CHAPTER EIGHT

EDDIE SEEMED a different person. The blue jeans had been replaced with black ones—formal wear, thought Isabel, wryly—and the tee-shirt had yielded to a roll-top sweater in the green that Isabel’s father had always described as British Racing. His face looked scrubbed, his hair combed and damp, as if freshly sprinkled with water.

“You’re looking very smart, Eddie,” she said as she let him in the front door.

The compliment pleased him. He had looked uncertain when she had opened the door; now he smiled.

“I saw a fox, you know,” he said as he stepped into the hall. “Right outside. On the path. That far away from me. Just that far.”

“Brother Fox,” said Isabel. “He lives somewhere around here. We are in his territory. Did he look at you?”

Eddie nodded. “He didn’t seem frightened. He looked at me like this.” And here he made a face, narrowing his eyes. How like Brother Fox he looks, thought Isabel.

“He watches us,” said Isabel. “And he keeps other, less friendly foxes away.” She paused. “Sometimes I wish I could introduce him to the Duke of Buccleuch. He has a fox hunt, you know, down in the Borders. They need to talk.”

Eddie looked at Isabel in puzzlement; she said some very strange things, he thought. And her house…he looked about in awe.

“You’ve got a big place,” he said.

She thought of Eddie’s circumstances. Cat had said something once about where he lived; he was still with his parents somewhere, she believed, somewhere down off Leith Walk. Eddie’s parents were elderly, she now remembered; he had been something of an afterthought.

“It’s just a house,” she said.

He looked at her, as if expecting her to say something more.

“I mean, I’m used to it,” she went on. “I suppose it’s too large for me, but I’m just used to it. I don’t think of it as being big.” She sounded foolish; she should have said nothing. Those who live in big houses, she thought, should not apologise; it only makes matters worse.

“I wouldn’t know what to do in a place like this,” said Eddie. “I’d get lost.”

“Well, maybe.” She touched Eddie’s arm lightly. “Charlie would like to see you, I think. He’s just had his bath. Jamie’s with him.”

She led him upstairs. Eddie glanced at the paintings on the stairs and on the landing. “Are these all…all real?”

She smiled. “Yes, they’re real. If you mean are they actual paintings. Real paint. Not prints.”

“That’s what I meant.”

They were standing in front of a Peploe landscape. In the background she heard Charlie gurgling as Jamie uttered some nonsensical mantra. Eddie reached out as if to touch the painting, but checked himself.

“You can touch it if you like,” said Isabel. “It’s quite dry now.”

“Why are the hills blue like that?” asked Eddie.

She thought: Yes, that is a reasonable question to ask of the colourists, who saw the world in strong colours. Mull, and its hills, were blue; seen from the blue shores of Iona. “Because hills are often blue. Look at them. It’s the effect of the light.”

Eddie looked more closely at the picture. “Is this worth a lot of money?” he asked.

Isabel was momentarily taken aback. But she quickly recovered. She would have to be honest. “Yes, anything by Peploe is quite expensive these days. He’s a very highly sought-after artist. That’s what determines the price. Like Picasso. There’s nothing very special in a Picasso drawing, say, but it will still cost an awful lot of money.”

“How much?” asked Eddie.

“Picasso? Oh, well a drawing—a few lines dashed off on a sheet of paper—might be ten thousand pounds.”

“No, not that. This painting here. This Pep…Peploe.”

Isabel laughed, as much to cover her embarrassment as for any other reason. “I don’t think you should ask questions like that, Eddie. People don’t…don’t expect to be asked what things cost.”

She spoke gently, but her words silenced him. He looked down at the floor, and she immediately regretted what she had said.

She felt that she needed to explain. “Sorry, Eddie. You can ask me; of course you can ask me. It’s just that…well, you wouldn’t normally ask somebody else, somebody whom you didn’t really know.”

He bit his lip.

“I’ll tell you, if you like. Of course I’ll tell you. Although…” What would be the effect of his knowing? Envy? “I didn’t buy that painting; it belonged to my father. And he didn’t pay a great deal for it. Not in those days.”

