A Distant View of Everything

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “I suppose it was yellow,” said Laurence. “But somehow it progressed beyond the title—and beyond yellow, I think.”

  “There’s that song about yellow,” said Jamie. “About the mellowness of yellow. About being mad about saffron.”

  “But she was a person,” said Isabel, “not a spice. And I think that song was about synaesthesia.”

  Jamie glanced at her. “Don’t start to dissect the lyrics of songs. Look at ‘American Pie.’ What’s that about?”

  Laurence laughed. “Everyone has a theory about that,” he said. “Except the composer.”

  Isabel suddenly looked to her right and saw that she was standing next to Stephanie Partridge. She caught her breath. She looked at Jamie. He was facing Laurence, but now he turned and saw Stephanie. He seemed surprised.

  Stephanie looked back at him; she did not seem to notice Isabel.

  “You played brilliantly,” Jamie said. “As usual.”

  “Thank you. Laurence’s piece was not easy.”

  “I warned you it wouldn’t be,” said Laurence. “You were a consenting adult. You agreed to play it.”

  Stephanie did not look at Laurence as he spoke, but had her eyes fixed on Jamie.

  Jamie touched the sleeve of Isabel’s dress. “This is Isabel,” he said.

  Stephanie looked at Isabel, as if for the first time. “Hello.” Her tone was quite flat. She was uninterested. She looked back at Jamie.

  Isabel felt a surge of relief. She’s forgotten. So I was worrying about something that would never happen. She turned to Jamie; she wanted to hug him, publicly. She reached for his arm and gripped it tightly in a gesture of solidarity and affection. He glanced down at her hand upon his sleeve, but he did not say anything. Nor did he look at her.

  Somebody tapped Isabel on her shoulder. She swung round to see her friend Iain Torrance, the theologian. She had not seen him for some time, and she eagerly engaged him in conversation. Iain was keen for Isabel to see Dr. Neil’s Garden, in Duddingston—a secret corner of Edinburgh, facing the very loch on which the Reverend Robert Walker, the skating minister painted by Raeburn, had braved the ice. They talked for a few minutes before Isabel noticed that Jamie was now engaged in what looked like an intimate, whispered exchange with Stephanie. She froze, her earlier relief now turned to despair. She was telling him; Isabel was sure of it.

  “Iain,” she said. “I have to go.”

  He inclined his head. “Of course.”

  “I’m not being rude; I just have to get back. The children…”

  “I understand.”

  She made her way to join Jamie. As she did so, Stephanie half turned towards her but did not so much look at her as through her. Isabel faltered, but now she felt angry. Jamie was her husband, and it was not for this woman to look at her as if she was intruding upon a conversation. She moved forward briskly, tempted to brush Stephanie aside, but actually only coming slightly between her and Jamie.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” she said, to Jamie rather than Stephanie, “but we’ll have to get back to the children.”

  She glanced at Stephanie. “We have two children.”

  “Oh,” said Stephanie.

  “Yes,” said Isabel. “Two.”

  The silence was awkward, but Isabel had the impression that Jamie, like her, was eager to get away. This was puzzling.

  “I can’t remember—did you bring a coat?” asked Jamie as they began to leave the bar.

  “No. Nothing.”

  She looked at him, trying to read his mood. He seemed anxious.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “Of course I’m all right,” he answered quickly.

  She knew, though, from his tone that something was amiss, and from that moment she was certain that Jamie was now aware of her deception. She took his arm as they left the hall by the back exit, making their way down the narrow lane that led onto the Meadows. The easy companionship of an arm-in-arm walk was missing; he seemed stiff and uncomfortable in his movements, as if he wanted to be somewhere else.

  “We need to talk,” she said. “Can we walk back the long way? Through Buccleuch Place, perhaps?” She looked up. Although it was close to ten, the night sky was still light—as it would be, at their latitude and in mid-summer, until after eleven.

  “I don’t really feel like talking,” said Jamie. “Do you mind?”

