CHAPTER FOUR
HER DAY did not work out quite as she had hoped. She took Charlie to nursery, as planned, telling him that it would be Grace who would pick him up. The announcement of the play date at Basil’s house had been greeted with excitement. Basil, he said, had a train set, and they would make a railway station and play Train to Glasgow, a game inspired by a song Jamie had taught him. In this song, a “fortunate boy” named Donald McBrayne was given a ride on the train to Glasgow, a great adventure for him.
Returning to the house, Isabel spent time with Magnus. He was crawling now, and the mobility had seemed to go to his head as he set off in whatever direction his nose was pointing in, determined to escape to the far-flung regions of any room he found himself in. A playpen would have contained him, and made him easier to supervise, but Jamie had been against it. He had read something that persuaded him that playpens were stifling, and that children reared without them were more creative. Isabel was sceptical; those who criticised playpens were probably not mothers at the end of their tether, struggling to look after two or three young children while wrestling with the burden of housework. There were plenty of people prepared to give advice, but how many of them had actually done what they were advising others to do?
Jamie had volunteered to look after Magnus that day, and with Grace taking Charlie to Basil’s house after nursery, that meant Isabel would be able to get in a more or less full day of work. She was looking forward to clearing the backlog that had built up on her desk; she would do that in the morning, she decided, and then spend the afternoon getting the review of The Virtues of Our Vices out of the way. By the time Charlie returned from his play session with Basil, she would be able to give him her uninterrupted attention. Motherhood, she felt, ought to come first in the order of the moral claims on her. This was followed, in sequence, by her duty to Jamie, her work with the Review, her obligations to those immediately around her...She stopped herself. Then it became difficult: How did one balance the claims of friends against the claims of others one did not happen to know?
She suddenly thought of the Cambridge spies—the group of highly placed young men who had become Soviet agents in the 1930s and who, when the net closed in, had abandoned their country rather than betray their friends. Blunt, Burgess, Maclean and the highly accomplished liar, Kim Philby, who had come close to being appointed head of a branch of British intelligence, all professed a greater loyalty, as such people often did: loyalty to the Communist cause, which they ranked above their duty to their own country. And the same was true of more recent examples, minor functionaries or obscure clerks who betrayed state secrets under a claim of moral duty. Patriots were outraged, government officials even more so, and with good reason: clearly no country could allow individuals to regard loyalty as an option one could reject if one disagreed with the policies of the government. And yet where did such a position lead? To “My country, right or wrong”—a form of patriotism that hardly survives moral scrutiny. Officials who defected from North Korea were heroes in Western eyes, as were those Germans who had plotted against Hitler, or those who planned the demise of the Soviet Union from within. Loyalty itself—unquestioning and uncritical—was not, then, invariably a virtue; disloyalty, similarly, had to be assessed in the context of what it was one was being disloyal to. Those who betrayed bad governments were good; those who betrayed good governments were bad. By that token, Isabel thought, the spy who betrayed a liberal democracy had a major hurdle to overcome—probably an insurmountable one—if he sought to justify betrayal. Ultimately liberal democracies, even if imperfect in some respects, were infinitely preferable to dictatorships and tyrannies.
She sighed. Another special issue of the Review was taking shape in her mind: Loyalty and Betrayal—the Moral Issues. Perhaps she would be able to persuade a retired traitor to write an article explaining how he justified his actions. Blunt, the art historian who spied for the Soviet Union, would have been ideal, had he still been alive, as he could write so elegantly. She possessed a copy of his large book on Poussin, although she had never got beyond the first five pages because she found it so coldly intellectual. He would have declined, of course, because he did not want scrutiny and understood that nothing could justify what he had done. His was a retirement of regret and, towards the end, public humiliation, whereas Philby, re-emerging in Moscow as a full-blown KGB colonel, had been unrepentant. He had written his apologia pro vita sua and might have been tickled by the chance of philosophical rumination on his stance. But he was dead too, and so of no help.
