“As long as you don’t mind a ghost,” said Angie, giggling.
“I thought I saw him the other day. He was sort of white—
insubstantial . . .” She trailed off, and then suddenly turned to Jamie. “Do you believe in ghosts, Jamie?”
Jamie laughed nervously. “I haven’t thought about it very 1 1 6
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h much . . . But, no, probably not. I haven’t seen any evidence. Or any ghosts, for that matter.”
“Grace is the person,” said Isabel, glancing at Jamie. “My housekeeper. She doesn’t call them ghosts, of course. She’s a spiritualist. She talks about ‘the other side.’ ” She felt vaguely disloyal, talking about Grace in this way, and her voice dropped at the end. It was true, though, Grace did go to seances, which had always struck her as being so out of character, given Grace’s good sense in everything else. We all have our weak points, she thought. Mine . . . This was no time for self-evaluation, though; she would change the subject of the conversation, she decided.
But then she remembered Mobile, which was said to be the city of ghosts. That had always amused her. “Mobile is the place for ghosts, isn’t it?” she volunteered.
Mimi looked up. “So we’re told,” she said. “Though why there should be more ghosts there than anywhere else, I don’t know.”
“Perhaps they move down from the North,” Joe observed drily. “People move to Florida in their retirement. Ghosts move to Mobile.”
It was typical of Joe’s dry humour, and Isabel looked at him in appreciation. Angie, however, seemed puzzled. “Do ghosts move?” she asked.
“That’s something we can’t tell,” answered Isabel. She turned to Tom. It was kind of him and Angie to issue the invitation for the house party, and she thanked him. On the contrary, he said: it was good of Isabel and her friends to fill the house for them.
They were spending almost three months in Scotland and knew very few people. It would be pleasant to have some company.
You have each other, thought Isabel. But was that enough?
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Even when one was in love, it was not really enough just to have the other person—not if one needed stimulation. The company of just one person could be reassuring, could stave off loneli-ness, but would it be enough for three months?
Angie had been talking to Joe and Jamie, and so she said to Tom, “We need to see people, don’t we? I sometimes have to get out of the house just to do so—not necessarily to talk to anyone, just to see them. We have some shops nearby. I drive round there and have a coffee. See people.”
“Yes,” he said. “I guess that’s why we come into Edinburgh a lot. I thought that we might just stay out in that house, buried in the country, but we need to get in.”
Isabel nodded. She could imagine what it would be like to be stuck in the country with Angie. But then she had no interest in Angie, and he did. He must find her exciting. Sexually?
Strange.
She stole a glance at Tom. What would his face have looked like before the Bell’s palsy? He must have been good-looking, with those strong features, the regular nose, the fine eyes; only the mouth was wrong, twisted into its grimace by the condition.
And his physique was impressive too. He must be in his fifties, but there was no spare flesh and he was well put together. If one looked beyond the grimace, one saw a fine man; as Angie must have done, unless she was looking at something else: at the house in Preston Hollow, at the staff who presumably looked after him—the Mexican maid, the groundsman, the driver.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Tom asking her what she did. Isabel explained about the Review and he listened attentively. He had done several courses in philosophy at Dartmouth, he said. They discussed that for a while and then Mimi caught 1 1 8
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h Isabel’s eye and pointed in the direction of the kitchen. It was time for dinner.
Isabel had left the seating plan to Mimi, and she found herself next to Tom; Jamie, across the table, was on Angie’s right.
Isabel watched as the evening wore on. Each time she looked across, she noticed that Angie was deep in conversation with Jamie and she heard odd snatches of what she said. Tom’s been so kind to me . . . We toyed with the idea of Paris, but Tom’s so interested in Scotland . . . You don’t know Dallas? You should . . .
some time . . . And then, would you believe it, she shot him. Everybody knew it wasn’t an accident, I certainly knew . . .
Why, Isabel wondered, had she shot him? And who was she? Women shot abusive husbands, in desperation, or husbands who went off with other women, in fury. It seemed unlikely, but she was talking about Texas, where guns, shamefully, were part of the culture. And that was an absurdity, she thought, and such a blot on American society, this little-boy fascination with guns and toughness. Something had gone so badly wrong.
The dinner finished reasonably early, as Tom and Angie had to drive back to the house outside Peebles where they were staying. In the hall outside, Angie said, “Now, Jamie. Everybody here is coming out to see us in a week’s time. They can’t leave you here in Edinburgh. Will you be our guest too?”
Tom looked up. He was slightly surprised, thought Isabel.
“Yes, why not?” he said. “It would be very pleasant. There’s plenty of room.”
Jamie looked uncertain. He glanced at Isabel, who smiled at him. “It would make the party,” she said.
“Thank you. I’d love that.”
After they had left, Isabel insisted that she and Jamie would T H E R I G H T AT T I T U D E T O R A I N
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clear up as Mimi had prepared the meal. In the kitchen with Jamie, she closed the door behind her. “Well,” she said.
Jamie’s expression was passive.
“Well,” said Isabel again. “That was Tom and Angie.”
“Yes,” said Jamie, putting a plate into the dishwasher.
“That was.”
Isabel reached past him to put a couple of glasses on the top rack of the machine. “You seemed to get on well enough with her.” She picked up another glass and threw out the dregs. “I couldn’t help but hear something she said. Something about some woman shooting a man. What was that about?”
Jamie shrugged. “Some Dallas story,” he said. “Somebody who married somebody else. Some oil man. Then shot him. So she said.”
“Shot for his oil,” mused Isabel. “Tom had better be careful.”
For a moment Jamie said nothing. He stacked a few more plates and then turned to face Isabel. “Isabel,” he said, softly.
For a minute, Isabel thought that he was going to embrace her. It was the right moment; they were alone; he was standing close to her. Her heart raced in anticipation. But then she saw that he was shaking a finger at her in mock admonition.
“You have an overactive imagination,” Jamie said.
She turned away. She was tired, and he was right. Her imagination was overactive—in every respect. She imagined that people might dispose of one another for gain. She imagined that this young man, who could presumably have any girl who took his fancy, would choose to get involved with her, a woman in her early forties. She should rein in her imagination and become realistic, like everybody else. And you don’t need the complica-tions that would follow any deeper involvement with Jamie; that 1 2 0
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h is what she said to herself. Why spoil a friendship for the sake of the carnal? And the carnal inevitably spoiled friendships. It took friends to another land—away from their innocence, to a place from which they could not return to simple friendship.