She changed the subject. “How’s Diane?”
Eddie smiled. “You could meet her,” he said. “She’s around today. I could phone her and ask her to drop in.” He looked at Isabel enquiringly. “That’s if you want to. Only if you want to.”
“Of course I want to meet her, Eddie. Phone her. Tell her to come after lunch some time, when we’re not so busy.”
He reached for his mobile phone and made the call.
“She can come,” he said. “She wants to meet you too.”
“Good.”
Eddie looked anxious. “I hope you like her, Isabel.”
“I will.”
He hesitated. “She’s older than me, Isabel.”
Isabel paused. “Much older?” she asked, trying to keep her tone natural. What if Diane were fifty?
“A bit,” said Eddie. “Twenty-six.”
Inwardly, Isabel breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, that’s nothing, Eddie. I’m older than Jamie. It’s nothing to worry about.”
Eddie looked shifty. “There’s something else,” he said.
“Yes.”
“I may have told her that I’m a bit older than I really am.” He began to mumble. “I told her I’m twenty-four.”
Isabel frowned. “That’s a bit stupid, Eddie. What on earth possessed you to do that?”
The censure was unplanned; and she herself was surprised by its forcefulness. Almost immediately, she repented. Isabel was sensitive about telling other people what to do in a moralistic sense—that was most definitely not the role of the moral philosopher. Philosophy was there to guide people to the right and the good—not to wag a disapproving finger at them.
She tried to make up for her mistake. “I’m sorry, Eddie. I shouldn’t have said it was stupid. It’s just that …” She saw his face crumple. “It’s just that it’s best to be honest in a relationship. And I’m sure that you yourself want to be honest, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
She reached out to take his hand. He resisted for a moment, and then allowed her. “All of us are dishonest in some respects—from time to time. Hands up all those who’ve never been dishonest about something. See, my hand didn’t go up.”
He smiled weakly. “You don’t lie to people. I know you don’t.”
“I try not to. But sometimes I’m tempted to. Lying can be so much easier.”
“Easier?”
“Yes, in the short term. But any advantage it confers doesn’t usually last very long.”
He thought about this for a moment. “What shall I do?”
Isabel squeezed his hand. “That’s for you to decide.”
“I should tell her?”
“You could.”
He nodded. “I will.”
Isabel smiled at him encouragingly. “I suspect that you’ll find she won’t mind. If she loves you …” She was not sure whether she should have said that.
Eddie looked at her. “How can I know that? How can I know that she loves me?”
Isabel let go of his hand. “That sort of thing is usually obvious. If she wants to live with you, then I’d have thought that she probably does.”
Eddie bit his lip. “I could ask her, I suppose.”
“You could.”
He hesitated for a moment before continuing. “How do you know that Jamie loves you?”
“He married me,” said Isabel. “He stood in the Canongate Kirk and made a declaration to that effect. In public.”
“That’s what I want to do,” said Eddie. “I want to stand up in front of a whole lot of people and tell Diane that I love her. And I want to do that soon.”
“I understand,” said Isabel. “That’s how one feels when one is in love. But perhaps you shouldn’t do anything too sudden.”
“Why not?”
She did not want to pour cold water on his enthusiasm. “Because one of the things about falling in love is that you can fall out of it again. So you have to be sure.”
He was adamant. “I am. I am sure.”
LUNCHTIME WAS particularly busy that day. Both Eddie and Isabel were kept at it solidly from twelve-thirty until shortly after two, when the shop suddenly emptied.
“You go and sit down,” said Eddie. “Diane will be here in ten minutes.”