She dwelled for a moment on the fact that all these traitors had been men. Was treason a male pursuit—one that women found uncomfortable? Few of the great traitors were women, which made one wonder whether women were more circumspect, or even less inclined to betray their own side. That led to an interesting train of thought—feminist philosophers talked about an ethic of care, which had concomitants of greater attentiveness to the needs of friends and family than might be involved in a more formal male-centred philosophy. This might support the view that women were more loyal than men, which might, or might not, be true. Had anybody actually measured that—as they seemed to have measured just about every other aspect of human nature?
Outside her window, a bird burst into song—a sudden clarion of sweet, pure notes. She looked up and saw that a thrush had alighted on a bough of the tree nearest her window, a small silver birch; they were rare callers now, for some reason, or were more timid in showing themselves. In a calm enclosure, with thrushes popular...The line occurred to her unbidden, as did most of her thoughts when she was in this kind of reflective mood. It was Auden, of course, who came to her at these odd moments and illuminated so much; somehow made the ordinary moment more special, more arresting.
Thrushes...in Belfast years ago, in the Ulster Museum, she had wandered into a gallery and found herself face-to-face with Edward McGuire’s portrait of the poet Seamus Heaney, seated at his desk, his back to the window; and beyond this window a bush, a laurel, from behind the leaves of which thrushes, more numerous than one might expect, peeked, intelligent-eyed, secretive. With thrushes popular...The bird seemed to notice her, or at least was alert to some movement within, and cocked its head inquisitively. Again there came a clear call, a couple of piped notes, and Isabel found herself thinking: Do some birds sing for the world, and not just for themselves?
The telephone rang, jolting her out of her reverie. At the other end of the line, Isabel heard the voice of Eddie, Cat’s employee in her delicatessen in Bruntsfield.
Eddie tended to launch straight into a telephone conversation, ignoring the niceties of the enquiry after the other’s health or a remark on the prevailing weather.
“Eddie here,” he said abruptly. “She’s had to go out. She asked me to ask you whether you could help out here this afternoon. Otherwise, I’m on my own all day.” Eddie always referred to Cat as she. Isabel had pointed out that this sounded vaguely derogatory, but he had shrugged and simply said, “It isn’t. She is she.”
Isabel did not answer immediately. Jamie had said he was happy to look after Magnus that afternoon, but if she went to the delicatessen, then her review of The Virtues of Our Vices would have to be put off, possibly for a week or so. And yet she had never yet refused to help Cat, who only asked her when she really needed her.
“I suppose so,” said Isabel. “I mean, yes, of course. What time?”
Eddie explained that if she could be there for a couple of hours in the afternoon, it would be a great help. She agreed, but she knew the day was ruined.
EDDIE WAS CLEARLY GRATEFUL, although he could not conceal his displeasure with Cat.
“You know, she never gives me any warning,” he complained to Isabel as he greeted her in the delicatessen. “She just says, ‘Oh, I have to go out,’ and then she leaves—just like that. She claims it’s business, but I bet it isn’t—at least some of the time. She’ll be meeting some guy somewhere. You know how she is about men. She’s into them in a big way.”
He looked at Isabel conspiratorially. This, after all, was a discussion about his boss, his employer, who was also her niece, yet they had talked like this before and Isabel had not objected. Now she smiled. “Come on, Eddie. Don’t get carried away. Cat has to see her suppliers.” She gestured towards the shelves behind them. “She’s probably off at some wholesale bakery somewhere.”
