She was so engrossed in her work that she did not notice that midday had crept up on her, and then the grandfather clock in the hall struck and brought her back from the world of traditional recipes and exploitation, of out-of-control trolley cars and moral dilemmas, and back into the present world of lunch appointments. She had arranged to meet Stella Moncrieff in Glass and Thompson, the cafe at the top of Dundas Street that she liked to frequent. It was on the other side of town for both her and Stella—Princes Street being the divider, every bit as effective as a swift-flowing river, that split the city in two—but she liked that part of town, with its galleries and views of the Fife hills. There was a pure, northern light there, she thought, a light that brought with it a sense of being on the edge of something, on the edge of silences and the wide plains of the North Sea.
Stella was waiting for her when she arrived, sitting at the table in the window.
“I’ve already ordered,” she said. She looked anxious, as if she feared that lunch might run out.
Isabel glanced at the menu on the board above the counter and placed her order. Then she joined Stella. She thought: The wives suffer in a very particular way.
Stella smiled at her, but the smile was clearly an effort. “I don’t know this place. I don’t get out much these days…” She checked herself.
“I can imagine,” said Isabel quickly. She did not think that Stella wanted to sound self-pitying, and it was true: she did understand. Wives did not join the angry ranks of denouncers; they stood by their erring husbands, braving the photographers, although it was not hard to picture the scene behind the scenes, the rows and recriminations, the tears.
“Can you?” asked Stella. “Can you imagine it?”
“I think I can,” said Isabel. “I can imagine what it’s like, with people thinking that your husband—”
“Was responsible for somebody’s death,” Stella interjected. “Because that’s what they think.”
“Memory is short,” said Isabel. “Disgrace doesn’t always last very long. I know people in this city who have been disgraced over one thing or another. They thought it would last forever; it doesn’t. The press moves on to its next victim. Predators don’t hang around the old kill too long.”
Stella attended closely to what she said. As if my words are particularly wise, thought Isabel. And I am only uttering platitudes; the obvious.
“Have you managed to do anything?” asked Stella when Isabel finished speaking; it was as if she had rapidly weighed, and discarded, Isabel’s reassurances.
“A little,” said Isabel. “I had lunch with your husband’s assistant, Dr. Brown. Norrie.”
Stella’s eyes flickered, just briefly. “I haven’t seen him for some time,” she said. “He’s Marcus’s nephew. His mother was Marcus’s sister. Diana Moncrieff.”
“He told me that,” said Isabel.
Stella looked at Isabel expectantly. “And what else did he say?”
The waiter brought two plates over to the table—Isabel’s mozzarella and tomato salad and Stella’s quiche. He put them down in front of them and asked if everything was all right. Isabel nodded, and he left.
Isabel drizzled olive oil over the tomatoes. Little islands of pesto floated in the clear pools of the oil; she saw the slices of mozzarella, domed, as tiny snow-covered mountains behind these islands. When you look closely at the small details, she thought, the world is different, more complex.
She had decided that she would tell Stella exactly what she had learned from Norrie Brown. She had no alternative really, as she could hardly lie to her and even if it would be hard for her to hear that her husband had deliberately falsified results, it might be better, in the long run, for her to confront this uncomfortable fact. People learned things like that about their spouses, and then forgave them. In a way it was easier; such knowledge could remove the sense of injustice that would otherwise linger, eating away at one’s peace of mind. At least Stella would know the worst, could look it in the face, and then get on with life.
“This isn’t very easy for me,” Isabel began.
Stella put down her fork and stared across the table. Isabel noticed that there were small lines radiating out from the corners of Stella’s eyes, and that tiny fragments of makeup, flesh-coloured powder, had lodged in these little crevasses. The observation seemed to underline the humanity of the woman before her: we all put our best face to the world, comb our hair, tidy ourselves up; we all do that, because we want others to like us, to approve of how we look. And yet, at the heart of it was, in this case, a blot of shame, like a mark on the forehead: the wife of that doctor who killed that other man because he cut corners.
“What isn’t easy for you?” Stella asked. She looked at Isabel reproachfully. “Having lunch with me?”
“No. No. Not that. It’s what I have to say that isn’t particularly easy.”
For a few moments, Stella was silent. Then she said, “You found something out?”
Isabel looked down at her plate. The other woman would want to know the opposite of what she was about to tell her. “Yes, I’m sorry. I learned something from him.”
She related what Norrie had told her. Stella listened intently, with only slight signs of emotion—a reddening of her complexion, a movement of the mouth—when Isabel revealed the accusation of deliberate wrongdoing. Then, when Isabel had finished, they both sat quietly while Stella digested what had been said.
“So,” said Isabel. “So what he suggested is that we leave well enough alone. And he’s probably right, don’t you think? Leave well enough alone. Your husband has been sufficiently punished: he’s lost his job; it’s the end of his career. Surely nobody would want him to suffer more than he has already.”
The control which Stella had shown now evaporated. She leaned forward across the table; her face flushed again, more angrily. “And you believed him? You believed what Norrie told you? That nonsense? How can you be so naive?”
It took Isabel a moment to deal with the insult and to recover her composure. But by then Stella had recanted. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to say that. I’m sure that you’re not naive.” She paused; this was to be an apology, not a retraction. “But I still don’t think that you should have believed him.”
Isabel replied that she did not see any reason to disbelieve Norrie. People may lie when accused of wrongdoing, but the junior doctor had never been in the firing line. And what reason would he have to lie about a matter which