  The rebuff brought a stab of almost physical pain. “I’m sorry,” she said. “But we really have to.”

  He was silent, but it was a silence of assent.

  “Let’s cross here,” said Isabel.

  A car went past, and from its window came a snatch of music. “Mozart,” muttered Jamie. “That car was playing Mozart.”

  She squeezed his arm gently. “I love it when cars play Mozart, don’t you? Usually they play heavy rock.”

  “Not in Edinburgh,” he said. “Our cars love Mozart. And Bach too.”

  She felt the tension ease. How our bodies reflect our souls, she thought—in their little movements, their tics, their attitude.

  “I need to talk to you,” he said.

  She winced. “I’ve been really stupid,” she said. “I don’t know why I did it. I suppose I was embarrassed…”

  He stopped, and they stood together on the pavement. A passer-by, a student in a dirty tee-shirt and a pair of frayed jeans, walked past them, throwing a mildly curious glance.

  “What are you talking about?” said Jamie.

  “About the Café St. Honoré.”

  He shrugged. “We can talk about restaurants some other time. I want to talk about that girl.”

  “That’s what I mean,” said Isabel. “You see—”

  He cut her short. “Look, Isabel, I don’t know what you think, but there’s nothing—absolutely nothing—between me and Stephanie.”

  She stared at him blankly.

  “I can see you don’t believe me,” he went on. “The truth of the matter is this: she’s been coming on to me. It’s been pretty obvious. We were at a recording session a few weeks ago, and she said to me that there was something she wanted to discuss. I thought it was something to do with an audition—something like that—and so I agreed. She said it would be easier to talk over lunch.”

  “Lunch?”

  “Yes, at that French place in Bruntsfield, La Barantine. The bakery place. I agreed, but I didn’t tell you. I sort of forgot—a lot was going on.” He paused. She saw that he looked miserable. “It was the day that you went off to get some information about that business you’re looking into—that matchmaking stuff.”

  Isabel gasped, and Jamie misinterpreted her response.

  “Yes, I know,” he continued. “I just wasn’t thinking. You know how you do something thoughtless and then it becomes difficult to get yourself out of it. I had lunch with her, and of course she started to go on about how she thought we had so much in common. I realised that things were getting out of control, and so I played it cool. But I don’t think she took the hint.”

  Isabel wanted to laugh. This, she thought, is a perfect symmetry of embarrassment.

  “And so I had to spell it out to her again back there.”

  “In the bar?”

  “Yes. I had to actually spell it out. I told her that I was married, full stop. End of story.” He sighed. “I don’t like hurting people’s feelings.”

  She threw her arms around him. “Of course you don’t, you lovely, wonderful person. Of course you don’t.”

  His relief was apparent. “You’ve forgiven me?” Then he added quickly, “Not that I did anything, of course, but for not telling you something I should have told you. You’ve forgiven me for that?”

  “Let he who is without lunch cast the first stone,” said Isabel.

  “What?”

  “Let me tell you,” said Isabel, taking his arm again and leading him gently on the next stage of their walk. “There are coincidences, you know, and then there are extraordinary coincidences. I want to tell you about s
omething that is an extraordinary coincidence. Don’t interrupt, just listen…”

  They made their way down Buccleuch Place, not walking on the pavement, but on the cobblestones of the road itself—there was no traffic. Skirting the great bulk of the university library, an angular monument to modernism that was in such stark contrast to the human dimensions of the tenements of Buccleuch Place, they wandered down onto the path that circled the Meadows. By the time they had reached Middle Meadow Walk, the forgiveness, on both sides, was complete. It was easy, Isabel observed, because, when looked at dispassionately, there was nothing for either of them to forgive.

  “Not that it makes much difference,” said Isabel. “Often when people ask for forgiveness, it is they who need to forgive themselves.” She smiled at Jamie. “Am I making sense?”

  He evidently did not care that they were in full view of a cluster of dog-owners walking their dogs. He stopped and took her in his arms, kissing her passionately and urgently.

