The Charming Quirks of Others

Eddie was good with Charlie, and Charlie seemed fascinated with the young man, who lifted him high in the air and then pretended to drop him, to squeals of excitement. While this was going on, Cat made coffee for herself and Isabel and carried the cups across to one of the tables.

They talked briefly about the delicatessen. The mozzarella cheese was late, Cat complained; she was thinking of changing their supplier. And the Parmesan too, although that was never delayed for more than a few days. Isabel listened politely; she wanted to hear about Gordon. Had he heard anything further about the job? she wanted to ask, but it was difficult with Cat going on about mozzarella and Parmesan.

Cat paused, and Isabel seized her chance. “I like him a lot, you know.”

“Who?”

“Your new boyfriend, Gordon.”

Cat was cagey. “So do I.”

“But of course you do,” said Isabel quickly. “One would not dislike a boyfriend, surely.” As she spoke, she thought of Bruno, the stunt man with elevator shoes. Had Cat actually liked him, or had Bruno been more of a perverse fashion statement? A boyfriend or girlfriend could easily be thought of in those terms, she realised. Or Cat might be making another point altogether, showing that she was her own person; sometimes people needed to find somebody the diametrical opposite of their parents just to make a point about independence. That happened often. A boy with dreadlocks, or a hard rock musician, a member—in good standing —of a biker gang, perhaps; a girl with multiple piercings in the nose and tongue; how easy with such a choice to remind parents that one’s tastes, one’s attitude and one’s voting intentions were not to be taken for granted.

Cat tensed. “Of course not.” She hesitated, but then, relaxing, said, “Gordon is very popular.”

Isabel said that she was pleased to hear that. There was always some reason for popularity.

“Oh yes?”

“Yes,” said Isabel. “Have you ever met somebody who’s popular but unpleasant?”

Cat thought about this. “No, not really.”

“Well, there you are.” She took a sip of her coffee. “So he has no faults—as far as you know?”

Cat shrugged. “Everybody has faults.”

“So they do,” said Isabel. “We all have our quirks.”

Cat looked at her with interest. “And yours are? Your faults, I mean: What are they?”

“We don’t always see our own faults with crystal clarity,” said Isabel. “But since you put me on the spot, I suppose I would have to say that I tend to over-complicate matters—it’s my training. And I can be nosy—so Jamie tells me.” She noticed that Cat was nodding in agreement, and felt slightly irritated. What she wanted was for Cat to say, ‘You over-complicate things? You nosy? Surely not.’ ”

Isabel was about to ask Cat about her own faults, but Cat suddenly said, “He’s too generous with his time. That’s one of his faults. It can be misinterpreted.”

Isabel was careful not to appear too interested in this. “A nice fault to have,” she said. “And it’s better, surely, than being grudging with one’s time.”

“He’ll listen to anybody,” said Cat. “He lets them go on about things, and then they think that he’s more interested in them than he really is.”

Isabel said that she saw how this could be awkward: expectations could be raised, hopes dashed. While she said this, her heart sank. Gordon was not going to prove to be the flawless candidate she had hoped. Affairs: that was what Cat was alluding to.

“Tell me,” she said. “Was he … with somebody before you met him?”

Cat took the spoon from her saucer and retrieved a residue of milky foam from the bottom of her cup. “There was somebody.” She paused, as if uncertain whether to go on. “Not that it amounted to anything on his side. One of these one-sided things.”

Isabel looked out of the window. A one-sided thing. She saw a man waiting at the bus stop on the other side of the road; a young woman passed by and his head turned. She thought he said something; the woman stopped, half turned, and then walked on. A one-sided thing.

“You mean somebody fell for him, but not the other way round?”

Cat nodded.

“Well, that can be difficult,” said Isabel. “Yes, I see that. But all that needs to be done, presumably, is to indicate that it’s not on.”

“She was rather unstable,” said Cat. “And married.”

“Oh.”

“It’s not a big thing,” said Cat. “Women get infatuated. Remember what’s-her-name? Madame …”

“Bovary.” Isabel sighed. “Married. And there was a betrayed husband, I suppose.”

Cat’s answer was spirited. “It wasn’t his idea. I’ve been trying to tell you that. It was her.”

“How far did it go?” asked Isabel. The question seemed prurient and she was not sure whether she wanted to know; but it was too late now. Cat looked at her angrily. “It didn’t go anywhere. I told you that.”

Perhaps it was not as bad as Isabel had feared. “Well, so no harm was done.” She wanted to change the subject because she did not want Cat to begin to ask why she was so interested. She looked over to the other side of the room, where Eddie was feeding Charlie small pieces of black olive. “He must be the only child in Scotland who likes olives,” she said.

Cat rose from the table. “I must get on with things.”