He was still looking at the floor. She reached out and held his arm. “All right. If that went into an auction now, it would fetch more than one hundred thousand pounds. That’s what somebody told me, anyway.”

He looked up sharply. The offence that he had taken at her mild censure was now replaced by astonishment. “You could sell it for that? For more than a hundred thousand?”

She explained that she did not want to sell it.

“Why not? Think what you could do with a hundred thousand pounds.”

“Frankly, I can’t think of anything I’d spend it on. What do I need? I don’t want a new car. I’ve got a house. I’m lucky. I don’t need a hundred thousand pounds.”

She spoke freely, but as the words came out, again she felt that she was making a mistake. She did not need anything, but he did. He had no car, she assumed; and he certainly did not own a flat. I’m making it worse, she thought. But no, Eddie had not taken it in that way at all; he was thinking of something else. “So is that why you gave that man the cheese this afternoon? Because you don’t need to worry about money?”

She thought about this. He was probably right. If you had enough, you were more likely to be liberal to others; except, of course, as was always the case, for some. “Possibly,” she said.

“And what if I came to you and said, ‘Isabel, please give me five hundred pounds.’ What if I said that? Would you?”

She studied his expression, trying to work out whether he was asking for money. She decided that he was not.

“I’d give it to you. But I’d probably ask you first why you needed it. If you were in trouble, of course I’d give it to you.”

“Not lend it?”

“No. I’d give it.”

She watched him. His mouth twitched slightly; just slightly, at the edges of the lips. “Eddie? Do you need five hundred pounds? Is that what you’re telling me?”

She saw the pupils of his eyes; dark dots, but with light in them. She noticed that he had a mole, a tiny mole, just below his ear. Otherwise, he was perfect.

His lips parted, a tiny bit of spittle. He mouthed the word yes.

She whispered, as she did not want Jamie to hear, and she suddenly knew that Jamie was listening from Charlie’s room, through the open door.

“Are you in trouble, Eddie?”

He said nothing, but his head moved slightly: a nod.

“And will you tell me what it is?”

Again a movement of the head, this time a shaking.

She made up her mind. Five hundred pounds was very little to her and would obviously make a big difference to Eddie in his difficulties, whatever they were. A fine? She thought that unlikely. Eddie was too timid to get into trouble with the law. Drugs? Debts to a pusher? There was no sign that he used anything, and she thought it unlikely; Cat had told her that he had expressed strong views against drugs some months before. So what did that leave?

She leaned forward. “Will you need more? If I give you five hundred pounds, will you come back and ask for more?”

He began to look indignant, but then stopped himself. “No,” he said quietly. “That’s all I need.”

She made her mind up. “All right. We can get the money from the bank tomorrow.”

She did not expect effusive thanks, and did not get them. But there was a whispered thank you as they went into Charlie’s room. Jamie was standing there, holding Charlie in his sleeper suit. He glanced at Eddie and nodded; then looked at Isabel. She let nothing pass between them, no acknowledgement of what had happened on the landing. It’s between Eddie and me, she thought. Private business. Eddie had told her not to give cheese away; would Jamie tell her not to give away money? It’s mine, she thought—although the cheese, strictly speaking, was not.

Charlie saw Eddie and gave a welcoming gurgle.

“He likes you,” said Jamie.

“Babies do,” said Eddie. “My mum says…” He trailed off.

“She says what?” asked Isabel.

“She says they go by smell,” said Eddie.

Isabel took Charlie out of Jamie’s arms and passed him over to Eddie. “Jamie smells good,” she said. “And I’m sure you do as well. Here.”

Eddie recoiled at first, in fright, but checked himself. He was awkward, uncertain precisely where to place his arms, but Charlie helped by latching on to his sweater.

“Support him,” said Isabel, taking hold of Eddie’s right forearm. Bony. Was he eating properly? If he lived with his parents, then surely his mother should watch out for that. Or Cat should. She was his employer; she should notice these things. And there was no shortage of food in a delicatessen.

“You’re nice and thin, Eddie,” she said, patting the arm she had briefly held.

