Friends, Lovers, Chocolate

looked to all intents and purposes like two rectangular eyes. Balerno was somnolent, a respectable place in which nothing out of the ordinary happened.

Then she remembered something else which had been said to her by somebody a long time ago, perhaps when she was a schoolgirl or a very young woman. Somebody had said—or whispered, perhaps—that the suburbs of Edinburgh had a reputation for adultery, and that Balerno was a great place for that. Yes, somebody had said that and sniggered, as a schoolgirl might snigger; and of course it was easy to imagine. If you were tucked up in a suburb, then might you not feel the need to take some risks? And that would lead to the adventure of adultery committed after parties in insurance offices in town, on company training weekends in Perthshire hotels; snatched moments of excitement, lived out against the emptiness of a predictable life.

Jamie had been drawn into that world, and that was why he was going to Balerno. The thought made Isabel grimace. There was no romance there; only tawdry shame. And poor Jamie had been entrapped by this Louise person, this older woman, who probably cared nothing for his music or for his moral qualities, and for whom he was something to toy with.

One might work oneself up into a state of anger just thinking about Louise, and what she stood for. But Isabel would not allow this to happen; it was always a mistake, she thought, to 5 8

A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h dwell on the cause of one’s anger, like Tam O’Shanter’s wife, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm, as Burns put it. No, thought Isabel, I must like Louise, because that is my duty; not because one has a moral duty to like people in general—an impossibility for those short of sainthood—but because I know that Jamie will be hoping that I should like her.

She was thinking of friendship and its duties when the bell rang. When she opened the door, she saw immediately from Jamie’s expression that she had been right about how he would feel: there was a strange look on his face, one in which anticipation was mixed with concern. She wanted to lean forward and whisper to him, Don’t worry. Don’t worry. But could not, of course, because standing behind him was Louise, who seemed to be looking up at the evening sky.

She invited them in and the introductions took place in the hall. Jamie did not give Louise’s other name, an endemic social failing which Isabel had stopped remarking upon; so many people now gave only their first names. In this case, though, there might be a reason. Was Louise openly in Jamie’s company, or was discretion still required?

Isabel looked at Louise and smiled. She saw more or less what she had expected to see—a woman in her late thirties, of average height, wearing a longish red skirt and a soft padded green jacket of the sort which became perversely fashionable in the West in the days of Madame Mao—peasant chic. The skirt and the jacket were expensive, though, and overall there was a feel to this woman, Isabel thought, which suggested that she was accustomed to wealth and comfort. Material security brought a particular form of self-assurance—an easy confidence that things would simply be there if one wanted them, and this F R I E N D S, L OV E R S, C H O C O L AT E

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woman had that assurance. The wealthy, thought Isabel, fit in.

They are never out of place.

And as for the face—high cheekbones and wide, dark eyes—it was a face which she had seen used in the faux nativities which artists painted when they tried to capture the spirit of Renaissance Italy. It was inarguably a beautiful face, and it could beguile any man, even a young man, thought Isabel. This was not a charitable thought, and she reminded herself to smile as she shook hands with Louise, who looked back at her, smiling too, and undoubtedly performing her own calculations as to who Isabel was and what she meant to Jamie. Was she a threat?

Well, Isabel was attractive too, but she was a philosopher, was she not, buried in her books, a bit above all that sort of thing (young men, affairs, and the rest).

They went into the drawing room and Isabel offered them white wine. Jamie said he would pour it, and Isabel noticed that Louise had picked up this sign of familiarity. Isabel found herself pleased at this: it would do her no harm to know that she and Jamie had been friends for years.

“Your health,” said Isabel, raising her glass to Jamie first and then to Louise. They sat down, Louise choosing the sofa, where she patted a cushion beside her, discreetly, almost as one would give a secret signal, for Jamie to sit beside her, which he did.

Isabel sat opposite them and looked at Jamie. Nothing was said, but Louise noticed the exchange of glances and frowned, almost imperceptibly, which was noticed by Isabel.

“I have to go out to Balerno to look at a bassoon,” said Jamie.

“One of my pupils lives out there, and he has been offered an instrument which he can’t bring into town. I’m going to tell him if it’s worth buying. It’s a bit complicated.”

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A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h Isabel nodded. Jamie was always looking at bassoons. “I thought perhaps Louise lived out there.”

Louise looked up sharply. “Balerno?”

Isabel smiled disarmingly. “My mistake,” she said. “Do you live in town?”

Louise nodded, and although Isabel waited for her to say something else, no further information was forthcoming.

“Louise has a job with the National Gallery,” Jamie said.

“Part-time, but quite interesting, isn’t it, Louise?”

“Most of the time,” said Louise.

“Well, you get around with it,” said Jamie. “Didn’t you have to accompany a painting to Venice the other day? Sitting on the seat beside you, in its little crate?”

“Yes,” said Louise. “I did.”

Jamie looked nervously at Isabel, who said, “I suppose you can’t put paintings in the hold when you’re lending them for an exhibition.”