CHAPTER NINE

THE CHAUMER, a coffeehouse-cum-bistro described in a restaurant guide as a reassuring pinnacle of old-fashioned good taste, was at the west end of Queen Street, a lengthy thoroughfare lined on its southern side with well-behaved Georgian buildings. The architecture was typical of the Edinburgh New Town—regular and harmonious, the embodiment in stone of the ideal of order. Doors might be painted different colours, but were in their proportions and effect much the same as one another, being distinguished only by their furniture of brass handles and occasional Roman numerals. Through windows neatly divided by astragals, the rooms looked out over formal gardens to the long sweep of Heriot Row, one of the city’s most expensive addresses, and beyond that, on the other side of the Firth of Forth, to the hills of Fife, modest, attenuated blue in this northern light.

The Chaumer was owned by the business next door, a traditional outfitter. While The Chaumer served coffee and light meals, the shop next door sold Irish country boots, Scottish scarves and Harris Tweed jackets. Isabel’s friend, Vixy, who ran both shops with her business partner, Daniel, lived for wool in all its incarnations: for tweeds and tartans, for kilts and Fair Isle sweaters, and for eccentric shooting hose. She and Isabel shared a taste for muted shades—browns and russets and the natural dyes that produced them, and for the more obscure tartans associated with the minor Scottish clans. The daily running of the restaurant side of the business was handled by a young woman called Claire, whom Isabel knew slightly through Cat. Claire and Cat had been on a knife-skills course together at the Edinburgh New Town Cookery School—“It sounds like a martial art,” Cat had said. “But it’s actually about filleting fish and chopping up onions.” Claire was petite, in her late twenties, and came from Skye. She spoke softly, and there was in her voice a trace of an accent that was becoming increasingly rare—the West Highland lilt. Movements of people and the baneful effect of electronic communications had eroded that way of speaking, but it could still be heard now and then, like a faint signal in the ether, a reminder of a gentler time. Claire’s manner, too, Isabel found instantly appealing. Jamie would have described her as simpatica, a word that Isabel thought precisely right in this case. Claire was exactly that—simpatica.

That day, as Isabel came through The Chaumer’s door, Claire was in the kitchen at the back, unpacking a large cardboard box in which the weekly supply of coffee had been delivered. Claire looked up and waved. Leaving the chef, to whom she was talking, she came over to greet her friend.

“You should have told me you were coming,” she said reproachfully. “What if I’d been out?”

She invited Isabel to sit down. “Fortunately, we’ve got a free table. Are you going to have lunch—or just a coffee?”

“I’ll have lunch,” said Isabel. And then, “Could I persuade you to join me?”

Claire hesitated before accepting. “I should be in the kitchen.”

“Don’t feel under any pressure,” Isabel reassured her. “I have plenty to think about if I’m to lunch alone.”

“No,” said Claire. “I’m due a break, and I’d love to.” She signalled to the waiter, a young man with a thin moustache. He brought the menu across and left it on the table. As he went back into the kitchen, Claire leaned forward and whispered to Isabel, “That’s Freddie. He’s a student, but he manages ten hours a week here. He’s very reliable.”

“That’s good. Students can have difficulty with timekeeping.”

Claire rolled her eyes. “People can have difficulty with timekeeping.

“He’s rather sweet,” she went on. “I’m sure they could use him to model some of the clothes for our catalogue if he didn’t have that moustache.” She made a face. “It’s not convincing enough. It’s an…an attempted moustache.”

Isabel smiled. “He must have it for a reason.”

“I think he imagines it makes him more interesting,” said Claire. “Young men sometimes feel that people don’t find them interesting enough. They like the androgynous look these days. They’d like to be like us women—but with the possible addition of a moustache.”

The waiter returned with a bottle of water and they placed their order. Claire enquired after Jamie, and Isabel told her about the Wagner rehearsal in Glasgow. Then she mentioned the ensemble with whom Jamie was playing in Edinburgh. Claire listened for a few moments before interrupting. “Oh, he comes in here. Their conductor. Larry something-or-other. A tall man.”