“That’s because he walks everywhere,” Jamie chipped in. “You do, don’t you, Eddie?”

Eddie nodded. “It’s quicker,” he said.

“But you don’t want to be too thin,” said Isabel.

Jamie reached forward to tickle Charlie under the chin. “What do they say? You can never be too thin, nor too rich.”

“Isabel’s too rich,” said Eddie. “She just said so.”

There was a silence, and Charlie, surprised, looked over Eddie’s shoulder at the people standing around him: there had been gurgles, he thought, those sounds that they made, and now nothing.

Yet the dinner went well, at least until just before the end. Eddie was relaxed, and Isabel could tell that he enjoyed Jamie’s company. From the other side of the table, he looked at Jamie with a bright-eyed admiration, she thought, and this made her smile; many people looked at Jamie that way, and yet he did not appear to notice, or, if he was aware of it, did not think anything of it. The blessed will not care what angle they are regarded from, having nothing to hide: the line from “In Praise of Limestone” came to her unbidden—WHA again! But it was so apt.

They ate salmon terrine, followed by a risotto, from a recipe which Isabel had taken from Mary Contini’s book, and then grapes. Jamie wanted coffee, but Isabel and Eddie did not; so Isabel made a small espresso for Jamie, and while she was doing this, the two of them at the table and she at the worktop, Eddie said: “I can hypnotise people now.”

Jamie looked at him oddly, like an older brother looking at a younger sibling who has made a bragging claim. “Oh yes? Since when?”

“Since a week ago,” said Eddie. “Officially. I got my certificate then. My Part One certificate. I still have to do Part Two and Part Three.”

Jamie appeared puzzled, and Eddie explained about his course. “It’s hard work,” he said. “Quite a few people dropped out.”

“Well done, Eddie,” said Isabel. “You must be pleased—”

“Hypnotise me, then,” Jamie interjected.

Eddie looked at him anxiously. “You serious?”

Jamie glanced at Isabel. She wanted to shake her head, to say no, but could not; she was careful about telling him what he could or could not do. She was not his mother. He turned back to Eddie. “Yes, why not? It would be interesting, don’t you think, Isabel?”

“It’s not a game,” said Eddie.

Isabel was concerned. She did not want Jamie to be hypnotised. She did not want anybody to be hypnotised in her kitchen. She would change the subject. “Of course it’s not. Not like one of those games you play after dinner. You know, the six degrees of separation game. Things like that. Can you get to the pope through five friends?”

“Two,” said Jamie. “In my case.”

Eddie looked blank.

“Right,” said Jamie. “I know the cardinal, the one who lives over at Church Hill, in that house with the green copper dome. He must know the pope. Two degrees of separation from me to the pope.”

Isabel wanted to encourage this new line of discussion. “So you’re three degrees away from the pope, Eddie. You know Jamie. Jamie knows the cardinal. The cardinal knows the pope. Three degrees.”

“And the president of Bulgaria?” suggested Jamie.

Isabel frowned. “I suspect that he has a lot of friends,” she said. “So I suspect that we’d get there within six links.”

“He has a lot of friends?” asked Eddie. “How do you know?”

Isabel shrugged her shoulders. Eddie could be very literal. “In order to become president of anywhere, even Bulgaria, you have to have friends. You have to know lots of people and cultivate them. He’ll be a networker, the president of Bulgaria. A big networker.”

She looked to Jamie for support, but he was looking at Eddie. The president of Bulgaria was not getting the attention he deserved. “Go on, Eddie,” said Jamie. “Hypnotise me. I’m ready. What do I have to do?”

“The president of Bulgaria,” Isabel said. “Now let’s think. I know Malcolm Rifkind, and he used to be the foreign secretary. So, he may…”

“Do I just sit here?” asked Jamie. “Do we need to turn the lights off?”

Eddie shook his head. They were sitting at the kitchen table, where casual meals were taken, and the lighting was low anyway. “It’s best not to be distracted,” he said. “That’s why it’s sometimes a good idea to turn down the lights. But it’s not very bright in here.” He stood up and moved round the table to sit down on the chair next to Jamie’s. “I’m going to sit here. You turn round a bit, so that you’re looking at me.”

