The Quiet Side of Passion Read online

  She explained to him that she was not shrugging anything off. There was a difference, she said, between dwelling on something in an unhealthy way and keeping it in perspective. “If I look at this objectively, it’s not all that bad. I was accosted by a very unpleasant man. He probably gets a thrill out of frightening women. We don’t know exactly what he had in mind, but he was a pathetic creature, an insecure bully. He can’t be allowed to get away with it—I agree—but there’s no reason why I should allow somebody like him to give me nightmares.”

  “No, but—”

  She cut him off. “I know that we’re encouraged these days to make much of victimhood, but I believe in bouncing back. And I don’t think we should allow people to make us miserable—that gives the victory to them.”

  “No, I see, but—”

  “So I’m not going to allow that man to wreck anything for me. I’ve got better things to think about. I went to the police; I’ve done all that I can to help them stop him, but in my view that’s it. The incident’s over.”

  Jamie was silent. He was not used to such a robust view being expressed. But he thought: Yes, I can see it. There is no reason to feel fragile if you aren’t in fact fragile. Nursing yourself into fragility could simply compound the consequences of an unfortunate experience.

  “Do you see what I mean?” asked Isabel.

  “Yes,” he said. “I do. But, leaving all that aside, there are other things to think about. And don’t tell me you’re going to forget those too.”

  Their lunch arrived: an open sandwich for Isabel, and a mozzarella salad for Jamie. As Isabel removed the capers from the sandwich, Jamie poured a drizzle of olive oil over his mozzarella. Then Isabel looked up to meet Jamie’s gaze. “You think I’ve been thinking,” she said.

  Jamie smiled. “You think I think. And I think you think. But yes, I do think you have. And I’m pretty sure I’m right. All this is classic territory for you—it really is.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Uncertainty?”

  He nodded. “A dilemma. These moral dilemmas have your name all over them. You seem to seek them out—or they find you. I’m not quite sure how it works, but the end result is the same: you’re in a quandary.”

  Isabel moved a caper to the side of her plate. In her view, capers were fundamentally inedible—they simply shouldn’t be on a plate. She knew that people disagreed with her—that there were people who loved capers, who thought they were a good addition to any dish—but had it ever occurred to them that they might be wrong? Capers were flowers, when it came to it, and in Isabel’s view flowers were not there to be eaten.

  Jamie was looking at her intensely. “What are you thinking about?” he asked. “You’re off on one of your private tangents, you know.”

  “I was thinking about capers,” said Isabel. “I’m sorry, I know you were giving me a lecture, but I couldn’t help thinking about how capers are flower-buds and how we don’t like to eat flowers.”

  “Speak for yourself,” said Jamie, reaching for one of the abandoned capers and popping it into his mouth. “And I wasn’t giving you a lecture—I was merely raising something that had to be raised.” He paused, and reached for another caper. “I like these. They have a lovely olive-like taste. A sort of zing. And anyway, why shouldn’t we eat flowers? We eat just about everything else, don’t we?”

  “It’s aesthetic,” said Isabel.

  “Oh, come on! People eat pheasants. Beautiful birds. People eat them.”

  He took a third caper. As he did so, the eyes of the macaroon-eating woman followed the movement of his hand with a certain fascination.

  “You’re being observed,” Isabel whispered. “You’re being observed eating flowers.”

  Jamie glanced across the restaurant. “Oh well,” he said. “Let’s get back to where we were. What are you going to do?”

  Isabel sighed. “I have no idea. And you’re right—I’m in a real quandary.”

  Jamie suggested that she define the quandary, and perhaps an answer would emerge. “Describing a problem can sort it, you know.”

  “Perhaps,” Isabel conceded. “Perhaps it will.”

  He encouraged her. “So, go ahead. What’s the problem?”

  Isabel sighed again. “The issue is this: I have unwittingly found out that—”

  Jamie stopped her. “Not unwittingly, surely. You said we should follow them—remember? That was a deliberate choice on your part.”

  “But I didn’t choose to see them together in the first place,” countered Isabel.

