but still…
Of course she knew exactly what it was that attracted Cat. It was the same thing that she had seen in Toby, her skiing wine-dealer boyfriend; that she had seen in the one who followed him—the one to whom Isabel had never been introduced but whom Isabel had spotted her with, arm in arm, walking along George Street one Saturday; and that she had seen in Christopher Dove—Dove of all people!—when she had had that brief flirtation with him. Cat was attracted by tall, well-built men; it was as simple as that.
It may have been simple, but Isabel thought that it was also incomprehensible. She understood that everyone had their preferred physical type, but she found it odd that this could be the sole factor in somebody’s choice. One may find the combination of dark hair and blue eyes, for example, a heart-stopping one, but would one want to spend time in the company of dark-haired, blue-eyed people who had nothing to say, or, if they had something to say, it was trite or even distasteful? She thought not. The problem was that the search for beauty was something that we were destined to conduct, in spite of ourselves; we wanted to be in the presence of beauty because somehow we felt it rubbed off on us, enriched our lives, made us more attractive. This was felt even by those who themselves were attractive; beauty sought beauty. Cat was tall and attractive, and clearly wanted tall and attractive men; that the men she found were empty vessels had not deterred her at all. But none of them had lasted, thought Isabel, which showed that the consolations of beauty were not long-lasting: there had to be something else.
Cat was talking to her, and had said something that Isabel had not caught. Now she repeated it.
“I don’t like to ask you,” said Cat. “But you said that you really enjoyed looking after the delicatessen. The last time that you did it, you…”
“Yes,” said Isabel. “I enjoyed it. And I don’t mind doing it again. You have only to ask.”
They were talking in Cat’s office at the back of the delicatessen, and now she sat back in her chair, relieved that Isabel was volunteering. She had wondered whether she dared leave Eddie in control, but had decided that she should not. It was not that he did not know enough to run the shop—he could handle any of the tasks involved in keeping the delicatessen going, but he lacked the confidence. She had seen it before, on occasions when she had left him in charge for a few hours: everything would be all right when she came back, but Eddie would be anxious, his relief at her return quite palpable.
Cat explained that a friend had invited her to join her for ten days in Sri Lanka. She could fly from Glasgow to Dubai, she said, and then from there to Colombo. Helen, her friend, had a boyfriend who knew somebody who had a villa. They had taken the villa for a couple of weeks and a party of them was filling it up.
“Are you going by yourself?” Isabel asked.
Cat looked at her sideways. “Yes. Just me.”
There was a brief silence. “I wasn’t prying,” said Isabel softly.
Cat hesitated. Then, “You can pry if you like. I don’t mind. He’s called Martin, but I’m afraid that he’s not the one. We’re still seeing each other, but I just don’t know.”
“If your heart’s not in it, then what’s the point?” said Isabel.
Cat shrugged. “You’re right. But then it’s not all that easy breaking things off. Particularly if the other person is still keen.”
“Which he is?”
“Which he is.”
Cat was looking at her in a bemused way, and Isabel wondered whether she was expected to say anything more. But what could she say about this Martin, this man she had never even met, and about whom she knew nothing? She could assume, of course, that he was tall and well built, but beyond that she could only speculate. Martin: the name gave nothing away. At length she said, “You probably don’t want to hurt him, do you?” It was a trite remark, but it led to her adding, “So don’t string him along. Tell him it’s over.”
It appeared to be what Cat had wanted. “I will. I’ll tell him before I go to Sri Lanka.”
Isabel winced. Her advice had been seized upon, and this made her uneasy. She knew her niece, and understood that if Cat came to regret her decision to end her relationship with Martin, then she would lay the blame at Isabel’s door, even if subtly.
“It must be your decision, of course,” said Isabel. “I wouldn’t want to interfere.”
Again Cat looked at her in bemusement; her niece shared Jamie’s view that she interfered too readily and far too frequently. But this time Isabel had told her what she wanted to hear—that the relationship with Martin should be brought to an end. The decision taken, she felt a strong sense of relief. She was free.
CAT LEFT for Sri Lanka on a Sunday morning, and Isabel took over on that Monday, arriving at the delicatessen shortly before Eddie. Grace had come to the house early, pleased to be placed in sole charge of Charlie for the entire day. She had already mapped out his week; a journey on the bus to her cousin in Dalkeith; an outing to the cafe at the Chambers Street museum; several trips to the Botanical Gardens—“He loves the squirrels,” she said. “And the hot houses too.” Isabel knew from a friend’s report that Grace pretended that Charlie was hers. This friend had been standing behind her in a cafe at the zoo and had complimented her on Charlie’s Macpherson tartan rompers. Grace had replied that she was part Macpherson, as if that were the explanation for Charlie’s attire. She had not said that Charlie was hers, but had certainly implied it, not knowing, of course, that it was a friend of Isabel’s who was addressing her. Isabel had been saddened by the story; she could so easily have been in Grace’s position, had Jamie not turned up; and had it been she who was taking somebody else’s child to the zoo, she might well have wanted others to think the child was hers. Who amongst us was above such longing, such pretence?
Eddie came in and hung up his green windbreaker on the back of the office door. He always wore the same thing, Isabel had noted: a pair of blue jeans, blue sneakers with white laces, and a curious long-sleeved white tee- shirt. She had never seen him in anything different, although he obviously had several pairs of jeans and several tee-shirts, as his clothes were always clean.
“Will she be there by now?” asked Eddie, looking at his watch.
“Yes,” said Isabel.
Eddie looked thoughtful. “Where is it?” he asked. “I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never really known. Is it somewhere…somewhere near Egypt?”
Isabel’s eyes widened in surprise. “No,” she said. “Not really. It’s near India. It’s the teardrop off India.”
