The Lost Art of Gratitude

anxious dreams: revisions, proofs, deadline, words that revealed the tenor of at least part of her subconscious. He thought of the Review as some sort of presence in the house, rather like a demanding domestic pet that required to be fed and exercised and was always causing difficult dilemmas. By contrast, Jamie’s working life seemed to him to be so simple: he taught his pupils, he played the music put in front of him by the conductor, and when he put his bassoon back in its case then he could put it out of his mind.

“You worry too much,” he said. “There’s always something, isn’t there?”

She picked up a small piece of quiche and handed it to Charlie, who examined it, cross-eyed; he was looking for olives. “Maybe. But then it’s the sort of job that never seems to finish. You get one issue off to press and then there’s the next one to think about—and the one after that. It’s a bit like Sisyphus and his rock—pushing it up to the top of the hill and then having to do the whole thing all over again once it’s rolled down.”

Jamie shrugged. “Yes, I can see that.” He thought for a moment. It seemed to him that just about everyone’s job was a bit like that; repetitious. He glanced at Russell Glass, the proprietor of the cafe, serving customers at the counter. It was the same for him; he served one mozzarella salad, somebody ate it, and then he had to come up with another one. Or if you were a judge, for instance: you decided one case, disposed of it, and there was another one in front of you.

“We’re all Sisyphus,” he said. “Don’t you think? So isn’t the answer not to allow our jobs to prey on our minds too much? Sisyphus doesn’t have to think too much about what he’s doing—he just has to do it.”

Isabel laughed. “You’re suggesting that Sisyphus could be happy?”

“Well, he could be, couldn’t he? There are plenty of people who have repetitive jobs who are perfectly happy.” He came to this view without thinking; he would have to justify it. “They’re happy about other things. Yes, that’s possible, isn’t it? Horrible job, but other things to think about.”

Isabel thought this was probably true, but she wanted to tell him about Dove. “Christopher Dove,” she announced.

“Ah.”

“Yes. He wrote me a letter. A bombshell.”

Jamie looked alarmed. “What did he …”

He did not finish his question. He noticed that Isabel had suddenly turned sharply to look towards the cafe’s front door. He followed the direction of her gaze.

“It’s her,” whispered Isabel. “See?”

Jamie looked. “Her over there?”

Isabel did not reply.

“Olive,” Charlie said suddenly, clearly, decisively. “Olive.”

CHAPTER THREE

MINTY AUCHTERLONIE.”

It was said with as much intensity as if Sisyphus himself had walked into the cafe. Jamie was momentarily distracted by Charlie’s further pronouncements on olives, but then he looked again towards the door and saw the figure of a woman outlined against the light flooding through the cafe’s front windows. She was carrying a child and was looking around for a table.

“Her?”

“Yes,” whispered Isabel. “I’m sure it’s her.” She lowered her voice even further; the woman, having failed to find an unoccupied table near the window, was making her way towards their part of the cafe. Jamie watched her; Isabel looked away. He saw that the child she was carrying, a boy, was roughly Charlie’s age, perhaps a little older, and was wearing a simple tee-shirt with a polar bear on the front and a pair of corduroy trousers. The woman said something to the child, who was looking about him with curiosity.

Isabel raised her eyes at the same moment as Minty looked down. For a moment, neither moved or said anything. Then Minty smiled. “Isabel Dalhousie?”

Isabel felt a fleeting urge to pretend that she had not recognised Minty, as one occasionally does when one wants to avoid engaging with a vague acquaintance—when one is too tired for small talk, or in a hurry, or when one has forgotten a name. But this was not such an occasion, and she said, “Minty. Of course.” She saw Minty’s eyes slide to Jamie—appraisingly—and to Charlie.

“This is Roderick,” said Minty. “And you’ve got …”

“Charlie,” said Isabel. “And Jamie.” It was an unfortunate juxtaposition; she should have said, “And this is Jamie.” Yet they were both hers, although in a different sense, of course.

Minty smiled at Jamie and then turned back to Isabel. She looked around her and saw that the remaining tables had all, rather suddenly, been taken. “You wouldn’t mind, would you?” she asked.

Isabel could not refuse. She did mind, of course, as she had planned to tell Jamie about Dove’s letter and she wanted to talk to Charlie about olives. Such promising lines of conversation would now be impossible with Minty and Roderick there. “Please join us,” she said, “I’d be delighted.” And she thought, as she spoke, of how often what we say is the exact opposite of what we really mean.

Minty had a portable infant’s seat, which she fixed to a spare chair before strapping Roderick in. “Could you watch him for a second while I order?”

As Minty went up to the counter to place her order, Isabel whispered to Jamie, “Remember her?”

He glanced in her direction. Minty was elegantly dressed and was being attended to by the young server.

“She was that woman who told you about that man? Quite a long time ago?”

“Yes,” said Isabel. “I thought that she was the one who was doing the insider trading, but it was really …”