he said. “I decided to stay.”
There was a tone of finality in his voice. Isabel hesitated for a moment; the simplest thing to do would be to say that she thought this was a good idea and leave it at that. But she was curious as to why he should have changed his mind. And then it came to her. Cat. He would not leave Edinburgh as long as he entertained a hope that Cat might change her mind about him.
“It’s Cat,” she said quietly. “It is her, isn’t it?”
Jamie met her eyes, but then looked away in embarrassment. “Maybe. Maybe . . .” He trailed off. Then: “Yes,” he said.
“It is. When I faced up to it, as I did on the train, that was what I decided. I don’t want to leave her, Isabel. I just don’t.”
From the heights of the elation she had experienced when Jamie had announced that he would not go to London after all, Isabel now descended to the depths of doubt. Once again the problem lay in the fact that she was a philosopher and that she thought about duty and obligation. From the selfish point of view she should say nothing; but Isabel was not selfish. And so she felt compelled to say to Jamie that he should not turn down something that was important to him in the hope, the vain hope, she had to say, that Cat would come back to him.
“She won’t come back to you, Jamie,” she said softly. “You can’t spend your life hoping for something that is never going to happen.”
Every word of her advice went against the grain of what she herself wanted. She wanted him to stay; she wanted things to remain as they were; she wanted him for herself. But in spite of this, she knew that she had to say the opposite of what she wanted.
She could tell that her words were having their effect, as he 2 2 6
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h remained silent, staring at her, his eyes wide. His eyes had in them a light which seemed to dim now, to change its quality.
What is beauty, she thought, but the promise of happiness, as Stendhal said it was? But it was more than that. It was a glimpse of what life might be if there were no disharmony, no loss, no death. She wanted to reach out, to touch his cheek and say,
When Jamie spoke, he spoke quietly. “Just keep out of it, Isabel,” he said, between clenched teeth. “Just mind your own business.”
She drew back, shocked by his intensity. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was only trying . . .”
“Please shut up,” said Jamie, his voice raised. “Just shut up.”
His words cut into her, hung in the air. She looked anxiously in the direction of the neighbouring table. There was no sign of anything having been heard, but he must have heard, the man with the book.
Then Jamie pushed his chair back, noisily, and stood up.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just don’t feel in the mood for dinner tonight.”
She could not believe it. “You’re going?”
“Yes. Sorry.”
She sat alone at the table, frozen in her embarrassment.
The waiter came to the table swiftly and discreetly pushed Jamie’s chair back against the table. His manner was sympathetic. And then, crossing quietly from the other side of the restaurant, Peter Stevenson was at her side, bending down to whisper to her.
F R I E N D S, L OV E R S, C H O C O L AT E
2 2 7
“Come over and join us,” he said. “We can’t let you have dinner by yourself.”
Isabel looked up at him in gratitude. “I think the evening’s rather ruined for me,” she said.
“Surely there was no need for your friend to walk out like that,” said Peter.
“It’s my fault,” said Isabel. “I said something that I shouldn’t.
I touched the very rawest of nerves. I shouldn’t have done it.”
Peter placed a hand on her shoulder. “We all say things,”
he said. “Phone him tomorrow and patch up. It’ll look different then.”
“I don’t know,” said Isabel. She decided that some explanation was necessary. At the beginning of the evening she had rather relished the thought that people might imagine that she was with a younger lover; now she was not so sure whether that was what she would want people to believe.
“He and I are only friends,” she said to Peter. “I wouldn’t want you to think that there was anything more to it than that.”
Peter smiled. “How disappointing! Susie and I have just been admiring your choice in men.” He looked at her mischievously.
“We were also hoping that this might mean you were spending less time fussing about ethical issues, and more time enjoying yourself.”
“I don’t seem to be terribly good at enjoying myself,” said Isabel. “But thanks for the advice.” She hesitated; yes, he was right—she should enjoy herself. And for that, well, there was Tomasso. She could think about him, and their planned trip away together; that moment of—what was it?—irresponsibility?
No, she would look upon it as a moment of perfectly rational decision.