Isabel went to one of the tables and flopped down on a seat. One of the customers had left a newspaper behind, a copy of the Financial Times, and she paged through this idly as she waited for Eddie to bring the restorative cup of tea he had promised her. She was not particularly interested in the doings of the markets, but the paper had good arts coverage too, and she found herself absorbed in a review of a recent staging in London of a new opera on the life of a Colombian drug baron. Opera could be as recondite, as obscure, as it liked, she mused, because people expected it. And the plot really did not matter too much either way—Philip Glass’s Einstein on the Beach had no plot at all, as far as Isabel could ascertain, and there were operas with plots so complex that lengthy explanations were required before one could work out what was going on. And a silly plot—of which there were numerous examples—was not necessarily a drawback. Isabel had always considered that Così fan tutte was all about nothing very much, and yet it was one of the most beautiful of Mozart’s operas.
She read the critic’s review. “Why are we fascinated by the life of large-scale wrongdoers?” he asked. “Why do we find the tawdry doings of the wicked anything but banal?”
Isabel stopped reading for a moment. The tawdry doings of the wicked: it was a beguilingly succinct dismissal of evil. And it was quite right, she thought, to deny any possible romance to wrongful deeds. Most major criminals, in or out of uniform, in or out of political office, in or out of the corporate boardroom, were simple bullies, prepared to use force to achieve their goals—and a Colombian drug lord would be a bully par excellence. Should we even bother to look at the life of a bully? What was there to say about it?
“This man,” the critic continued, “is vile. He has used murder to progress through the criminal cursus honorum. He has profited from the endless misery of the illicit drug trade. He has grown rich on death. And yet here is a sophisticated London audience, a group of middle-class music-lovers, thrilling to the biography of this foul creature. And when he dies, as he does in the final scene, the music that accompanies his death is every bit as tragic as that which sees Mimi out in La bohème! Can that be right, or is there something here that needs to be considered by a social psychologist?”
Isabel looked up. Eddie was leading a young woman to her table. She thought: the Huntress, and then corrected herself. Not the Huntress; not the Huntress. Diane, plain and simple; Diane.
“This is Diane.”
Isabel folded the paper and stood up to greet her visitor.
Eddie, who was clearly nervous, announced that he would bring two cups of tea. “Diane doesn’t drink very much coffee, do you, Diane?”
“No,” said Diane. “I don’t.”
“Too much coffee is bad for you,” said Eddie.
“Everything in moderation,” continued Isabel.
“In what?” asked Eddie nervously.
They were still standing, and Isabel gestured for Diane to sit down. “In moderation,” she said to Eddie.
He nodded and went off behind the counter. Isabel noticed that Diane’s eyes followed him. Yes, she thought, she loves him. I’ve seen the answer Eddie wanted.
“I’m really pleased that I’m getting the chance to meet you,” said Isabel. “I’m very fond of Eddie.”
She discreetly studied Diane as she spoke. Twenty-six was about right, she thought. And she’s rather attractive in a slightly bony sort of way. Too thin? One had to be aware of that because so many people were anorexic now. Eddie himself was thin, though, and he definitely did not have an eating disorder, whatever other problems he might have. He ate rather a lot, in fact; he was always nibbling on the shavings from blocks of Parmesan or on scraps of ham or salami.
“He’s very
fond of you too,” said Diane.
They were both silent for a moment. “What do you do?” asked Isabel.
“I’m a nurse,” said Diane. “But now I’m studying to be a physiotherapist. I’ve got two years to go.”
“They’ll go very quickly,” said Isabel.
“I think so,” said Diane.
There was a further silence.
“Eddie tells me that you and he are planning to share,” said Isabel. To share sounded better than to live together, she felt. It was not suggestive of anything beyond simple cohabitation, and sounded less prying as a result.
Diane said that this was their plan. “But …” Her voice trailed off.
Isabel waited.
“But I don’t really see how we can.”
“Why?”
“Money,” she said simply. “We can’t afford it. A flat costs at least eight hundred a month for a one-bedroom place. Usually more. Often a thousand.”
“It’s expensive,” agreed Isabel. She was out of touch; she had thought three or four hundred was about right.
“And there’s something else,” Diane went on. “My parents are dead against it.”