Eddie was about to remonstrate further, but a customer had arrived at the counter and he contented himself with a disbelieving glance in Isabel’s direction. Isabel started to clean the cheese counter—crumbs had built up at the edges, a mélange of blue cheese, Parmesan, strong cheddar; there would be regulations somewhere about this sort of situation, food purity standards being what they were. Only the week before there had been a cheese scare involving raw-milk cheese made on a Scottish farm; passions had been inflamed, with some arguments being voiced that raw-milk cheese should be banned outright. People should be protected against the selling of potentially dangerous foods, they argued, and raw-milk cheese could harbour E. coli. Others objected strongly to what they saw as interference in people’s right to eat something that they thought tasted much better and helped protect against allergies. In this view, if people wanted to eat unpasteurised Camembert, then they should be allowed to do so. A few might fall ill if an infected batch of cheese were to be sold, but this risk was worth taking. Or, even if it were not worth it, it was a risk that people should be allowed to assume if they so desired.
Cheese and freedom, thought Isabel. It could be the subject of another special issue of the Review. But who would contribute? There would be libertarian philosophers, of course, who would defend the right to eat and drink as one wished, who would talk disparagingly of “cheese fascists.” Professor Lettuce came to mind—he was not a libertarian, as far as she knew, but he certainly looked as if he might be a gourmand, with his fleshiness and his large, rather covetous eyes. She imagined him tucking into a plate of Welsh rarebit, a white napkin under his chin, the rarebit being made with an unpasteurised cheese; and Lettuce would be smacking his lips and mumbling, “More of this, if you don’t mind!”
It was a delicious thought, and might have been prolonged had another customer not come into the shop and asked for a particular sort of egg-based pasta for which Isabel had to search.
“It’s not that tube stuff,” said the customer. “You know those short, quite thick tubes...”
“Rigatoni?”
“If that’s what the tube-like stuff is called—no, not that. It’s thinner than that—I’d know it if I saw it. And it’s not that stuff that twists round and round.”
“Tagliatelle?”
“That becomes straight, doesn’t it? You put it in boiling water and it becomes straight and floppy. It’s not that.”
Isabel moved from behind the counter to the shelf where the pastas were stored. She thought she knew which sort of pasta the customer wanted, but she could not recall the name. There were so many shapes and varieties, including one called strozzapreti, which meant priest-stranglers. She smiled at the memory. Nobody had ever asked for that. The Geometry of Pasta—had somebody not written a book with that title, and was it really about the different shapes of pasta? One could not always trust a title to reflect what was in the book, however; A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian was, after all, a novel.
She found the pasta the customer wanted and sold it to her, along with a large jar of tomato-based sauce that claimed on the label to be ideal for every sort of pasta. Even for strozzapreti? Isabel wondered.
“Now you have everything you need,” Isabel remarked to the customer.
“Yes, I do—thanks to you.”
For some reason, Isabel glanced out of the window. She saw Grace with the two boys, Charlie and Basil, one holding each of her hands, walking by slowly. In the other hand, each boy had an unusually large ice cream cone that he was licking—and smearing generously over his face. It was a completely unexpected sight, and the customer, noticing her surprise, laughed. “What a sight!”
“Yes,” said Isabel.
“All over the face—and clothes too, I imagine.”
Isabel stared at Grace. Charlie was meant to be at Basil’s house, and Patricia was meant to be in charge. What were they doing here, covered in ice cream outside the delicatessen? Isabel was unsure what to do. She wanted to go out and ask Grace what had happened, but she was reluctant to do that. Grace was sensitive and might interpret this as a questioning of her ability to look after Charlie. She had been entrusted to take Charlie to Basil’s; there was nothing unusual about that—Grace was allowed to take Charlie out if she so desired. Isabel had no cause to complain, then, except that this was not how she had imagined he would be spending his afternoon. And then there was the ice cream—Charlie was allowed ice creams, and other sweet foods, but only in moderation. When he had ice cream at home—and that was a rare treat—he had two small scoops, no more than that. This outsize cone would have had at least four scoops, Isabel thought. Or possibly five.
Grace seemed too preoccupied with the two young boys to register that she was just outside Cat’s delicatessen. In normal circumstances, she would at least have glanced in and waved; now she simply continued with her walk. For a moment, Isabel considered going outside to greet her, but she decided against that. Another customer had arrived—a woman who always asked for thinly sliced ham—and she would have to prepare the slicer for the task.