  Then he drew back and looked into her eyes. “You’ve always made sense,” he said. “Even when I find it difficult to follow what on earth you’re going on about, it seems to me that you make sense.”

  “Good,” said Isabel. “So we misunderstand one another perfectly.”

  A dog raced past them, a bundle of fur and wagging tail. Their laughter excited him, and he gave an enthusiastic bark.

  “That dog is composed of pure goodness,” said Isabel.

  “How can you tell?” asked Jamie.

  “By looking at him. That’s how you tell.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  SHE TELEPHONED ROB MCLAREN the next morning. He sounded weary when he answered—a late night, he said.

  She apologised for the early call. “I’m sorry if I woke you up, but I wondered if you could give me some information.”

  His weariness became wariness. “Possibly.”

  “You mentioned that you’d heard a story from a lawyer. It was about another of these women who had got themselves mixed up with Tony MacUspaig.”

  There was a brief silence. Then, “Yes. I heard something, but I think I told you everything I know. I didn’t hear much.”

  “But the lawyer would know?”

  He made a clicking sound. “Lawyers won’t talk about their clients.”

  “This one did. You told me he spoke to you about money that had been paid to the good doctor.”

  “Yes, but…”

  “I’d like to speak to the lawyer. I’d like to find out who the woman was. You said that she was called Tricia—I take it you don’t know her surname?”

  For a few moments he said nothing, then, “No, I don’t know it. But if you contact him, he’ll know that I’ve spoken to you about something he told me in confidence.”

  She assured him that she would not mention his name. “I’ll leave you out of it. I’ll simply say that I’ve heard from somebody. I won’t say who.”

  “I don’t think he’ll talk.”

  “Perhaps you could let me see,” said Isabel. “You may be right. He may clam up. But at least let me try.”

  There was further hesitation, and then Rob gave the lawyer’s name, and the name of his firm. It was a well-known firm that had its offices in the Georgian New Town. They were a private-client firm, adept at dealing patiently with the affairs of well-off Scottish families. The firm’s motto was “Preserve,” which made it quite clear that their energy and talents were directed to the keeping of things exactly as they were. This drew comment from rivals, who saw them as being too conservative. “ ‘Preserve’ is an entirely suitable motto for a jam-making company,” said one. “Marmalade and so on—I’m not so sure it’s quite right for a firm of lawyers.”

  —

  AND THERE IT WAS: PRESERVE, written in italic capitals underneath a framed photograph of the founding partner, a comfortable-looking Edwardian figure wearing a wing-tip collar and a pair of unframed spectacles. Isabel stared at the picture from her seat in the waiting room and reflected on destiny and its effect on our appearance. A person who looked like that could not have been a farmer or a fisherman; he was a lawyer as conjured up by the casting department. And in so far as he had any message to impart, it was surely “Preserve.”

  It had been simple to arrange her appointment. She had telephoned the lawyer whose name had been given to her by Rob McLaren, and he had been amenable to an appointment later that morning. A meeting he was due to attend had been cancelled. “We settled,” he said.

  Isabel liked that expression. She knew that lawyers used it in a technical sense to refer to an agreement not to pursue a claim, but it seemed to her that it was a word that could be used in many other contexts. One might settle with one’s friends when there had been a misunderstanding or a tiff; one might settle with a neighbour after arguing over the height of a hedge; one might settle with the weather when one decided to stop complaining about it.

  The lawyer came into the reception area.

  “Isabel Dalhousie?”

  Isabel stood up.

  “My name is Tam Fraser.” He extended a hand. “We’ve actually met, you know. My little boy’s in your son’s nursery class. You have Charlie, don’t you?”

  She tried to place him. She thought that she knew most of the parents of Charlie’s playmates, but she could not remember this man.

  “I picked him up one afternoon,” he said. “My wife was in London, and I was holding the fort.”

  She was still looking blank when he told her, “My son’s Douglas. The little redhead.”

