“Go on, Isabel,” he said. “Do it. Don’t just let yourself be walked over. Do it. Stick up for yourself.”
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“I couldn’t.”
Jamie shrugged. “Well, think about it. Please just think about it.”
“All right,” she said. “I will.”
And she did, later that night, with Jamie beside her in her darkened room, she thought about it; and watched him, his arm across the pillow, so beautiful, she felt. If she did what he suggested, she could engage the most expensive, eloquent advocates to act for her, the cream of the Scottish bar. She could pay to have a spectacular day in court, in which her expensive lawyers would run rings around an inadequately represented Review. But she put the thought out of her mind because it was not her intention that she should ever, not even once, misuse the financial power which she had acquired through the laws of inheritance. If she had been wealthy through her own efforts it might be different; but she was not, and she would not depart from the code she had set for herself. It was hard, very hard sometimes; like the rule that a mountaineer makes that he should climb a certain distance each day, although the air is so thin and it is hard, so hard, to make the muscles do what one wants them to do.
C H A P T E R F I V E
E
DO YOU KNOW, I’ve never been to one of these before? My first time. I feel a bit like a schoolboy going into a bar.”
Jamie, seated beside Isabel, looked about the saleroom. A large number of people had turned up, thanks in part to the publicity attached to the sale of a private collection of Scots Colourists. This collection had been put together by a business-man who had done well with a small oil company and who had attracted attention by his colourful—and tactless—remarks.
The oil wells were on the shores of the Caspian, in one of those republics that people are not quite sure about—where it is and who runs it—and had suddenly dried up. There had been mutterings about geological reports and their manipulation at the other end, and the share price had plummeted. The sale of the Colourists was the result, along with the sale of a Highland sporting estate and a small fleet of expensive vintage cars. Of course people were sympathetic, but secretly delighted, as they are whenever those who boast of their wealth take a tumble.
The Colourists were prominently illustrated in the first few pages of the catalogue—landscapes, still lifes, a portrait of a T H E C A R E F U L U S E O F C O M P L I M E N T S
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woman with an elaborate feathered hat—and there they were, in the expensive flesh, hanging on either side of the auctioneer’s podium. For the handful of saleroom voyeurs who came to auctions for the excitement of the high prices, this was the highlight of the day; these were the people who had taken the front row of seats although they had no intention of bidding for anything. They liked to watch the saleroom staff take telephone bids, connected to distant purchasers in exotic places, nodding to the auctioneer as the bidding went higher.
“Don’t wave to friends,” said Isabel. “Unless you want a painting.”
Jamie folded his hands on his lap. “Surely not?”
“It’s happened,” said Isabel, adding, “I think.”
The auction started. Isabel noticed Guy Peploe seated a few rows behind them; she smiled at him, and Guy made a thumbs-up sign for good luck. Now the Colourists started to fall: three hundred and twenty thousand pounds, two hundred and eighty thousand . . . Jamie let out a little whistle and nudged Isabel.
“Who’s got that sort of money?” he asked. “Galleries?”
“Even if it’s a gallery it will be for a private individual in the long run,” Isabel whispered. “Rich collectors.”
“Honest?”
“Probably. People with dishonest money tend to go for different things, don’t they?” She realised, as she spoke, that she did not really know what happened to dishonest money. She was a philosopher, who thought about what we should do and what we should not do, and yet what personal experience enabled her to speak with authority on these matters? She led a very sheltered life in Edinburgh. How many wicked people did she actually know? Professor Christopher Dove? Professor Lettuce? She smiled at the thought. If Dove was wicked, and she 5 8
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h really should give him the benefit of the doubt on that, then his wickedness was surely of a very tame nature, confined to academic machinations, jockeying for position on committees and the like. And yet wickedness like that appeared mild only because it occurred in a rarefied context; Trollope’s scheming clergymen may not have resorted to guns and knives—those were not the weapons of their milieu—yet, as people, they were probably just as bad as any Sicilian mafioso for whom the gun, rather than the snide remark, was the immediate weapon to hand.
After the Colourists had all been sold, a number of people rose and made their way out of the saleroom. That was the end of the excitement for them; there would be no more sums like that bandied about. Isabel and Jamie watched the paintings disposed of, and there were one or two highlights. An unflatter-ing portrait of a dancer, painted in the style of Botero by a Russian artist, went for forty-five pounds to a small man in an overcoat; a picture of a stag in the Scottish Highlands, by an unknown nineteenth-century hand, made the auctioneer wince—a momentary lapse which drew laughter from the crowd. It was an unfortunate slip, even if entirely understandable, but it did nothing to inhibit two telephone bidders who of course had not seen the wince and who bid against each other to drive the price up well above the estimate.
Then the McInnes came up, and Jamie reached over and touched Isabel lightly on the arm. She took his hand and gave it a squeeze. Her palm was slightly moist. But if I were bidding, I would be shaking, he thought.
“Nervous?” he whispered.
“No,” she said. And then a moment later, “Yes, of course.”