She thought, quite suddenly: What am I doing here? Why am I allowing myself to be cajoled into helping Cat—without pay—when she should be engaging an extra staff member? What am I, editor of the Review of Applied Ethics—also unpaid—doing worrying about cutting ham thinly enough to satisfy some demanding customer?
The customer was addressing her. “You know that ham I bought last week? Serrano, I think. Remember it? I don’t like to complain, but it wasn’t sliced thinly enough.”
Isabel looked at her coolly over the counter. “Oh, really? How interesting.”
The woman was taken aback. “Yes,” she said defensively. “I wouldn’t have raised it with you if it weren’t the case. It affects the taste of the ham, you know.”
Isabel felt the back of her neck getting warmer. “I very much doubt it,” she said calmly.
The woman seemed to recoil. “I beg your pardon: What did you say?”
Isabel articulated the words carefully. “I said: I very much doubt it.”
“Well!” said the woman. “That’s not very polite. Thick ham definitely tastes different from thinly sliced ham.”
“That’s what I said I doubted,” said Isabel. “It’s the sort of thing for which there’ll be absolutely no evidence.”
She was surprising herself. She was normally scrupulously polite to others, and this sudden pugnacious engagement with this woman was quite unexpected. I’m losing my temper, she thought. I was irritated by the sight of Grace with Charlie and I’m taking it out on this poor woman. Stop it. Get control of yourself.
The woman was glowering at her. “I don’t know why you need to be so rude to me,” she said.
Isabel looked down at the floor. She would apologise—it was the only thing to do.
“I’m sorry...,” she began. But then she continued, “I’m sorry that you’re so fussy. If you want to cut the ham yourself, please do. You can come around this side of the counter and operate the machine. But watch your fingers.”
This brought a gasp. “I want to speak to the owner,” said the woman truculently. “Where is she? I want to complain.”
Eddie had now heard what was going on and was standing anxiously at Isabel’s side.
“She’s out on business,” he said. “She’s not here.”
“And I’m her aunt, anyway,” said Isabel.
Eddie looked at Isabel in astonishment.
“I can go elsewhere,” said the woman. “There are plenty of places to buy ham.”
“Well, I’d agree with you on that,” said Isabel, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Really!” exploded the woman.
“I’m sorry,” said Isabel. And she was sorry now. She had behaved childishly—egregiously so—and she was embarrassed.
The woman turned on her heel to leave the shop. Isabel noticed that Eddie was staring at her in frank disbelief. “What’s wrong?” he said.
Isabel shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose I just lost the plot. I don’t know why.”
Eddie grinned nervously. He was looking at her with something close to admiration. “It was very funny. I’ve never seen you like that. I wondered if you’d been smoking something. Or drinking.”
“I don’t smoke anything,” said Isabel. She wondered whether Eddie did. She knew that it was common enough, but the world of drugs was a closed book to her—she had no taste for them. Wine was another matter altogether, but she never drank during the day, nor by herself.
Eddie let out a whistle. “You really got rid of that old bag.”
“Please don’t call her that.”
“But that’s what she is,” said Eddie. “She complained to me about the Parmesan the other day. She more or less accused me of substituting grana. She’s a real pain. Big-time.”
Isabel looked out onto the street. The woman was on the other side now, but was glancing back. “I have to go after her,” she muttered.
“But she asked for it,” said Eddie. “Leave it.”
She shook her head. “No, she didn’t ask for it. I lost my temper—and none of it was her fault. I can’t just leave it.”
