The Careful Use of Compliments

I S A B E L L E F T the offices of Turcan Connell shortly before mid-day. Their building, a new one, was made of green and blue glass, like sheets of thinly sliced ice; looking up from the small square to its front, one could see through the upper storeys to the sky beyond. Around it, though, was the Edinburgh with which Isabel was more familiar—the stone tenement buildings, the predominant note of grey. She walked up Home Street, past T H E C A R E F U L U S E O F C O M P L I M E N T S

1 9 1

the vegetable shops, the watchmaker, the sellers of cheap orna-ments, the bars. She passed the King’s Theatre and Bennet’s Bar beside it, with its elaborate stained-glass windows, where singers and musicians would meet after rehearsals in the theatre, sitting on the long red benches, reflected in the large brew-ers’ mirrors.

Farther up the road, she suddenly felt hungry as she approached Cat’s delicatessen. She was in no hurry to get home; Charlie was off somewhere with Grace and they would not be returning until after lunch. There were things to be done in the house—correspondence and a long list of small chores—but she did not feel like doing anything yet. She felt awkward about going into the delicatessen now, with Cat in her current mood, but she knew that she had to persist: the ice would melt, as it always did.

Eddie was behind the counter and there was no sign of Cat.

He was slicing Parma ham for a customer and he nodded to Isabel. She picked up a copy of a newspaper from the table—

somebody had left that day’s Guardian, and she would read that at one of the coffee tables until Eddie could serve her. Eddie made good focaccia and olive plates and she would have one of those when he was ready.

She was absorbed in a Guardian article when she became aware of Cat’s presence. She lowered the paper and saw that her niece was smiling. The thaw, she thought.

Cat looked over her shoulder towards Eddie. A couple of customers were peering into the display case below the counter, pointing at cheeses. “It looks as if he’s going to be busy for a while,” said Cat. “I’ll look after you.”

“I was hoping for focaccia and olives,” said Isabel. “But there’s no hurry. There’s always The Guardian. ”

1 9 2

A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h Cat did not think it would be any trouble. “And how’s Charlie?” she asked.

It was the first time that she had shown any real interest in her cousin, although Isabel suspected that the interest, or curiosity at least, had always been there but had been repressed.

“Thriving,” she replied. “Sleeping. Eating. Doing all the things appropriate to being a baby.”

Cat smiled. “He’s very sweet,” she said. “He looks a bit like . . .” Isabel held her breath. “Like Jamie.”

That, Isabel thought, was extraordinary progress. Isabel herself not did not think that Charlie looked remotely like Jamie, but that did not matter now: the air, she thought, was filled with the sound of shifting logjams.

“Yes, well, perhaps he does. In some lights.”

Cat went off to prepare Isabel’s lunch, leaving her with The Guardian. She was reading an article on the Middle East and the prospects for peace, which were slim. What acres of newsprint, she thought, what lakes of ink, had been expended on that topic; and always it came back to the same thing, the sense of difference between people, the erection of barriers of religion, clothing, culture. And yet there were differences, and it was naive to imagine that people were all the same—they weren’t. And everybody needed space, physical space, to live their lives amongst those with whom they shared an outlook and values; which led to the depressing conclusion that the recipe for social peace was keeping people separate from one another, each in his own territory, each in the safety of fellows. She was not sure if she could accept that—and The Guardian certainly did not. The problem was that we could no longer have our own cultural spaces: everybody was now too mixed up for that and we had to share.

She was wrestling with these issues when Eddie came T H E C A R E F U L U S E O F C O M P L I M E N T S

1 9 3

across to her, bearing the plate of focaccia and olives which Cat had prepared.

“She seems to be in a good mood today,” said Isabel, nodding in the direction of Cat, who was now dealing with a customer at the counter.

Eddie’s lip curled in mock disdain. “Guess why,” he said.

“Have three guesses. Or shall I just tell you? She’s found a new man.”

Isabel had a feeling that she and Eddie had had this conversation before; and they had, she decided, some time ago, when the man was . . . she could not remember.

“Yes,” said Eddie. “He came in here not long ago. And he’s coming up to see her again this weekend. That’s why she’s all smiles.”

It had not occurred to Isabel, for reasons of denial, perhaps.

Or because she had thought of him as a flash in the pan—

somebody temporary. Now the thought of it appalled her. She looked up at Eddie, who was grinning knowingly. “A tall man,”

she said. “A tall man with blond hair slicked back like this.” She made the gesture.

“Yes,” said Eddie. “But they all look like that, don’t they?

All of her men are the same. Except for . . .” He looked embarrassed.

Isabel stared down at her plate. Christopher Dove. She had imagined that the dalliance between him and Cat had been limited to the evening in Edinburgh; she had not contemplated that anything further would come of it.