The Charming Quirks of Others

“But we agreed to get married. Remember?”

She asked him how she could forget.

“Then why the surprise?”

She did not want him to feel that she had become lukewarm. Of course she wanted to marry Jamie; of course she wanted to be with him for the rest of her life. Of course she did.

She squeezed his hand. “Fine,” she said. “It’s fine. I’m just so happy that it’s going to happen. I wanted to know that you were absolutely sure, and now I do. I’m ready. Marry me. Go ahead, marry me.”

He laughed. “Marriage is not something you do to somebody.”

“With, then. You do it together. You do it with them.”

“Exactly.”

They were now halfway up Lothian Road. They had passed the Usher Hall and were walking past a line of dubious bars and cheap restaurants. Two bouncers stood on duty at the entrance to one of the bars; black-clad figures with wires disappearing into tiny receivers in their ears.

“Mesomorphs,” whispered Isabel.

“What?”

“Those types—the bouncers. Mesomorphs. There are ectomorphs, mesomorphs, and endomorphs. Ectomorphs are thin, lanky people; mesomorphs are large-boned and muscular; and endomorphs are rounder, chubbier, I suppose. Those men back there are mesomorphs.”

“What am I?” asked Jamie.

Isabel looked at him, as if seeing him for the first time. “Ecto-mesomorph,” she said. “Which is just perfect.”

She thought for a moment. “Professor Lettuce—remember him? A large endomorph. Flabby.”

The thought of Lettuce reminded her of his review of Christopher Dove’s new book. She had not put him off; she had not written to tell him that she would not have room to publish it, and now she was more or less barred by inaction. And that, she thought, was how people became trapped; they let things slip, they put things off, and then the landscape around them changed and they found themselves in a cul-de-sac from which there was no easy escape; and the cul-de-sac could so easily become a redoubt. They … Not they, she corrected herself; we do that, which includes me. The thought depressed her. Life was complicated enough without Lettuce adding to its difficulties.

“But let’s not talk about him,” she said.

“I wasn’t,” said Jamie.

They continued their walk in silence. Then Isabel said, “Our honeymoon.”

“Yes?”

“Do you want one?”

He nodded vigorously. “Of course.”

“So where shall we go? Somewhere exotic? Bhutan? Kerala?”

“Would you mind very much if we had it in Scotland?”

She was surprised, but said that she did not mind; Scotland would be fine.

“It’s just that I love the islands,” said Jamie. “We’ve been to Jura, so we need to go somewhere different. We could go to the Outer Hebrides. Harris. South Uist. Somewhere like that.”

“Perfect,” said Isabel.

Jamie reeled off a litany of island names. “Coll, Tiree, Rhum, Colonsay. They’re full of poetry, aren’t they?”

She thought of Michael Longley, and of his poem to the blues singer Bessie Smith. The lines were haunting, and came back to her whenever she heard somebody mention the Hebrides: I think of Tra-na-Rossan, Inisheer / Of Harris drenched by horizontal rain. She was not sure where Tra-na-Rossan and Inisheer were; Ireland, she assumed. And they had enough rain of their own there, not to be drawing attention to the rain that fell on Scotland. But yes, the poet was right: Harris and the other islands were often drenched by rain, even if not always horizontal. It was more a drifting rain, she thought, a curtain, a veil that came in from the Atlantic, white and smoky as an attenuated cloud.

“Yes. And the Treshnish Islands,” said Isabel. “I’ve always loved the sound of the Treshnish Islands.”

“Uninhabited,” said Jamie.

“Therefore ideal for a honeymoon.”

“I’d like to take you on a slow boat somewhere,” said Jamie.

She smiled. “Would you?”

“Yes. Isn’t that what everybody wants to do with the person they really love?”

She opened her mouth to reply, but said nothing. He had uttered a declaration of love that was indirect, but was all the more powerful for that. She did not want to spoil the moment. It was perfect. This young man, this perfect man, had said that she was the one that he really loved. She closed her eyes for a moment, and saw herself in a cabin on what must be, she assumed, a slow boat to China. It was hot, and they were half unclothed, wearing only underwear, for the heat. Through the porthole there was an oily sea stretching out to a hazy horizon, a languid swell. She looked into his eyes; she held his hand; he leaned forward and kissed her. She felt his lips, the warmth of his breath.