She remembered as a child one of her teachers had said something about never leaving your anger unapologised for. “What if you’re struck by lightning and you haven’t said sorry? What then? It’ll be too late, you know. You can’t say sorry once you’ve been struck by lightning.” It was just the sort of advice that would have a profound impact on a child—and would return at odd moments over the years, always inducing unease and anxiety. On such advice were superstitious rituals founded—childish promptings that required one to utter sotto voce some protective nostrum on seeing an ambulance—or, worse still, a hearse—or before climbing into bed.
She struggled out of her apron, handing it peremptorily to Eddie. “I’ll be back,” she said.
He remonstrated with her. “There’s no point...”
But she paid no attention, and now she was out on the pavement and then, through a break in the traffic, making her way to the other side of the road.
Isabel soon caught up with the woman. “Please,” she said. “Please will you let me explain something?”
The woman looked flustered, but did not try to stop Isabel speaking.
“You see,” said Isabel, “you had the misfortune to get me at a rather odd moment...”
The woman raised an eyebrow.
“Yes,” Isabel continued. “I was thinking about something altogether different. I suddenly had doubts about my job—or this job, in fact, helping my niece. She doesn’t pay me, you see—I just help her out when things get busy or when she’s away. And suddenly I realised that I was spending time doing this when I could have been spending the same time with my little boys.”
She was getting through to the other woman; Isabel could sense that. She, too, was a mother perhaps, and understood.
“If she doesn’t pay you,” said the woman, “then perhaps...”
“Oh, it’s not the money. That’s not the main consideration. It’s time, really. I happened to see my little boy with the woman who helps me—they were walking past, and I suddenly felt that I should be there instead of her.” She paused. “I don’t know if I’m making sense.”
The woman hesitated. “It’s just that those thick slices...You know, I’m the last person to make a fuss about anything—the very last person.”
Isabel suppressed a smile. No, you’re not, she thought. People who said they were the last person to do anything were usually confessing to something of which they were ashamed—to some flaw. Although not always—some people were the last people to claim to be the last people...She could not help herself, and she smiled.
A shadow passed over the woman’s face. “Did I say something...?”
Isabel was quick to respond. “No, not at all. You’re quite right, and I’m going to be very careful about the thickness of ham in the future.”
“Paper-thin is best,” said the woman. “At least for smoked ham, as I said...”
“Yes, absolutely.” Isabel paused. “Would you let me do some for you—some really thin slices? They’ll be complimentary—a gift.”
The woman shook her head. “Oh, I couldn’t.”
“But why not?” Isabel felt herself getting irritated again. If somebody offers you a gift, it’s important to accept, she thought—to accept gratefully. If you reject gifts, then you prevent those offering them from doing something they may really wish to do. Giving gave every bit as much pleasure as receiving—if not more, and denying that pleasure to others could be churlish.
“It’s just that...” The woman faltered in her explanation. Then she continued, “It’s just that I don’t want you to feel bad.”
Isabel assured her that she no longer felt that way. “I did until I was able to apologise to you,” she said. “And then I felt better about myself. I don’t normally lose my temper with people, no matter how irritating they are.”
The last phrase slipped out; it was greeted with silence.
“Not that I thought you irritating,” said Isabel hurriedly.
The woman looked at her. “You need to watch what you say,” she muttered.
Isabel blushed. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I really didn’t mean that; well, I suppose I did. This business about ham tasting different somehow got under my skin. It wasn’t your fault, it was mine. There was no call for me to get hot under the collar.”
The woman pursed her lips. “It does taste different,” she said.
Isabel smiled at the absurdity of the situation. It was ridiculous to stand on an Edinburgh pavement arguing about something like this with a woman she did not even know, trying to give her ham and being refused, and then persisting with the argument. “I’m sure you’re right,” said Isabel decisively. “I’m wrong; you’re right.”
“Good,” said the woman. “And now, if you don’t mind, I have things to do.”
“Of course,” said Isabel. “I’ve been wasting your time—and I really am sorry, you know.”
The woman threw her a sceptical glance. “Let’s forget all about it,” she said.
