it. But I’d be happy living in other places, I suspect. New York. Charlottes-ville, Virginia. To name just two. I’m sure I’d be happy there.”
Her reply had the desired effect. “You might have thought that I was implying it was an odd decision to live in Edinburgh,”
he said. “Anything but. I’d love to live somewhere like that.”
“Well, let me ask you, then, are you happy living in Dallas?
Or even, why do you live in Dallas?”
His reply came quickly. “Because I’m from there, which is the reason most people live where they live, isn’t it? Isn’t that so all over the world?”
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A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h
“It probably is. Most people don’t choose to be where they are. They’re just there.” She paused. “But what about my other question? Are you happy there?”
This time his answer was slower in coming. He stared down into his glass, and Isabel knew that she should not have asked him.
“I’m sure you are,” she said, before he could answer. “And I can understand why. It’s comfortable. It’s safe. There are things to keep you busy. Your friends are there.” She knew, though, that true as those factors might have been, they were outranked by something else. And that, she thought, is not the usual thing—
an unhappy marriage; it was that less common phenomenon—
an unhappy engagement.
They talked about other things. He asked her about Scotland, and she realised that he had read widely on Scottish history, more widely, perhaps, than she had. One could not do everything, she thought defensively; it was difficult enough keeping up with what was being written in her branch of philosophy, let alone in other areas.
She looked over to the other side of the room, where Joe and Mimi were standing with Angie and Jamie. Mimi was saying something to Angie, and Joe, she saw, was staring at the picture above the fireplace. He did not look bored—he was too polite for that—but Isabel could not help smiling at Joe’s expression. He looked as he did when he wanted to be elsewhere: slightly bemused. And he would have stood through many pre-dinner conversations with Dallas women, thought Isabel, and he would have been scrupulously courteous through all of them.
Angie, she saw, was studying her glass as Mimi spoke and T H E R I G H T AT T I T U D E T O R A I N
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then, just briefly, she looked at Jamie, sideways—away from Mimi, but Isabel noticed.
“So,” said Tom. “What do you think about that? I’d be interested to hear your views, since you live here.”
Isabel had not heard the question. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was away with the fairies.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m sorry. That’s a Scottish expression. It means that my thoughts were elsewhere. People used to talk a lot about the fairies in Scotland, especially in the Highlands. You probably wondered what I was going on about.”
She saw his mouth shift, almost painfully, but she realised, from his eyes that he was smiling. “One would be careful about that expression back home,” he said. “It might be misunder-stood.”
“Of course,” said Isabel. “Two countries separated by the same language.”
They lapsed into silence. Isabel was aware that he was staring at her, as if studying her, and she looked away in her embarrassment. Mimi had turned to Joe and he was saying something to her; Angie was now facing Jamie and was looking up at him.
There was no mistaking her interest, Isabel decided; the body language was too obvious. She felt a pang of jealousy, primitive and acute, but then she thought: That is how any woman would be in the presence of Jamie. It could be expected from anybody, but certainly from somebody like Angie, who was obviously interested in men. She was a woman who would appreciate male beauty—of course she would—and she would not have met anybody like Jamie before, with his gentleness, that special Scottish gentleness. Texan men were not usually like that. But, 1 9 6
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h but . . . she imagined herself facing Angie and saying,
Angie suddenly looked at her watch and announced, so that all might hear, that dinner would spoil if they did not go through.
Tom put down his glass. He nodded to Isabel and crossed the room to whisper something to Angie. Isabel watched Angie’s expression. It changed, and then changed again as she listened to Tom. And what human emotions, she wondered, were written there? Boredom. Duty. Frustration. She paused. And resentment? Yes. Resentment that the wrong man was at her side.
For a moment Isabel felt sympathy for Angie. There were so many women—and, one might assume, men—for whom that could be said. So many of us had the wrong person at our side, and lived a life of regret at the fact. Loyalty kept people together—loyalty, and money, and sheer emotional inertia. But then, these were relationships which started with optimism and love and conviction that they were right. This, by contrast, was one which was starting, Isabel thought, through calculated greed and social ambition. And that, she felt, was undeserving of a great deal of sympathy. Angie should get out of it now. She should be honest with herself, admit her motives, and then say goodbye to Tom and to her ill-placed ambitions. But she has no intention of doing that, thought Isabel. She has something very different in mind.
A F T E R D I N N E R they returned to the drawing room. Somebody had put more wood on the fire—the housekeeper, perhaps—
and the flames were high, throwing dancing light on the dark Belouchi rug in front of the hearth. Coffee cups, small bone-T H E R I G H T AT T I T U D E T O R A I N