Isabel brought Jamie’s cup of coffee over and put it on the table beside him. “Are you going to drink this before you go under, or afterwards?”

He smiled, but said nothing, leaving the coffee untouched. She went back to her seat.

Eddie had fixed his gaze on Jamie. He leaned forward very slightly. “I want you to listen to my voice. Just listen. Hear nothing else. All right?”

Jamie nodded.

“And as you listen to me, you’re going to feel yourself getting drowsier and drowsier. Your eyelids will be getting heavier, like lead. That’s it. And all the tension is going out of you. Flowing away. You can feel it going down your arms and out your fingertips—draining away like water. That’s right. Don’t struggle against it.”

Eddie continued in this vein for a further five minutes. Jamie remained still, and Eddie did not take his eyes off him as he talked. If Isabel had looked at Jamie, she would have seen that a smile played about his lips; it was almost imperceptible, but a sign of what he was thinking. Yet she did not see this, because her own eyes were firmly closed. She was breathing deeply.

Jamie suddenly turned his head and looked at Isabel. He signalled to Eddie, who stopped what he was saying and followed Jamie’s gaze. Eddie was silent for a few moments. Then: “Isabel. I’m going to ask you to do something. Afterwards, I’m going to snap my fingers and when I do that you’ll wake up. Do you understand?”

Isabel did not open her eyes, but she moved her head slightly to indicate assent.

“Right,” said Eddie, winking at Jamie. “Now when I tell you to open your eyes, you’ll see somebody come into the room. This is a person you really, really want to see. Somebody you know well and you want to see again. They’ll come in just to say hallo and then they’ll go out again. But you’ll tell us who it is. All right?”

Again, Isabel nodded.

“So,” said Eddie. “The door’s opening. And your eyes too.”

Isabel’s expression left no doubt that she was looking at somebody. Here was surprise, astonishment perhaps, and then an anguished cry: John. No, don’t go. Don’t go.

Eddie rose to his feet. He snapped his fingers. Nothing happened. Then he snapped them again, more loudly this time. Isabel’s head turned sharply.

Jamie leaned across the table and took her hand. “Are you all right?”

Isabel looked about her. “Of course I’m all right. Eddie, weren’t you going to…”

“No,” said Eddie. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, glancing anxiously at Jamie, as if for reassurance.

“Some other time,” said Jamie. “Not now.” He picked up his small cup of espresso and drained it.

“I should be going home,” said Eddie awkwardly.

He said good-bye to Isabel quickly and Jamie showed him to the door. Then, returning to the kitchen, Jamie found Isabel facing him.

She looked bemused. “Something happened, didn’t it?”

He looked down at the floor. He felt embarrassed to speak about it, but he could hardly refuse to answer her question. “He was trying to hypnotise me, but you somehow got in the way. You went under,” he said. “Like that. I remained wide awake, but you…It was very quick. I wondered whether to stop it, but I thought it might be risky.”

She gasped. “I went under?”

“Yes. You must be very…what do they say? Susceptible?”

“And what happened?”

He looked embarrassed, and she caught her breath. “Do you really want to know?”

This, she thought, is how a drunk must feel when he wakes up the next morning and has no recollection of the night before. What did I do? She felt instinctively for her clothing; it was still there. And surely Jamie would not have allowed anything untoward to happen; he would have stopped her from disgracing herself.

“You saw John Liamor,” he said quietly. “You saw him come into the room and you cried out to him.” He could tell that she was aghast. “No, you didn’t say very much. You just shouted out his name and told him not to go. That was all. Then Eddie clicked his fingers and you came out of it. Nothing more than that.”

She leaned forward, head in her hands. She had tried so hard to forget John Liamor, the man she had married; the man who had broken her heart, once, twice, over and over again. He meant nothing to her now, nothing—at least consciously.

“I’m not still in love with him,” she muttered.

Jamie came to her and put his arm about her. “Of course you aren’t. Of course.”

He had Cat to forget; he knew what an effort it cost. “Let’s think of the president of Bulgaria,” he said.