“Yes,” agreed Isabel. “But if you do come into the shop again, please let me cut you some extra-thin ham.”
The woman acknowledged the offer with a nod of the head and left. Isabel returned to the delicatessen, where Eddie was waiting behind the counter, grinning broadly.
“What happened there?” he asked.
“I apologised for my rudeness,” said Isabel. “I offered her some ham, but she was standing on her dignity, I’m afraid.”
Eddie laughed. “Her loss,” he said.
Business had slackened off, and the shop was now empty. “You don’t have to stay,” said Eddie. “I’ll cope fine now by myself.”
Isabel suggested they have a cup of coffee together before she went home. Eddie made this, and they sat down at one of the tables to drink it together.
“You know what I said about Cat?” Eddie ventured. “About her going off to see some man?”
Isabel nodded. “Yes.” Eddie looked thoughtful. “I think I’ve worked out who it is. I saw her, you see, at a movie the other day. It was at the Dominion Cinema.”
Isabel smiled. The Dominion was an old-fashioned cinema in Morningside, famous over the years for its owner’s habit of greeting his patrons in the lobby in evening dress. “She always liked the Dominion.”
“It was that film about that guy who fell into a time warp. You know the one?”
Isabel shook her head. “I can’t say I do.” She paused; Eddie was not strong on irony, but she continued nonetheless. “There seem to be an awful lot of time warps around these days. It’s quite unsettling, don’t you think?”
Eddie was impassive. “I don’t think you need to worry too much,” he said. “I don’t think there are any time warps here in Edinburgh.”
Isabel stared at him. Did he really believe in such things? “I wasn’t being entirely serious,” she said.
“But it is serious,” responded Eddie. “If you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time, you could wake up to find yourself back in...” He shrugged. “Back in the seventeenth century. Just like that.”
Isabel resisted the temptation to laugh; Eddie was sensitive, and she had learned that he was easily upset. “The seventeenth century? Not very pleasant...in Scotland, at least.”
Eddie agreed. “Sure. No electricity. No internet.”
Isabel raised an eyebrow. “No internet indeed. That would be pretty hard to bear.”
“Yes. Imagine not being able to find things out. Not being able to connect with people...”
Isabel thought for a moment. Eddie was in his early twenties, and the internet was invented...when? It must have been before Eddie was born; the internet, then, was as natural to him as the telephone and long-playing records had been to her.
“You’d miss it, wouldn’t you, Eddie?”
“Of course I would. It’s—” He broke off, before continuing with a frown, “I suppose it’s part of my life. It’s the first thing I do when I wake up.”
“You go online?”
He nodded. “Just to check whether anything’s come in.”
“Messages?”
He looked surprised. “Yes, of course. Photos. That sort of thing.”
Isabel said nothing. There were new addictions, she realised, and some of them were so subtle, so mainstream, that those afflicted had no idea they were addicted—until their prop was taken away and separation anxiety set in. So far, she had avoided internet addiction, as had Jamie. Charlie was the one at risk, though, as he was already taking a close interest in computer screens. She hated the thought of what that could do to childhood, to the imaginative world of Winnie-the-Pooh, of nursery rhymes, of songs that children learned, of the little things that made up the culture of the very young.
“Of course, there would be other unpleasant things about the seventeenth century,” she said. “Particularly in Scotland. Religious fervour. Burning of witches and heretics.”
Eddie looked worried. “Burning? They burned people?”
Isabel did not reply immediately. There were times when she was as surprised by what Eddie did not know as by what he did know. She was not sure what history was taught in schools now, if they bothered to teach it at all. Eddie, she had discovered a few weeks previously, had never heard of Mussolini; nor of Stalin, for that matter. And American presidents started, for him, with President Bush—although, as he said, there had been “some guy before him” whom he could not quite remember.
She was not sure where to start. “In those days...,” she began.
“When?” asked Eddie.
“In the seventeenth century—we were discussing the seventeenth century, I think.”
