The Charming Quirks of Others

He nodded.

She looked at him, taking in the details: the lines around the eyes, the strong chin, the slight fraying of what must be a favourite, over-used shirt. He was an imposing-looking man, and she could imagine him encouraging the rugby team on the touchline; there was a certain unabashed masculinity, a simplicity of spirit, that one found in people who spent their lives in boys’ schools. But that apparent simplicity, she thought, was probably misleading. His charm, she suddenly decided, was dangerous.

“And are you looking forward to the change?”

“I shall be doing much the same thing, I imagine. But in a rather different place.” He smiled at her. “I like Singapore. It’s very well-ordered. We’re becoming so slipshod and chaotic here; they aren’t.”

She agreed that there was something to be said for social order. “Who amongst us likes nastiness, brutality and shortness?” she said.

“Indeed.” He paused for a moment, breaking a small bread roll that had been placed on his side plate. “They’re very well-mannered in Singapore, you know. Courteous. You never see public drunkenness or fighting.”

They were, she said, but she wondered whether the atmosphere could become a bit … Order could be taken too far perhaps … She did not finish what she was saying. “My wife thinks that,” he said, looking down the table. “She’s not too keen to go, I’m afraid. But I’ve persuaded her to give it a try. We’re prepared to run separate establishments for a few years if push comes to shove. She could stay back here.”

“People do that,” said Isabel.

“It must be said that she’s not keen, though,” he said. “I feel a bit bad about it.”

He looked down the table again. Following his gaze, Isabel glanced at the thin, rather bony-looking woman who was sitting several places away from her. The woman looked up and, as their eyes met, Isabel saw something unsettling: jealousy. For a few moments she was uncertain what to make of it. What woman would resent her husband sitting next to another woman at a dinner? Only one who felt insecure in the man’s affections. A possessive wife, Isabel thought. But then she stopped. I know nothing about her, she said to herself. All that I know is that she does not want to leave Scotland; that she wants to stay where she is. But then she realised: with that small bit of information, I know everything.

She looked down the table again. Christine Slade was staring into the bowl of soup that had been placed in front of her by the same young man who had served drinks before dinner, the shepherd. She looked miserable, and Isabel felt a sudden surge of sympathy for her. How many wives were there, she wondered, whose lives were ruined by the career ambitions of their husbands? Who lived in their shadows and never complained? Who endured the loss of friends and family because they were obliged to move from pillar to post? And might one say the same thing about husbands in a similar position, who sacrificed themselves to their wives’ careers? One might, except for one major difference: one did not have to say it very often because there were so few of them.

She turned to Harold. “Perhaps you should think of staying in Scotland if your wife is so unhappy about moving.”

He looked at her in surprise. “But she’ll get used to it,” he said. “I’m not worried about her.” And then he added, “People adjust, you know. They get used to anything.”

Isabel mulled over his words. I’m not worried about her. No, she thought, you aren’t; you take her for granted. And then she thought: This is a ladies’ man, used to the affection and interest of women.

She looked across the table. Jillian, who was seated directly opposite, was staring at Harold. Isabel saw the other woman’s lips move, mouthing a word. She snatched a glance at Harold; he had intercepted the unspoken word and was smiling back at Jillian. Isabel felt uncomfortable, as an unwitting stranger must feel on stumbling upon something, some intimate exchange between friends.

After dinner they drank coffee in the drawing room, and Isabel was able to make her way over to where she saw Christine Slade standing. She reached her just as she was about to strike up a conversation with a man who was paying close attention to a painting on the wall. Isabel introduced herself. “I enjoyed your husband’s company at dinner,” she said. “He was telling me about Singapore.”

The woman smiled, but her smile seemed weary. Her eyes moved over Isabel without interest. “Yes,” she said. “Singapore.”

Isabel sipped at her coffee. It was cold. “These international schools must be fascinating,” she said. “All those different nationalities.”

“This one is very British. Cricket. Prefects. All that.”

Christine’s tone bordered on the dismissive: there were ways of pronouncing cricket that indicated disapproval.

Isabel smiled. “Such an odd game. Moments of great excitement and then hours in which nothing happens. Like life, perhaps.”

Christine looked at her vaguely, as if conscious of the fact that something witty had been said, but not quite sure what it was. “Maybe.”

Isabel searched for something to say. “Will you live in a house or a flat?” Even as she asked the question, its dullness struck her. What earthly interest did she have in knowing whether these people, whom she had just met, would live in a house or a flat? Most people in Singapore lived in flats, she imagined, although some would live in houses. But what did it matter?

The question, though, seemed to spark some interest. “A house. There’s one that goes with the job. A house with a maid.”

“Ah.” Isabel racked her brains for something else to say. What would the maid be like? Would there be a drive to the house; somewhere to park the car? Would there be a car?

“It gets very hot,” said Christine suddenly. “It’s more or less the same temperature most of the year, but that’s quite hot.”

Isabel nodded. It was hot in Singapore. Yes, she had heard that.

“You’re not keen to go?” It was a direct question, but she wanted to get the conversation past its abysmal small-talk stage.