“That’s him,” said Isabel. “Jamie just refers to him as Laurence. He doesn’t like being called Larry, apparently.” She paused. She was wondering whether to tell Claire why she was interested in Laurence. She decided not to: She had heard from Jamie that Laurence was having an affair, but he was the only source. Orchestras were gossipy places, and it was possible that Jamie was quite innocently relaying something that was simply untrue. She opted for an innocent question. “Do you know him?”

Claire shrugged. “A bit. He has lunch sometimes on Fridays. He’ll probably be in today.” She gave Isabel a conspiratorial glance. “He has friends, you see. Lady friends.”

Isabel raised an eyebrow. “In the plural?”

Claire nodded. “Yes. I’ve seen him with…oh, three or four different women.”

“They can’t all be girlfriends,” said Isabel. “Close girlfriends, I mean.”

“Lovers? You’d think not,” said Claire. “And yet, it does rather seem like it when you see them together. He sits over there, by the window. People always like the same table, you know. He sits there and you see some young woman staring into his eyes. Starstruck would be the word to describe it, I’d say.”

“Simply because he’s a conductor?”

Claire seemed to weigh her answer. “Perhaps. Maybe. Who knows what goes through people’s minds when it comes to being attracted to somebody? It’s a mystery to me.”

Isabel knew what she meant. Sometimes it was obvious what attracted one person to another. A face could launch a thousand ships…Even just one would be enough for most. “Looks?” she said. “Just that—nothing more complicated. Looks.”

Claire was not too sure. “Is it as simple as that? We’ve got this guy who comes in here—you should see him. Film-star handsome. Fabulous hair. And his eyes…See the sky out there? That colour. But he makes me shudder—inside, that is. I’m careful not to shudder when I’m talking to people I can’t stand.”

Isabel laughed. “You’re the model of tact, Claire.”

Claire inclined her head in mock acceptance of the compliment. “Thank you. But there’s something about this guy that I just can’t bear. I suppose it’s his attitude.”

“Is he pleased with himself? Is that it?”

Claire nodded vigorously. “That’s it. That’s just what it is. He’s not only pleased with himself; he’s delighted. Thrilled, even.” Her tone was slightly waspish.

After they had examined the menu and placed their order, the waiter returned a few minutes later with two bowls of soup. “Soup,” he announced, placing the bowls before them.

“Thank you, Freddie,” said Claire.

“Yup,” said Freddie as he left them.

Claire watched him retreat. “So sweet,” she mused. “But he seems to have so few words. He says ‘soup’ from time to time, as we’ve just heard, and I’ve heard him say ‘coffee’ and ‘olives,’ but not much else.” She thought for a moment. “Actually, he came in to work yesterday and said ‘Thursday’—completely unprovoked. I wasn’t too sure what to make of it. It was, indeed, Thursday, but was it a special Thursday? I have no idea. It might have been…”

“An adumbration,” Isabel suggested.

Claire frowned. “Possibly,” she said. And then, as an afterthought, “Whatever that means.”

“It’s a favourite word of mine,” said Isabel. “Not that I ever get the chance to use it. It’s so cumbersome—the sort of word one carries around just in case one will get the chance to dust it down and put it in a sentence.”

“I still don’t know what it means,” Claire complained.

“I only knew it because I went off to the dictionary to look it up. It’s not a word one learns at one’s mother’s knee.”

“No,” Claire agreed. “Like pejorative. I love that word. Using it is almost cathartic.”

“Like cathartic itself. Saying cathartic has a…well, a cathartic effect.”

“But adumbration?” asked Claire.

“It’s a vague statement about the implications of something or other. It could also be a prediction of a very general sort.”

“Such as ‘there’s going to be trouble’?”

“Exactly. That’s an adumbration.”

“So, Thursday might mean—things that are known to happen on Thursdays are going to happen today. Is that it?”

“Yes,” said Isabel. “But heaven knows what those things are.”