Isabel raised an eyebrow. “But you’re twenty …”
“Twenty-six,” supplied Diane. “Yes. And Eddie’s …”
Isabel held her breath.
“Twenty-one,” said Diane.
Isabel stared at her. She was taken aback, but now she made up her mind very quickly: this was her chance to defuse the situation for Eddie. “Eddie sometimes likes to think he’s twenty-four,” she said. “I suppose it’s because he’d like to be twenty-four and sometimes we—”
“Sometimes we make things up,” said Diane. She explained. “I know somebody who was in his year at school. That’s how I realised.” She shrugged. “I understand. I really do. I remember wanting to be older than I was. I really did. So, don’t worry.”
“He wants to tell you, you know,” whispered Isabel. “Make it easy for him.”
“I will,” said Diane. “Of course I will.”
Isabel felt a surge of affection rise within her. She liked this young woman. She was just right for Eddie. She loved him, and she was straightforward and sensible. She was exactly what Eddie needed.
“Your parents?” prompted Isabel.
Diane looked apologetic. “I live with them at the moment,” she said. “They live here in Edinburgh, in Murrayfield. They’ve got this large house, you see, and it’s much cheaper for me to stay there than to rent a flat, or even a room in a flat, while I’m a student.”
“Naturally,” said Isabel. “And lots of people do that, don’t they?”
Diane confirmed this. “But it’s a bit more complicated in my case,” she said. “They give me money. I’ve taken out a large student loan, but it’s never enough, even if you’re careful. So they give me money each month.”
“Many parents do that. And the child can pay it back later on.”
Diane nodded. “But the complication is this: they don’t like Eddie. They just don’t.”
“Have they seen much of him?”
“They’ve met him twice. It wasn’t a success.”
Isabel sighed. “Eddie might not come across all that well on a first or second meeting. He’s shy. He becomes anxious.”
Diane said that she knew that, but the problem with her parents was deeper-rooted. “They think he’s not good enough for me. It’s as simple as that. And …”
Isabel waited for her to continue.
“And they think that it’s not going to last. They think that I’ll grow out of him; that I’ll realise we don’t have very much in common; that I’ll decide Eddie doesn’t quite fit in.” She paused. “They’re snobs, you see.”
Isabel was not sure what to say. It certainly sounded to her as though Diane’s parents were behaving snobbishly, and yet she could hardly admit that she agreed with her and her parents really were snobs. One may speak disparagingly of one’s own parents, but one did not like to hear others expressing the same sentiments.
“They’ve said that if I go and live with Eddie, then I won’t get any more money. They spelled that out.”
Isabel waited a few moments before saying anything. Then she said, “I’m very sorry to hear it.”
“No,” said Diane. “But you see the problem now?”
“I do,” said Isabel.
“So we can’t live together,” said Diane. “It’s just not on. Eddie thinks it is, and I’d love him to be right. But he isn’t. It’s just not possible. I’m too much in debt as it is. End of story.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
CAT’S RECOVERY WAS QUICKER than expected. On the following day she telephoned the delicatessen to tell Isabel that she was now up and about and that it looked as if the vomiting had stopped. She felt well enough to come in to work but thought it wiser to remain off for a further day in case she was still infectious. Isabel encouraged her in this. “The last thing you want is to pass these things on,” she said. “One wouldn’t wish projectile vomiting on anyone.”
After Isabel had rung off, Eddie, who had overheard Isabel’s side of the conversation, called out to her, “What did you say about projectile vomiting? Is she still doing it?”
“Why the big interest in it?” asked Isabel. Vomiting was vomiting, she thought, projectile or otherwise.
Eddie defended himself. “Well, it is pretty interesting, isn’t it? I wonder how far she was projecting? Two or three feet, do you think?”
Isabel assumed an expression of disgust. “Really, Eddie, I don’t share your fascination with the subject.”
“Well, you mentioned it first,” he said. “You were talking to her about it. You raised the subject.”
“I just said that it’s not something you would want to pass on to others. That’s all. And it isn’t, is it?”
