She opened her eyes. “It was not his sister,” she said. “It was somebody else.”
Jamie was silent. Isabel imagined the conflict within him: dis-pleasure, or even anger, at the fact that Cat was being deceived, and satisfaction that there was now a chance that Toby could be exposed. He would be thinking, too, it occurred to her, that he might be able to take Toby’s place, which is what she herself had thought. But she at least knew that it would not be that simple; Jamie was unlikely to know that. He would be optimistic.
Isabel decided to take the initiative. “You can’t tell her,” she said. “If you went and told her, she would be angry with you.
Even if she believes it—which she may not—she would feel like shooting the messenger. I guarantee that you would regret it.”
“But she should know,” protested Jamie. “It’s . . . it’s outrageous that he should be carrying on with somebody else. She should be told. We owe it to her.”
“There are some things one has to find out oneself,” said Isabel. “You have to let people make some mistakes themselves.”
“Well, I for one don’t accept that,” Jamie retorted. “This is 1 3 2
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h a simple case. He’s a dog. We know it; she doesn’t. We have to tell her.”
“But the whole point is that if we do that, we’re only going to anger her. Don’t you see? Even if she went and found out that what we said was true, she would still be angry with us for telling her. I don’t want her to . . . to write you off. But she will if you do that.”
Jamie thought about what she had said. So she wanted him to get back with Cat. She had never actually said as much, but now it was in the open. And it was just as he had hoped it would be.
“Thanks,” he said. “I see what you mean.” He paused. “But why do you think he’s two-timing her? If he likes this other girl—
she’s presumably his sister’s flatmate—then why doesn’t he just go off with her? Why use Cat like this?”
“Don’t you see?” said Isabel.
“No, I don’t. Maybe I just don’t get it.”
“Cat is wealthy,” said Isabel. “Cat owns a business, and quite a bit else—a lot else actually, as you may or may not know. If you were somebody who was interested in money, and Toby is, I should think, then you may want to get your hands on some of it.”
Jamie’s astonishment was obvious. “He’s after her money?”
Isabel nodded. “I’ve known quite a few cases like that. I’ve seen people marry for money and then think that they can behave as they like. They get the security of the money and carry on behind their wife’s or husband’s back. It’s not all that unusual. Think of all those young women who marry wealthy older men. Do you think they behave like nuns?”
“I suppose not,” said Jamie.
“Well, there you are. Of course, this is only one explanation.
The other is that he simply wants to play the field. It’s possible T H E S U N D A Y P H I L O S O P H Y C L U B
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that he really likes Cat, but that he likes other women too. That’s perfectly possible.”
Isabel refilled Jamie’s glass. They were getting through the bottle quite quickly, but it was turning into an emotional evening and the wine was helping. There was another bottle in the fridge if needed, and they could broach that later. As long as I keep control, thought Isabel. As long as I maintain enough of a level head so that I don’t tell Jamie that if the truth be told, I’m half in love with him myself, and that there is nothing I would like more than to kiss that brow and run my fingers over that hair and hold him against me.
T H E F O L L OW I N G M O R N I N G Grace, who arrived early, said to herself: two glasses, an empty bottle. Crossing to the fridge, she saw the half-full corked bottle, and added, And a half. She opened the dishwasher and saw the omelette plate and the knife and fork, which told her that the visitor was Jamie: Isabel always cooked an omelette when he stayed for dinner. Grace was glad that Isabel had that young man in. She liked him, and she knew the background with Cat. She suspected, too, what Isabel was planning; that she would be plotting to get the two of them together again. She could forget that. People rarely went back that way. Once you were off somebody, then you tended to stay off them. That, at least, was Grace’s experience. She had rarely found that she rehabilitated somebody once she had taken the decision to write them off.
She prepared the coffee. Isabel would be down soon, and she liked to have the coffee ready for her when she came into the kitchen.
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h through from the front hall, where it was lying on the mosaic floor beneath the letter box. Now it was on the table, front page up, and Grace glanced at it while she ladled the coffee into the percolator. A resignation had been called for from a Glasgow politician suspected of fraud. (No surprise, thought Grace; none at all.) And there beneath it, a picture of that person of whom Isabel did not approve, the popinjay, as she called him. He had been crossing Princes Street and had collapsed, to be rushed off to the Infirmary. Grace read on: it had been a suspected heart attack, but no—and this was truly astonishing—he was found to have suffered a large split in his side, fortunately dealt with by quick and competent surgical stitching. He had made a full recovery, but then the diagnosis had been revealed:
Grace put down the coffee spoon. Surely not. Impossible.
She picked up the newspaper to examine it further, and saw the date. The first of April. She smiled.
how funny; but how apt.
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