Not yours, she thought, but you know what I mean; and then, unbidden, there came into her mind a picture of Cat at the altar, in full bridal dress, and a Sicilian bridegroom, in dark glasses, and outside one of those raggedy brass bands that seem to materialise out of nowhere in Italian towns, playing old sax-horns and tubas, and the sun above, and olive trees, and Mr.
Berio himself laughing as he tossed rice into the air.
She raised her almost-drained glass of Madeira in a toast to Cat. “To the wedding,” she said with a smile.
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3 5
S H E WA L K E D B AC K , conscious of the keys in the pocket of her jacket. Grace had left by the time she arrived at the house and everything looked neat and tidy, as Grace always left it: The house has been graced, she thought. Grace was a most atypical professional housekeeper, a woman whose interests ran well beyond the domestic, who read novels and took a close interest in politics (even if her allegiances were notoriously shifting in that respect); a woman who could have had much more of a career had she chosen but who had been put to this work by an unambitious mother. Isabel would not have had a housekeeper had she been given the choice, but there had been no choice; on the death of Isabel’s father, Grace had assumed that she would remain in office, and Isabel had not had the heart to question this. Now she was glad that Grace had remained, and could not imagine what life would be without Grace and her views. And Isabel, who did good by stealth, had quietly placed money in an account for Grace’s benefit, but had not yet revealed the fund’s existence. She assumed that Grace would retire one day, even if there had been no mention of this. Still, the money was there, ready for her when she needed it.
She went into the kitchen. Grace left notes for her on the kitchen table—notes about household supplies and telephone messages. There was a large brown envelope waiting for her, and a piece of paper with a few lines in Grace’s handwriting.
Isabel picked up the envelope first. It had not arrived with the normal morning delivery because it had been misdelivered to a neighbour, who had dropped it off. Isabel lived at number 6
while the neighbour lived at number 16, and a harassed postal 3 6
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h official could easily make a mistake; but it was never bills that were misdelivered, Isabel reflected—bills always found their target. The envelope was simply addressed to the editor, and by its weight it was a manuscript. She always looked at the stamp and postmark first, rather than at the name and address of the sender: an American stamp, an aviator looking up into the clouds with that open-browed expression that befits aviators, and a Seattle postmark. She set the envelope aside and looked at the note which Grace had left. There had been a telephone call from her dentist, about a change in the timing for her check-up, and a call from the author of a paper which the Review had accepted for publication: Isabel knew that this author was troublesome and that there would be some complaint. Then, at the bottom of the list, Grace had written: And Jamie called too. He wants to talk to you, he says. Soon. This was followed by an exclamation mark—or was it? Grace liked to comment on the messages she took for Isabel, and an exclamation mark would have been an eloquent remark. But was this an exclamation mark or a slip of the pencil?
Isabel picked up the envelope and walked through to her study. Jamie often telephoned; this was nothing special, and yet she was intrigued. Why would he want to talk to her soon? She wondered whether it was anything to do with the girl. Had Jamie sensed that there was something wrong? It was possible that he had waited for her after the Queen’s Hall concert, and he might even have seen her sneaking away. He was not an insensitive person who would be indifferent to the feelings of others, and he could well have understood precisely why she had left without speaking to him. But of course if he had realised that, then that could change everything between them.
F R I E N D S, L OV E R S, C H O C O L AT E
3 7
She did not want him to think of her as some hopeless admirer, an object of pity.
She moved towards the telephone, but stopped. The hopeless admirer would be eager to call the object of her affections.
She was not that. She was the independent woman who happened to have a friendship with a young man. She would not behave like some overly eager spinster, desperate for any scrap of contact with the man on whom her affections had settled.
She would not telephone him. If he wanted to speak to her, then he would be the one to do the calling. She immediately felt ashamed; it was a thought worthy of a moody, plotting teenager, not of a woman of her age and her experience of life. She closed her eyes for a moment: this was a matter of will, of voluntas. She was not enamoured of Jamie; she was pleased that he had found a girlfriend. She was in control.
She opened her eyes. Around her were the familiar surroundings of her study: the books reaching up to the ceiling, the desk with its reassuring clutter, the quiet, rational world of the Review of Applied Ethics. The telephone was on the desk, and she picked up the receiver and dialled Jamie’s number.
Isabel, said a recorded Jamie. I am not in. This is not me you’re talking to; well it is, actually, but it’s a recording. I need to talk to you. Do you mind? May I see you tomorrow? I can call round any time. Phone me later.
She replaced the receiver in its cradle. Messages from people who were not there were unsettling, rather like letters from the dead. She had received such a letter once from a contribu-tor to the Review whose article had been turned down for publication. I cannot understand why you are unwilling to publish this, he had written. And then, a few days later, she had heard 3 8
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h that he was dead, and she had reflected on how her act had made his last few days unhappy; not that she could have reached any other decision, but the imminence of death might make one ponder one’s actions more carefully. If we treated others with the consideration that one would give to those who had only a few days to live, then we would be kinder, at least.
She picked up the envelope from Seattle and slit it open, carefully, gently, as if handling a document of sacramental significance. There was a covering letter—the University of Washington—but she put this to one side, again gently, and looked at the title page of the manuscript. “The Man Who Received a Bolt in the Brain and Became a Psychopath.” She sighed. Ever since Dr. Sacks had written The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat there had been a flurry of similar titles. And had not this whole issue of brain and personality disorder been explored by Professor Damasio, who had dealt with this precise case of the ironworker and his bolt in the brain? But then she remembered: she would give this article her full attention.
She began to read. Twenty minutes later she was still sitting with the manuscript before her, mulling over what she had read.
That is what she was doing when the telephone interrupted her.
It was Jamie.
“I’m sorry that I wasn’t in when you called.”
“You wanted to see me.”
“Yes, I do. I need to see you.”
She waited for him to say something more, but he did not.
So she continued: “It sounds important.”