“Oh yes.”
“Everybody had to conform. You had to be a Christian. You had to go to church or you’d be chased up by the local presbytery. And if you dared to argue with what the religious authorities said, then you could be accused of heresy and put to the stake.”
“An actual stake?”
“Yes, a big post in the ground. And then they’d stack wood round it and set a match to it.” She paused. It was not all that long ago, she reflected, and you should never assume that things that had happened would never happen again. When was the last witch burned in Scotland? 1727. She remembered the date because it had been drummed into them at school by a teacher who had a jaundiced view of her fellow Scots. “We have only recently stopped burning people at the stake, girls—only very recently. 1727, I should point out. 1727.” But then when was the last public execution in France? 1939.
Eddie had been struck by this talk of the Scottish auto-da-fé. He had seen a flaw. “Did they have matches in those days? Are you sure about that?” Then he thought of something. “Unless they got some matches from a time traveller,” he suggested. “That’s always possible, I suppose.”
Isabel looked at him, then looked away. “It was a dreadful way to die,” she said. “It must have been the most agonising end imaginable.”
Eddie agreed, but he was still wondering how they started the fire.
“They had tinder boxes,” said Isabel. “Now that you’ve pointed out the lack of matches, I’ve remembered. They had flints, and you struck a flint against a bit of metal and it gave you a spark.”
“Oh, I know that,” said Eddie. “That’s how muskets worked.”
“Precisely.”
Eddie frowned. “But why did they burn these people?”
She replied that it had to do with conformity. People, she said, generally wanted other people to believe the things they did, and would punish those who deviated. And, she went on to think, there are still plenty of people like that. There was still an orthodoxy, and it was quite capable of being oppressive; there were still those who believed that people should be hounded out of their jobs for using the wrong words or not toeing an ideological line. There had been a teacher recently who had found himself in deep water after addressing a group of schoolgirls as “girls” when one of them was in fact a girl who defined herself as a boy; his offence was “misgendering,” and the innocence of his mistake had been an irrelevance. There were many such snares placed in the way of the unwary, and the consequence of inattention to the enforced wisdom of the times could be a medieval public shaming.
Eddie became silent. “You’d never imagine these things happened,” he said.
Isabel thought about this. If you knew very little history, then there was much that you would find difficulty in imagining. She glanced at her watch; she would need to get back to the house, although she still wanted to find out about Cat’s new boyfriend.
“So you saw her at the Dominion?” she prompted.
“Yes,” Eddie replied. “She was there with this guy and another girl. I thought that the guy was with the girl, not with Cat, if you see what I mean, and so I didn’t think much more about it. But then a few days ago I saw the same girl with another guy—not the same guy at all. They were snogging in a pub. Really snogging. And so I thought: that first guy must have been with Cat, rather than this girl—unless she was snogging some old friend or something—just for old times’ sake.”
Isabel laughed. “Snogging in a pub. They were probably an item.”
Eddie allowed himself a smile. “That’s what I thought. And then I saw him again—the first guy. He was sitting in that tattoo parlour down near that dodgy restaurant—the one that poisoned my friend Harry last month. He was really sick, you know. Spectacular. Throwing up all over the place—”
Isabel interrupted him. “I get the picture, Eddie.”
“So there was this guy in the tattoo parlour—and he wasn’t a customer, he was the owner, I think. It’s his place. He’s a tattoo artist.” Eddie paused, scrutinising Isabel’s face for a reaction. “So you see, what I’m saying is: Cat’s new man does tattoos.”
Isabel opened her mouth to say something, but then closed it. She turned away and looked out of the window. Then she muttered to herself, Chacun à son goût, chacun à son goût, chacun à son goût. Mantras, she had always felt, could help, and intoning the phrase chacun à son goût could be as calming, and as encouraging of tolerance and acceptance, as the repetitive chanting of om mani padme hum, the precise meaning of which she had never really found out.