manuscript—something about sorrow and loss. It would never be reunited with its fel-F R I E N D S, L OV E R S, C H O C O L AT E
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low pages, she thought, as she placed it on the desk. “I suppose so. Heavy robes with lots of gold. Very hot for that part of the world. Most uncomfortable. Have you seen the paintings of Mary, Queen of Scots? How hot and uncomfortable they must have been in those dresses. And they had no deodorants, you know.”
“But everybody was in the same boat,” said Isabel. “I think they didn’t notice.” She paused, remembering her trip to Russia in the dying days of Communism, when there was nothing to be seen in the shops but echoing emptiness. She had travelled in the Moscow underground at the height of the rush hour, and the shortage of soap and the nonexistence of deodorant had made itself evident. She had noticed, but did the Russians?
“There was a very old man who lived near my uncle in Kelso,” Grace said. “I remember him as a child, when I went down there to stay with my uncle and aunt. He used to sit outside his front door, staring out onto the fields. They said that he was past his ninety-eighth birthday and that he hadn’t washed since the hot-water system in his cottage broke down twenty years before. He claimed that this explained his longevity.”
“Nonsense,” said Isabel, but she immediately thought, Was it really nonsense? There were friendly bacteria, were there not?
Colonies of tiny beings who lived on us in perfect harmony with their hosts and were ready to deal with the real invaders, the unfriendly infections, when they arrived; and yet at every bath we depleted their ranks, washing away their cities, their dynas-ties, their cultures. So she retracted, and said, “Well, perhaps not.” But Grace had already left the room.
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A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h TO M A S S O ’ S T E L E P H O N E CA L L , when it came later that afternoon, was an invitation to dinner. He apologised for giving her such short notice—he explained that he had tried to contact her earlier—but would she be free that evening? Isabel had a friend who would never accept, as a firm rule, an invitation to do anything that day, as this would suggest that her diary was empty. That was pride, which could deprive one of so much fun; Isabel had no such compunction, and accepted immediately.
He chose the restaurant, a fish restaurant in Leith, the city’s port. It was in a small stone building that had been a fisherman’s house in simpler days, with a view across a cobbled street to a shipping basin. It had the air of a French bistro, with its plain-board floor, its gingham tablecloths, and the day’s specials written in coloured chalk on a large blackboard. Tomasso looked around quickly and gave Isabel an apologetic look. “They recommended it at the hotel,” he whispered. “I hope that it is all right.” As he leant towards her to whisper, she caught a whiff of cologne, that expensive, spicy smell that she associated with the turn-down scratch-and-sniff pages of the glossy magazines.
Isabel assumed that he was used to something smarter; he looked so elegant, in his tailored jacket and his expensive shoes with their tasteful buckles. “It’s very good,” she said. “Everyone knows this place.”
Her comment seemed to reassure him, and he relaxed.
He looked around again. “It’s difficult when you’re away from home,” he said. “If we were in Bologna, or Milan even, I’d know where to take you. When you’re abroad, you’re so vulnerable.”
“It’s hard to see you as vulnerable,” she said, and immediately she regretted this, as he gave her a curious look.
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“But you don’t know me,” he said. “How can you tell?”
Isabel looked at him, noticing what she had not noticed earlier on—the silk tie, the collar of his shirt, which was hard shiny white, as if it had been starched; the perfectly groomed hair, dark auburn plastered back so scrupulously, not a strand out of place. He had that look about him, the look which Isabel described as
They were shown to their table, beside the window. She sat down; she had not looked at the other diners, and now did. A woman two tables away who was looking at her discreetly, and at Tomasso, turned away briefly so as not to be seen staring, and now looked back. Isabel recognised her, but could not work out why. They smiled at one another.
Tomasso looked at the other table. “Your friends?”
“Friends I don’t really know,” said Isabel. “That is what this city is like. It’s not very big.”
“I like it,” said Tomasso. “I feel as if I’m in Siena, or somewhere like that. But more exciting—for me, at least. Scotland is very exciting.”
“It has its moments,” said Isabel. The waiter had arrived and handed her a menu. He was a young man, a student perhaps, with regular features and a wide grin. He smiled at her and then at Tomasso. Tomasso looked up at him, and for a moment Isabel 1 7 8
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h imagined that she saw something, a look, a moment of understanding, pass between them. Or had she? She watched Tomasso’s eyes. He had glanced at the open menu placed in his hands, and now he looked back at the waiter.
Tomasso asked her whether she could recommend anything, but Isabel did not hear him. She was studying the menu and thinking about what she had seen, if she had seen anything.
Tomasso repeated his question. “Is there anything you can recommend? I don’t know, you see, these Scottish dishes . . .”
Isabel looked up from her menu. “I can recommend honesty,” she said. “And kindness. Both of those. I can recommend both of those.”
The effect of this on the waiter was to make him start. He had his notebook in his hand, and he clutched it to his chest in his surprise. And Tomasso’s head gave a small jolt, as if a string had been pulled.
Then the waiter laughed, immediately putting a hand up to his mouth. “Not on the menu tonight,” he said. “Not