They both laughed. Isabel, though, was thinking about something she had read a short while ago. In a second-hand bookstore in the West Port, she had picked up a volume of psychoanalytical essays. The book, entitled The World of Emotions, was over forty years old, and had travelled. It had been published in New York, and it bore on the title page the name and address of a previous owner, a Dr. Lionel Katz MD, with an address in Brooklyn. Here and there in the text, Dr. Katz had made an annotation in pencil, sometimes with a reference to a journal article somewhere, sometimes with an exclamation mark, and occasionally with the name of what Isabel imagined was one of his patients. On impulse, she had bought the book and on returning home had immersed herself in it. She found herself thinking of Dr. Katz, and how it was that the book had found its way across the Atlantic to end up on a dusty lower shelf in a Scottish bookshop. And she wondered about Dr. Katz, whom she felt she would like, on the slender basis of his pencilled notes. She could almost see him, in his slightly dishevelled suit, with his horn-rimmed spectacles and bow tie, sitting in his office, with its inevitable couch, and his bookcases groaning under the weight of the psychoanalytical journals. Dr. Katz would be dead now, she decided, because she imagined that when he bought the book he was already in his fifties, if not even older. The World of Emotions had been published in 1977—a more innocent time, she thought, when people still believed that life would get steadily better. And it still might, she decided, if only we learned how to co-operate with one another.

One of the essays in the book was on smugness, and she had chosen to read this before she progressed to arrogance, pouting, bitterness, or pathological jealousy. Now she told Claire about how her comments had reminded her of what she had read, adding, “Smugness is very odd, you know.”

Claire looked puzzled. “Really? It’s just…what is it? Being really pleased with oneself.”

“It’s more than that,” said Isabel. “It entails having a certain attitude to the world. The smug are indifferent to what other people think of them. They don’t really care what you think because they’re indifferent to your approbation or disapproval. Everything about themselves is absolutely perfect and what you think about that state of affairs is neither here nor there.”

Claire tackled her soup. “We mustn’t let this get cold while we sit here talking about smugness.”

“But what’s particularly interesting,” Isabel continued, “is the different sort of reactions that smugness triggers in others. If you’re insecure, if you’re uncertain about your own worth, then seeing smugness can drive you up the wall.”

Claire lowered her gaze. Isabel did not notice.

“That’s what I read,” Isabel continued. “It gave examples of patients who became aroused to the point of violence when confronted with a smug person. Apparently, people who are a bit fragile themselves want nothing more than to slap the smug in the face—they really do. A smug face, apparently, is like a red rag to a bull to insecure people.”

Isabel suddenly became aware that Claire was staring at her. “But that’s me,” Claire said quietly. “That’s how I feel. I find myself wanting to punch our good-looking friend.” She looked embarrassed, and lowered her voice. “Not that I ever would.”

“No,” said Isabel. “I don’t see that happening.”

“But what you said suggests that I’m insecure,” said Claire. “Am I, do you think?”

Isabel caught her breath. She had offended her friend. She should have thought before she spoke. “Of course not,” she said quickly. “Those were extreme cases. What you describe is just normal irritation. It’s what we all feel.”

“No,” said Claire. “It’s not quite the same thing. He sends my blood pressure through the roof. He makes me livid. The mere sight of him does that.”

Isabel tried to make light of it. “Oh, I’m sure you’re exaggerating.”

Claire pursed her lips before replying. “I’m not. I should know how I feel.”

Isabel looked at her soup. She could say something about that. A comment about soup could defuse the situation.

“This soup is delicious,” she said. “I love…” She suddenly realised she did not know what was in the soup. It was tasty enough, but it could have been anything, and when she had glanced at the menu, it had simply said Soup of the Day. So she trailed off, rather lamely, “I love soup.”

Claire had finished hers, and now she looked at her watch. “I really should get back to the kitchen,” she said.

Isabel assured her that she would be happy to have coffee by herself, and Claire rose to leave the table. She was still offended, Isabel thought. Isabel had effectively accused her of being insecure, and she had not taken it well. Isabel thought about that, and might have devised some means of making up for her tactlessness, but now the door onto the street had opened and a tall man was making his way to a table near the window. There was a woman with him—a younger woman who was wearing a light green linen blouse and white skirt. She had a sweater tied loosely around her waist—a precaution, Isabel thought, against unexpected changes in temperature at this end of the summer.

