The Comforts of a Muddy Saturday

would have simply got on with things; found something else. He would not have tortured himself over the death of the man in Glasgow.

She returned to Richard’s letter. He moved on from psychopaths and began to tell her about a dinner he had been to in Newmarket:

I drove over there in the Bristol. That’s the one you loved— remember it? It was the annual dinner of the Newmarket Society for the Apprehension of Felons and the Prevention of Crime. Yes, that’s what it really is called. It was founded in the nineteenth century and has just continued, although it doesn’t do anything about apprehending felons or preventing crime anymore. A lot of these societies forget about their original purpose, but still enjoy an annual dinner. Anyway, there I was with this group of lawyers and local businessmen and so on, and one of the committee members got up to say grace, as he always does each year: a mushroom compost manufacturer. He’s on the committee. And the grace he says is this: “They’re under starter’s orders…and they’re off.” And then he sits down. That’s what I like about this country, Isabel. It’s so utterly eccentric, so unpredictable.

Isabel looked at her watch. She had a feeling that Jamie and Charlie would be out for some time yet. Jamie sometimes walked down to his flat with Charlie to check up on mail; he might do that today. And once he was down there in Stockbridge, he often dropped into the Patisserie Florentin for breakfast and conversation with whoever might be there. Other fathers went there, he said, and talked while their children played about their feet. New men, of course, and to be encouraged.

She dressed, scribbled a note for Jamie should he come back early, and left for Bruntsfield. Cat had been back for a full week now, and although she had intended to drop in to see her, Isabel had not done so. Part of her hankered after the bustle of the delicatessen and would have traded her editor’s chair for the busy cheese counter. But another part knew that she was a philosopher at heart; that this is what she did, what she was most fulfilled doing. Perhaps the two could somehow be combined. There were philosophers’ cafes, of course, where people met and discussed philosophical issues. Isabel’s friend in Vancouver told her they were popular there and suggested that she set up one in Edinburgh. Perhaps a philosophers’ delicatessen, especially if Cat lost interest in the business and went off to Sri Lanka: Cheese and Philosophy, a place where people might come in, sample and buy cheese, and then join a discussion group. Eddie could assist, but would have to be taught the rudiments of philosophy first; just enough to prevent his letting slip that he thought Aristotle was a cheese. It could work, she thought, but it would have to join the list of things she would like to do one day, if she had time. And there never would be time now. Now there was Charlie, and Jamie, and the Review, for which she alone was responsible. As Charlie grew up there would be all his interests to take into account: his friends, his dance class…She stopped herself. Would Charlie dance? Why had she thought he would? She must be careful. Charlie was a boy—an entirely different creature from herself. She must open herself to the things that Charlie might be interested in as a boy: football, for example. And football left Isabel cold; she simply could not understand where the appeal lay in vying for the possession of a leather ball and kicking it. Did men need to kick things? She would ask Jamie. She had never seen him kicking anything, but perhaps he felt—in some deep, entirely masculine part of himself—the urge to kick something.

When she arrived at the delicatessen there were only two customers, one at the counter, being served by Eddie, the other seated at one of the coffee tables, a newspaper open in front of him and a steaming cappuccino beside it. Isabel nodded to Eddie, who smiled at her and made a sipping motion with a hand. Would she like coffee? She nodded and made her way across the shop towards the half-open door of Cat’s office.

Cat was at her desk, carefully removing the sticking tape from round the top of a tin of sugared almonds. She glanced up when Isabel appeared.

“These have passed their sell-by date,” she said. “But I’m sure that they’re fine. I’m just checking.”

Isabel said nothing. She did not approve, but said nothing.

“Eddie is going to make me a cappuccino,” she said. “Will you join me?”

Cat struggled with the tape, which kept sticking to her fingers. “What’s it like out there?” she asked.

“Not very busy,” said Isabel. “Rather quiet, in fact. We were pretty busy last Saturday.”

“Eddie told me,” said Cat. “And thank you. I gather you were both worked pretty hard.”

Isabel was about to say something, but did not. She had been about to say, “And all for no pay!” But she thought, correctly, it would not help. She did not need the money, which is what Cat would think. So she said nothing.

Cat joined her at the table a few minutes later as Eddie brought them both their coffee. Eddie smiled at Isabel again.

“How’s…” Isabel wanted to ask after Eddie’s girlfriend, but found that she could not remember her name. In fact, she thought that Eddie had never told her, and she could hardly say, How’s that girl in black? or How’s that girl with the piercings?

“Virginia?” volunteered Eddie.

It seemed an inappropriate name to Isabel, but she nodded.

“History,” said Eddie. And smiled.

Both Isabel and Cat were taken aback. Cat glanced at Isabel, an eyebrow raised. “It’s over?” she asked.

“Yup,” said Eddie. “She’s history.”

“You don’t seem too upset,” Isabel ventured.

“Cried my eyes out,” Eddie replied. “For an hour maybe. Not anymore.”

He left them. Cat smiled. “It’s different,” she whispered. “It’s just different.”

“He seems pleased,” said Isabel.

“Of course he’ll be pleased,” Cat snapped. “They’re not into commitment, his age group.”

Isabel sipped at her cappuccino. Cat was hardly one to talk about commitment, she thought, with her record.

“Have you started to look for your new manager yet?” she asked.

Cat looked out of the window. “No. In fact, I don’t think I will.”

Isabel hesitated.

“There’s a change of plan,” said Cat. “I’ve decided not to go out to Sri Lanka.”