Friends, Lovers, Chocolate

dangly diamante earrings would add to the effect. There! Cat would be proud of her. Tomasso’s own aunt would probably wear widow’s weeds and have a moustache and— She stopped herself. Not only was that uncharitable, but it was probably also incorrect.

Italian aunts used to run to fat and excessive hair, but things had changed, had they not, and now they were more likely to be slender, fashionable, tanned.

She called out a goodbye to Grace, who replied from somewhere deep within the house, and then made her way outside.

The students from Napier University nearby had lined the street with their cars, which irritated the neighbours but which Isabel did not mind too much. Local people were never all that real to students; they were the backdrop for the student drama of parties and long conversations over cups of coffee and . . .

Isabel paused. What else did students do? Well, she knew the F R I E N D S, L OV E R S, C H O C O L AT E

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answer to that, and why should they not, as long as they were responsible about it? She did not approve of promiscuity, which she thought made a mockery of our duty to cherish and respect others; an emotional fast food, really, which one would not wish on anybody. But at the same time one should not starve oneself.

As she turned into Merchiston Crescent, the road that wound its way towards Bruntsfield and Cat’s delicatessen, Isabel imagined what it would be like to give to others the gift of love. Not from oneself—as that may be unwanted—but from those whose love the recipient yearned for. Such a power that would be, she thought. Here, my dear, is the girl whom you have admired for so long, and yes, she is yours. And here, for you, is that desirable boy whose eye you have so long tried to catch, in vain; well, try catching it now.

I do not even have a man myself, Isabel said to herself; I am in no position to give one to another. Of course, she had not over-exercised herself in the obtaining of a man, not since John Liamor. For some years after that, a long time, she had not even been sure that she wanted one. But now, she thought, she was ready again to take the risk that men brought with them—the risk of being left, cheated upon, made unhappy. She could get one if she wanted, she imagined. She was young enough and attractive enough to compete. Men found her interesting; she knew that, because they showed it in the way they reacted to her. It would be good to go out to dinner with the right man. She could see herself sitting at a table in the window at Oloroso, looking out over the roofs of George Street to Fife in the distance, and a man on the other side of the table, a man who was a good conversationalist, with a sense of humour, who would make her laugh, but who could make her cry, too, when he 1 0 4

A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h spoke of the more important, moving things. A man just like . . .

She racked her brain. What men like that were there? And, more to the point perhaps, where were they?

Jamie, of course. He came unbidden into her mind, sitting at that unreal table at Oloroso, watching her with those grey eyes of his, and speaking to her about exactly those things that they liked to speak about. She closed her eyes. It was too late.

There had been a fatal, anachronistic error in the stars that had brought them together. Had she been born fifteen years later, then it would have been a perfect match, and she could imagine herself fighting tooth and nail to possess him—he would have been all that she wanted; but now, it was inappropriate, and impossible, and she had decided not even to think about it. She had freed herself of those thoughts of Jamie in the same way in which an addict frees himself of thoughts of the bottle, or the racetrack, or the bedroom.

She was approaching the end of Merchiston Crescent, and she saw ahead the busy line of cars coming into town from Morningside and further south. Cat’s delicatessen was in the middle of a block, with a jeweller on one side and an antiques shop on the other. A few doors further down, on the same side as the delicatessen, was the fishmonger from whom her father had bought his Loch Fyne kippers for all those years. She had seen the antiques dealer buying kippers himself, bending down to peer at the smoked fish on the slab. One of the pleasures of living in an intimate city, she thought, was that one could know so much about one’s fellow citizens. This was what made those small Italian cities so comfortable: the fact that there was so little anonymity. She remembered visiting her friend who lived in Reggio Emilia, the same friend who had taken her to the Parmesan factory, and taking a stroll with her in the piazza. It seemed F R I E N D S, L OV E R S, C H O C O L AT E

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that they stopped every second minute to pass the time of day with somebody. That one was a cousin; that one was a friend of an aunt; that one had lived on the floor below for a year or two and had then gone to Milan, but must be back; that one had the cruellest nickname when he was at school, yes, they called him that, they really did. One could not stroll in quite the same way in Edinburgh—the weather was hardly perfect for la bella figura—but one could at least see people one knew buying kippers.

Cat’s delicatessen was busy when she arrived. As well as employing Eddie full-time, Cat had now taken on a young woman, Shona, who worked several hours a day and who was now at the counter, slicing salami. Cat was weighing cheese and Eddie was at the cash register. Isabel wondered whether she should offer to help, but thought perhaps that she might just get in the way. So she sat down at a table and picked up a magazine that was lying on the floor, abandoned by some untidy previous customer.

She was immersed in an article by the time Cat came over to see her.

“He’ll be here any moment,” Cat muttered. “I’m sure you’ll like him.”

“I’m sure I shall,” said Isabel mildly.

“No, I mean really like him,” Cat said. “Just wait and see.”

Isabel was intrigued. “But I thought you sounded a little bit . . . how shall I put it? A little bit lukewarm when you spoke about him, on the phone.”

“Oh,” said Cat lightly. “If you mean I sounded as if he’s not for me, yes, that’s right. He isn’t. But . . . But you’ll see what I mean.”

“What’s the snag?” asked Isabel.

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A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h Cat sighed. “Age.”

“Age? How old is he? Seventy-five?”