The bidding started low. The house had a bid in hand which had been put in for a client, and then it climbed. Isabel came in T H E C A R E F U L U S E O F C O M P L I M E N T S
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after the fourth bid, with a bid of ten thousand pounds, but that was immediately raised by a telephone bidder. Then somebody from the back of the hall put in a bid and the price went up another thousand. Jamie turned in his seat to see who it was, but there were heads in the way. Isabel now raised her card again and a thousand pounds was added. There were consulta-tions on the telephone and a nod—another thousand.
At twenty thousand, Isabel was the highest bidder. The auctioneer looked up from his desk and surveyed the room.
“It’s going to be you,” whispered Jamie. “You’re going to win.”
“I’m not sure . . .” she began.
Jamie was alarmed. “Not sure you want it?”
The auctioneer glanced at Isabel and then looked over her head towards the back. He nodded at the bidder. “Twenty-one thousand pounds.”
“No,” said Isabel, slipping her numbered bidding card into her pocket.
The auctioneer looked at her enquiringly and she shook her head. Then he looked at his two colleagues with the telephones: both indicated that they were going no further. The auctioneer repeated the bid from the back and then dropped his hammer, a short tap, his hand covering the small wooden head.
Jamie looked at Isabel, who was reaching for the bag at her feet. “Bad luck,” he whispered.
Isabel shrugged. “That’s what auctions are about. They tell us something rather important, don’t you think?”
“That what matters—”
Isabel completed the sentence for him. “Is money. Yes. It doesn’t matter how much somebody likes something or deserves to get it—it’s money that decides things. A simple lesson.” She stuffed her catalogue into the bag.
Bidding had started on the next item, and they waited until 6 0
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h this had finished before they rose to their feet and began to make their way to
wards the back of the room. A couple who had been standing at the end of the row quickly took their vacant seats, smiling thankfully at Jamie, who had looked back at them.
Isabel turned to Jamie. “Did you see who got it?” she asked.
“There were heads in the way,” he said. “But it was somebody over there.” He pointed to the back, which was lined with thirty or forty people who had not managed to find a seat. “One of them, I think.”
Isabel looked at the crowd of people: any one of them could have been the bidder.
“Why do you want to know?” asked Jamie, from beside her.
“Pure curiosity,” she said. And she realised that there was no reason for her to know who had outbid her.
She stopped. There was a familiar face in the crowd, a man standing on the edge, examining his catalogue.
“Peter?”
Her friend, Peter Stevenson, looked up from his catalogue and smiled at Isabel. “I saw you,” he said quietly—the bidding had begun on another painting. “I saw you bidding for that McInnes. You must have wanted it an awful lot.”
Isabel made a gesture of acceptance. “All’s fair in love and auctions.”
Love. Peter glanced at Jamie, who was standing behind her: he thoroughly approved of the relationship between Isabel and Jamie and had once, at a dinner party, spoken up when somebody had made a pointed remark about the disparity in age between Isabel and her new boyfriend. Envy, he had muttered, sotto voce but just loud enough to be heard by the entire table and to bring a blush of shame to the countenance of Isabel’s detractor. Peter’s wife, Susie, had looked at him sharply, but she, like most others at the table, thought his comment well placed.
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“Well, I’m sorry,” whispered Peter. “Walter Buie obviously wanted it more than you did.”
Isabel was interested. “He was the other bidder?”
“Yes,” said Peter. “He left immediately afterwards. But he was standing quite close to me. Just over there.” He looked at Isabel enquiringly. “Do you know him?”
Isabel thought. The name was vaguely familiar, but probably just because it was a rather unusual Scottish name. She had met Buies before, but not this one.
“He’s a lawyer,” said Peter. “He was with one of the large firms, but got fed up and set up by himself doing little bits and pieces for a few private clients. Modest stuff. I don’t think he liked the pace in the firm—you know what those legal firms can be like these days. He lives quite close to us in the Grange. I often see him taking his dog for a walk. Nice man. Not such a nice dog.”
“Well, he wanted it, obviously,” said Isabel. “Is he a collector?”
Peter put a finger to his lips. “We’re making a bit of a noise,”
he whispered. “I’m getting one or two looks.” He leaned over and whispered in Isabel’s ear. “Buie is a Jura name. His father probably came from there, or somewhere nearby. There are lots of Buies on the island. McInnes painted on Jura, didn’t he?”
Isabel indicated that she was going to leave. “Come and see us,” she whispered to Peter. “Bring Susie to have a look at Charlie. Any time.” She paused. “Why are you here, Peter?”
“Susie’s birthday is coming up,” he said. “There’s a little watercolour coming up a bit later on. Tiny one—this big. I might go up to eighty pounds!”
Isabel smiled. “Be careful.”
Jamie followed her out of the saleroom and out onto Broughton Street. He looked at his watch; he had to be at the 6 2
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h Edinburgh Academy in half an hour to give a lesson. Isabel could not linger either; Charlie would need feeding soon and although Grace was looking after him, she wanted to see him. It was strange; a separation of just a few hours made her anxious.
Was this what being a parent was going to be like? A life of anxiety, of fretting about little things? Have a child and give a hostage to fortune; yes, but have any human link, any friendship, and a hostage was given.