“Of course not.” He looked thoughtful. “I suppose with projectile vomiting you could really pass it on, couldn’t you. If you hit anybody, even if they were standing a couple of feet away, thinking they were safe …”
“Eddie! You’re disgusting.”
“I was just thinking aloud.”
“Well, please don’t. You can keep those sorts of thoughts to yourself.”
He was silent for a few moments. Isabel had noticed that Eddie’s mood was very changeable that morning; perhaps he was anxious about Diane. She eyed him carefully. Now, something had come over him; maybe something triggered by this odd discussion. She had seen him do this before—slip into a sombre mood—although she thought that it happened much less frequently these days.
He lowered his voice; there was a customer within earshot, browsing the shelves. “What if you thought that you might … might have something because of something that happened … What should you do?”
Isabel looked at him with concern, causing him to glance away sharply.
“I’m not quite sure what you mean,” she said carefully. “Do you mean, what if you think you’ve got some sort of infection: Should you go to a doctor? Is that what you’re asking me?”
He hesitated. He was fiddling with the strings of his blue-striped butcher’s apron. The strings were frayed and he was tugging at them nervously. She noticed again his less than clean fingernails. He was just a boy; just a boy with the unwashed hands that boys have. And suddenly, with no warning at all, he had become a frightened boy.
He spoke slowly, stumbling over the phrases. “Yes. That’s right. Except it may not be your fault that you might have something that … something that you wouldn’t want to have. And then you suddenly think, maybe I shouldn’t take the risk of passing it on to anybody. Say, a heavy cold, or something like that. Something like what Cat’s had. That stuff. Or even … or even something worse than that. But it wasn’t your fault, you see.”
She waited, but he seemed to have finished what he wanted to say.
“Something worse?” Isabel asked quietly.
Eddie nodded mutely. He had been standing on the
other side of the counter, and Isabel now crossed over to him. Taking his hand, she led him through the door into Cat’s office. He did not resist. His hand, she thought, felt so soft. Over by the shelves, the customer turned and looked briefly in their direction, but then turned away.
“Eddie, I think I know what you’re talking about. I think I do—but I’m not sure.”
“I …”
“No, listen to me, Eddie. You don’t have to tell me. I don’t want you to feel that you must. There are things that happen to people that are very cruel, and people don’t have to talk about them if they don’t want to. You know that, don’t you?”
His gaze was fixed on the floor, his head bowed. But he nodded—almost imperceptibly.
“So all I’m going to say to you is this: I know that something bad happened to you, and I’m so, so sorry, Eddie. And if you think that because of this thing that happened you may need to have a check-up, then that’s exactly the right thing to do. I’m sure that you’ll be all right because it must have been quite some time ago, mustn’t it, and you seem fine, don’t you? But you can set your mind at rest.”
He said nothing. He was weeping.
Isabel put her arm around his shoulder. She drew him to her. His frame was shaking with sobs. “Do you want me to go with you? I can go with you to the doctor.”
He reached in his pocket for a handkerchief that was not there. Isabel took a tissue from the box on Cat’s desk and handed it to him.
“Yes, please.”
Isabel put her hand against his cheek. She reached for another tissue and dabbed at his tears.
“Dear Eddie,” she whispered. “You’ve been very brave. And you’re not alone, you know. You’ve got me, Cat, Diane. You’ve got all of us. Your friends.”
“I feel stupid,” he said. “And I feel dirty too.”
She was shocked by his words. “Eddie, every one of us, every single one feels stupid about something. And maybe dirty too. And often it’s not a big thing and it’s not our fault either. All right, Eddie? All right?”
“I still feel stupid.”
Isabel felt a rush of sympathy for the young man. “I know somebody who can help,” she said. “They help people who have these worries. It’s a charity. I’ve supported them in the past. You can talk to them and they’ll arrange everything for you. And I’ll come too, if you like.”
The Uncommon Appeal of Clouds Page 8
