The Sunday Philosophy Club by Smith Alexander McCall

Author:Smith, Alexander McCall [Smith, Alexander McCall]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Fiction, Philosophy, Crime, Scotland, Adult, Contemporary
ISBN: 9780307370402
Goodreads: 13533174
Publisher: Vintage Canada
Published: 2004-09-28T07:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

OH MY GOODNESS, Jamie. I’m so sorry. That was a terrible thing to say. I had no idea that you would …”

Jamie shook his head vigorously. He was not crying loudly, but there were tears. “No,” he said, wiping at his eyes with his handkerchief. “It’s not that at all. It’s not what you said. It’s nothing to do with it.”

Isabel sighed with relief. She had not offended him, then, but what could have provoked this rather extraordinary outburst of emotion on his part?

Jamie picked up his knife and fork and started to cut into his omelette, but put them down again.

“It’s the salad,” he said. “You’ve put in raw onion. My eyes are really sensitive to that. I can’t go anywhere near raw onion.”

Isabel let out a peal of laughter. “Thank God. I thought that those were real tears and that I’d said a dreadful, insensitive thing to you. I thought that it was my fault.” She reached forward and took the plate away from the place in front of him. Then she scraped off the salad, and gave it back to him. “Just an omelette. As nature intended. Nothing else.”

“That’s perfect,” he said. “I’m sorry about that. It’s genetic, I think. My mother had exactly the same problem, and a cousin of hers too. We’re allergic to raw onion.”

“And I thought for a moment that it had something to do with Cat … and with the time you cooked dinner for the two of us in Saxe-Coburg Street.”

Jamie, who had been smiling, now looked pensive. “I remember,” he said.

Isabel had not intended to mention Cat, but now she had, and she knew what the next question would be. He always asked it, whenever she saw him.

“What is Cat up to?” he asked. “What is she doing?”

Isabel reached for her glass and poured herself some wine. She had not intended to drink anything more after her sherry with Neil, but there in the intimacy of the kitchen, with the yeasty smell of mushrooms assailing her nostrils, she decided otherwise; akrasia, weakness of the will, again. It would feel safe sitting there with Jamie, talking to him and sipping at a glass of wine. She knew that it would make her feel better.

“Cat,” she said, “is doing what she always does. She’s quite busy in the shop. She’s getting on with life.” She trailed off weakly. It was such a trite reply, but what more was there to say? To ask such a question, anyway, was the equivalent of asking “How are you?” on meeting a friend. One expects only one answer, an anodyne assurance that all is well, later qualified, perhaps, by some remark about the real situation, if the real situation is quite different. Stoicism first, and then the truth, might be the way in which this could be expressed.

“And that man she’s seeing,” said Jamie quietly. “Toby. What about him? Does she bring him round here?”

“The other day,” said Isabel. “I saw him the other day. But not here.

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