  Now she knew: Douglas was collected by a woman who always arrived punctually, spent very little time chatting to the other parents and then disappeared in a small blue car. “Of course,” said Isabel. “I’m sorry I didn’t put two and two together.”

  “There was no reason for you to do so,” said the lawyer. He gestured towards the corridor. “My office is down there. Shall we?”

  He ushered her into a surprisingly large room. In the days when the building was a private house, this would have been the drawing room, with its three large windows spanning almost the whole distance between floor and ceiling. The view from these was over the bank that dropped down to the gorge below. The higher branches of the broad-leaf trees that clung to the descending slope were just below the lower level of the window—a sea of dark green that moved slowly in the wind. Drawn to the view, Isabel crossed to the window and looked out over the treetops.

  “It’s a great distraction for me,” said Tam. “You’ll see that I have my desk facing the other way. It’s the only way to get any work done.”

  Across the gorge, beyond the roof line of the terraces on the other side, was a thin sliver of silver sea and the hills of Fife. The sky was largely cloudless, a pale blue intersected by the thin cotton-line of a vapour trail. Tam noticed her looking up. “I wonder where those jets go,” he said. “Somewhere far away, I suppose. Iceland. America. Helsinki.”

  She turned away from the window, allowing her gaze to fall on the lawyer’s face. She saw that he had grey eyes and that these eyes were kind. Waiting in the reception area, she had flicked through a news magazine that had been lying on the table for clients to read while waiting for their appointment. On the cover there had been a picture of a well-known politician, a man famous for his rudeness and aggression. She had looked at the eyes—the piercing, accusing eyes, and had seen only an impenetrable, defensive anger. Nothing—no forced smiles nor rehearsed protestation of concern, could cancel out the cold selfishness of those eyes. The eyes are the window of the soul…it was such a well-worn adage, a cliché by now, but Isabel had read that neuroscience, which was validating so many intuitive, ancient beliefs about who we were and how we lived our lives, now confirmed this insight too. The part of the brain that was most closely associated with self-awareness, the ventromedial prefrontal cortex, lay directly behind the eyes. So that was where we were located—that was where the soul was to be found, if it were to be found anywhere.

 
Tam’s eyes were the polar opposite of the vain politician’s, and Isabel felt a strong sense of security in his presence. This was a man who would understand what she said to him—not just in a superficial sense, but at a much deeper level.

  “Now then,” he said, as she sat down. “What can I do for you, Ms. Dalhousie?”

  She felt encouraged to be direct. “I want you to break a professional confidence.” She might as well start with his likely objection, she thought.

  His mouth fell open. “Did I hear you correctly?”

  Isabel smiled. “You did.”

  He recovered his composure. Now he looked bemused. “You can hardly expect me to do that.”

  “I know,” said Isabel. “But there must be exceptions to the rule.”

  He thought for a moment. “Occasionally. You know, I serve on the Law Society of Scotland committee that considers matters of that sort. We were discussing the issue the other day, as it happens.”

  “And?”

  “And we reaffirmed the rule that there were certain circumstances—certain very limited circumstances—when the very strong obligation to keep matters confidential may have to…how shall I put it? May have to yield to a greater good of some sort.”

  Isabel was on familiar ground. A few issues ago, the Review and one of the contributors had given close attention to the Tarasoff case. Isabel had been intrigued.

  “Have you heard of the Tarasoff decision? It’s an American court case.”

  Tam shrugged. “No,” he said. “But remember: the law in the United States is very different from ours here in Scotland.”

  Isabel knew that, but the case was still an important illustration of an issue that could arise anywhere. “The things that happen are more or less the same everywhere.”

  “True enough, but…”

  Isabel continued, “Miss Tarasoff, you see, was a student at the University of California. This was back in the late 1960s.”

  “A heady time out there,” said Tam.

  Isabel smiled. “Yes, it was. Haight-Ashbury. The Summer of Love. Flowers in your hair…”