Jamie explained that he would have to go; it would take him fifteen minutes to walk to the school and he liked to have a few minutes in hand. Then he inclined his head back in the direction of the saleroom. “You could have gone higher, you know.”
“Yes,” said Isabel. “I could have. But I didn’t.”
Jamie looked into Isabel’s eyes. “Just how well-off are you, Isabel?”
The question took Isabel by surprise. He had not spoken in a hostile manner, but it was a potentially hostile question.
“I’ve got enough to get by,” she said. “That should perhaps be obvious—not that I want it to be.”
Jamie continued to look into her eyes. He was experiencing a strange feeling: a feeling that she was his but not his. And at the root of it, he suspected, was the fact that their positions were so different. Everything about their relationship, in fact, involved contrasts; she was older than he was; she had so much more money; she lived on the south side of the city and he on the north; he was dark and she tended to the fairer. Jack Spratt and his wife.
Nothing was said for a while. “You’re not answering me,” he said eventually.
She remained patient. “Well, it’s a question that I don’t have to answer.” She spoke quietly. “And why do you want to know, anyway? I don’t ask you what you earn, do I?”
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“I’m quite happy to tell you,” he said. “But, anyway, you’re right. It’s none of my business. I shouldn’t have asked.”
She looked at him. She might have been cross, but could not find it within her. She could not be cross with him; she could not. You can say anything to me, she said to herself; anything at all. Because we’re lovers. And I love you, Jamie, every bit of you; I love you so much.
She reached out and touched him. She swept the hair back off his forehead and then she slipped her hand down to the back of his neck. “There are shares in a company,” she said. “They came from my mother. The company had land and buildings in Louisiana, and in Mobile too. It did well.”
“You don’t have to tell me this,” said Jamie. “I’m sorry—”
“Eleven million pounds,” said Isabel. “Depending on the value of the dollar.”
Jamie was silent. He stared at her in astonishment.
“Is your curiosity satisfied?” she asked.
Jamie seemed flustered. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. I don’t know why I did. I really don’t.”
Isabel took his hand. “Could you telephone the school and tell them that you can’t come in?” she said on impulse. “We could go home.”
He shook his head.
“Go on,” she urged him.
He shook his head again. “Siren,” he said.
They kissed, and she watched him for a few moments as he walked down Broughton Street. He must have sensed her gaze, as he turned round and waved to her before continuing. She blew him a kiss, which he did not return.
Isabel turned away and began to walk along Queen Street.
The late-morning air was bright, the air warm for the east of Scotland. She was worried that she had divulged something that 6 4
A l e x a n d e r M c C a l l S m i t h she should have kept private. A few minutes earlier she had thought of the giving of hostages. Well, she said to herself, I’ve just given another one.
I S A B E L A R R I V E D H O M E to find that Grace had taken Charlie out into the garden in his pram, and was sitting under the sycamore tree at the back. Isabel peered down at Charlie, who was sleeping on his back, his head shaded by the pram’s retractable hood. His mouth was slightly open and his right hand was holding the silk-lined edge of the blanket, the fingers where they were when he had fallen asleep.
“Something seemed to be bothering him this morning,”
said Grace. “He was all niggly and he wouldn’t settle. Girned a lot. Then he became a bit better. I gave him so
me gripe water.”
Isabel stayed where she was, bent over the pram, her face just above Charlie, but she looked sharply at Grace. “You gave him gripe water,” she said evenly. “And?”
“And it did the trick,” said Grace. “No more girning. Well, no more after about ten, fifteen minutes.”
Grace used the Scots word girn, which Isabel always thought so accurately described the sound of a child’s crying.
But it was gripe water that concerned her. “I didn’t know we had any gripe water,” she said. And then, straightening up, she continued, “We don’t, do we? We don’t have it.”
“I bought some,” said Grace. “A few weeks ago.”
Isabel walked round the side of the pram. “And he’s had it before?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Grace. “Quite a few times. It really is effective.”
Isabel took a breath. She rarely felt angry, but now she did, T H E C A R E F U L U S E O F C O M P L I M E N T S
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aware of the emotion welling up within her—a hot, raw feeling.
“But gripe water contains gin, doesn’t it? For God’s sake. Gin!”
Grace looked at her in astonishment. “Not anymore! It used to, I believe. I had it when I was a child, my mother told me.
She said that she would take a swig or two herself as well. But that’s years ago. You know how fussy people are these days.”
“So what does it have in it now?” asked Isabel. “I like to know what medicines Charlie’s taking, you know. As his mother I feel . . .” She knew that she sounded rude, but she could not help herself. And it did not help that Grace seemed so unapologetic.
“But it’s not a medicine,” said Grace. “It’s herbal. I think that the one I bought has fennel and ginger and some other things. It soothes the stomach, which is what they niggle about.” She looked up at Isabel. “You’re not worried about it, are you?”
Isabel turned away. She struggled to control her voice, and when she spoke she felt that it sounded quite normal. “No, I’m not worried. It’s just that I’d like to know if you give him anything unusual. I just feel that I should know.”
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