To Isabel’s relief, the table the couple chose was within earshot.

“You get caught out in September, Laurence,” the young woman was saying. “It’s getting cooler in the evenings now—have you noticed?”

Laurence muttered something that Isabel did not hear. But she heard him call the young woman Annette. Or, thought Isabel, did he say “Athene?” No, she was sure it was Annette.

“It’s not a big menu,” Laurence now said. “Which is a good thing, in my view. A few things, well chosen, are better than a massive choice.”

“Always,” said Annette.

Then Laurence said, “Did you go to Glasgow?”

“Yes,” she replied. “I had to go over there to stand in for somebody—just for a couple of rehearsals. The person’s back now. She was having an operation. A cyst—a big one, apparently. A tennis ball, she said.”

“Oh,” said Laurence.

“Scottish Opera. The Meistersingers. Enjoyable enough.”

Laurence was examining the menu. “A couple of our people are playing in it. Our bassoonist, for one.”

Isabel had brought a book with her. Now she opened it, and stared at the page.

“Oh, him,” said Annette. “The dishy one.”

The printed page swam before Isabel’s eyes.

“Yes. Jamie.”

“He’s gorgeous,” said Annette. “I find it hard to keep my eyes off him. I saw him at the Queen’s Hall a few weeks ago. I was hoping to chat to him…”

“Do you have a preferred chat-up line?” asked Laurence.

“I thought I might say, ‘Do you play here often?’ Or maybe, ‘I’ve always loved the bassoon.’ Which is true, actually—I do love the bassoon.”

Laurence laughed. “The old lines are always the best.” Then he added reproachfully, “Flirt.”

“I think he noticed me,” said Annette.

“Of course he would,” said Laurence. “People like him have an eye for girls like you.”

“I’ll let that pass,” said Annette. She began to scrutinise the menu. “There’s a pie. Do you see there’s a pie? I think I’m going to have a pie—it’s ages since I had one.”

Annette now glanced across the table, directly at Isabel. For a moment their eyes met, before they both looked away again. It was an accidental meeting—the sort of thing that happens in a restaurant when people may briefly speculate about their fellow diners.

Isabel tried to concentrate on the book she had opened. It was André Comte-Sponville’s A Short Treatise on the Great Virtues. She had opened the book at the beginning of the chapter on prudence. A small speck of butter, detritus from the bread that had accompanied her soup, had landed on a page of the book to produce a tiny, oily stain, like a minor island on a map. Isabel tried to flick it off, but only made it worse and smudged it further. She looked up in annoyance, to see Annette whispering something to Laurence while she was, once again, looking at Isabel.

She returned to the virtues, struggling to concentrate, while at the same time listening to the conversation at the other table. I am an eavesdropper, she said to herself. I am a common eavesdropper. She closed the book and stood up. Going to the back of the room, she paid her bill. Claire came up to her to say goodbye.

“I was very tactless,” said Isabel. “I’m very sorry if I offended you.”

Claire looked at her in astonishment. “What are you talking about?” she asked.

“What I said about smugness and people who are offended by smug people.”

Claire laughed. “Oh, that? No, you’re absolutely right. I am insecure, I think, but I don’t really mind. We’re all a bit that way, aren’t we?”

Isabel’s relief showed. “Of course we are. I worry about all sorts of things.”

“It’s all to do with having an elder sister,” Claire went on. “Fiona attracted more attention than I did.” She paused. “But I really don’t mind. She and I get on very well now.”

“I’m glad.”

Isabel became aware that Freddie was watching them. “Thank you,” she said to him. “I enjoyed that soup.”

He nodded. “Squash.”

So that was what it was, thought Isabel. But there had been something else. Ham, perhaps?

Claire and Isabel exchanged glances before Isabel left, walking past Laurence’s table as she made her way to the door. The things at which we should not look have a particular magnetic field, but she managed to keep her eyes averted. She heard, though, very clearly, what was being said at the table.

“You have to commit, Laurence. You have to.”

He sighed—audibly—and then replied, “All right, all right, all right.”