she muttered, picking up the menu to examine it again. “I won’t burden you with this. I suggest that we change the subject.”
Jamie made a calming gesture. “Sorry, but you see, I’m not surprised. And the reason is . . . Well, I know that it’s Macleod.
But it’s not the Macleod you think it is.”
Isabel stared at him in incomprehension. “You’re losing me,”
she said.
Jamie took another sip of his water. “The other day after you left me, I decided to drop into the library on George IV