other woman was looking at Jamie, and then at her, and was smiling. For a moment she wondered whether she knew what Isabel felt for him. Mimi had divined it; perhaps it was glaringly obvious.
She and Jamie had gone out together. It was half past ten and there was still enough light to see the details of the trees that clung to the side of the hills. And they could see, too, the sheep still grazing beside the dry-stane dyke that intersected the field at the bottom of the slope. There was a path that ran off the driveway beside the rhododendrons, which they had followed, Jamie leading, gravel underfoot, and twigs, too, pine nee-dles, cones.
She had shivered, not because it was cold—it was not, and she did not feel the need of a coat—but because she was with Jamie and she felt that she would have to speak to him now, before they went any further. He could hardly have forgotten about their room; had he thought about what might happen?
“Jamie.”
He was a few paces ahead of her on the path. Somewhere, not far away, there was a small burn descending from the hill above; there was the sound of water.
He turned round and smiled at her. “What an odd evening,”
he said.
She looked up at him. It was not all that odd; different, perhaps, from evenings they had spent together in Edinburgh, but not odd.
“Don’t you think that we should talk?” she said. Her voice had a catch in it, out of nervousness, and she thought: I sound petulant. A philosopher in the countryside, where talking was not always necessary.
2 0 2
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h He looked surprised. “We’ve been talking all night, haven’t we?” He paused, and his smile now was conspiratorial, as if he was about to confess a suppressed thought. “Or, should I say, Angie was. Did you hear her at your end of the table? That woman can talk. I hardly had to say anything.”
No, thought Isabel, not that. “I didn’t mean that. I meant that we should talk about what seems to be happening between us.”
He was standing very close to a branch of a pine tree that had grown across the path, almost obstructing it. Somebody else had snapped off part of it and the pieces lay at the side of the path. He suddenly reached up and broke off a twig. It was something for his hands to do, something to mask the awkwardness of the moment.
He hesitated for a while before replying. “I’m not sure that anything’s happening between us,” he said eventually. “Or nothing that wasn’t happening before.”
He seemed to be searching her face for a clue, and, watching him, Isabel felt a momentary impatience. He was not a sixteen-year-old boy. He was twenty-something. He had had affairs. He knew.
“Look,” she said. “Do you mind if I put it simply? Do you want to sleep with me? Do you?”
His eyes were downcast, looking at the path, at the litter of pine cones. Her words were hanging in the air, with the sharp scent of the pine cones and the sound of the burn somewhere near. I’ve shocked him, she thought; and she was secretly appalled.
He shrugged. “I . . .”
“You don’t have to.”
“No. I want to.”
“Yes?”
T H E R I G H T AT T I T U D E T O R A I N
2 0 3
“Yes. I said yes. Yes.”
They went back.
S H E T H O U G H T: How beautiful he is lying there. I have never seen anything as beautiful, never, than this young man, with his smooth skin and there, just visible, the shape of his ribs. I can place my hand there, against his chest, and feel the human heart beating.
He opened his eyes.
“You’re awake too.” She moved her hand upwards to rest against the side of his face. You are mine entirely, she thought; now, at this moment, you are mine entirely, but you will not be for long, Jamie, because I do not possess you. Oh my darling, darling Jamie, I wish I could possess you, but now, more than ever, I do not.
“Oh,” he said. That was all: “Oh.” And then, turning his head so that he looked into her eyes, he said, “I’m very sorry, Isabel.”
“Sorry?” She touched his cheek again. “Why say that? You don’t have to be sorry for anything.”
“I rather . . . rather rushed things. Maybe you didn’t want . . .”
She was surprised, and drew in her breath. Rushed?
He lifted his head and rested it against his hand, elbow-propped. “Have I upset you?” he asked.
“Of course not. Of course you haven’t upset me, Jamie.
Dear Jamie. No. Not at all.”
“Then . . .”
She could not help but feast upon the sight of him: such perfection, clean—like a boy—with no spare flesh.
2 0 4
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h Then she whispered, “Of course you didn’t. Don’t be