  “You’re splitting hairs,” said Jamie.

  She defended herself. Splitting hairs—as Jamie put it—was really what philosophy was all about. If hairs were there, then they should be split, because most situations were far more complex than one imagined at first sight, and it was only through splitting hairs that you could understand all the ramifications. So if Jamie said she was splitting hairs, she would treat that as a compliment rather than a criticism.

  He apologised. “All right, you stumbled into the situation.”

  She liked that. “Yes, stumbling into it is exactly what happened. I have found myself in a position where I know—or suspect, rather—that somebody is being misled and taken advantage of. What do I do?”

  Jamie looked thoughtful. “You said ‘suspect.’ You just suspect something. You don’t know, do you?”

  She agreed that she did not know. But surely, she thought, there were circumstances in which suspected knowledge could be as good a reason for acting as confirmed knowledge. She put that to Jamie, but he was doubtful. “No,” he said. “You should be very careful about doing something just because you have your suspicions. What if you’re wrong?”

  “You may be wrong even if you think you know something for certain. You could still be wrong.”

  He did not argue the point, but instead asked her what she could possibly do.

  She thought for a few moments before replying. “On balance, I feel I have to do something. And I suppose the only thing to do is to speak to Basil Phelps. I have to tell him of my suspicions.”

  Jamie winced. “That’s not going to be easy.”

  Isabel acknowledged this. “No, it won’t be easy. But I can’t sit on my hands and do nothing.”

  Jamie thought of something else. “And what about the freckled man? What about his photograph being in that police album?”

  “One thing at a time,” said Isabel. “That’s nothing to do with me.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” said Jamie.

  Isabel gestured to their plates. “We have to eat something,” she said. “This is meant to be lunch.”

  Afterwards, when they were back in the house, he took her hand as they stood in the entrance hall. He said, “I’m sorry that I went on at you over lunch.”

  She made light of it. “But you didn’t. The objections you raised were perfectly reasonable.”

  “You do know,” he went on, “that I always approve of everything you do—everything.”

  She laughed. “I wouldn’t recommend that.”

  He held her more closely. She closed her eyes. It was a miracle, in her view—a miracle that she had this man, this vision of physical perfection, this gentle, beautiful soul.

  “All I ask of you is that you be careful,” Jamie continued. “I’m not going to be able to stop you from doing the things you do—but I do ask you to be careful in the way you do them.”

  “I shall,” she whispered.

  She resorted to whispering because the house seemed unusually quiet and she felt as if there was someone listening. This was impossible, of course, but there were times that she felt that what we said—and did—even in the most private of circumstances, was audible or apparent to somebody, somewhere; some watching presence, some guardian, like the omnipresent lares and penates, household gods that
the Romans believed in. They heard everything, but, being Roman gods, were not inclined to be judgemental; comfortable gods, who liked a bit of attention—the occasional sacrifice or offering—but who otherwise let people go about their business without too much agonising over what was right or wrong.

  She looked up at Jamie, and then kissed him.

  He returned the kiss, more passionately.

  “Are we alone?” he asked.

  She said, “Yes.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  SUDDENLY the house seemed to be filling up. Antonia, the new au pair, arrived the following morning, struggling with four over-stuffed suitcases, freshly off a flight from Milan. Grace let her into the house, as Isabel was at the time attending to Magnus, who had diarrhoea. Grace had been told of the Italian girl, and had been tight-lipped at the news.

  “It’s entirely up to you,” she said when Isabel announced that there was to be an au pair. “Personally, I see no reason, but then this isn’t my house.”

  “It’s just that there seems to be so much to do,” said Isabel. “What with the two boys and Jamie having to dash off to concerts and so on, and...” She looked at Grace. The case may have been convincing in her own eyes, but was clearly not persuading her housekeeper.

  “As I said,” Grace intoned, “it’s not for me to decide. If you want a teenager hanging about the house, then that’s your prerogative.”

  Isabel corrected her. “Antonia is not a teenager. She’s twenty-one, I think.”

  “And Italian,” added Grace. She gave Isabel a reproachful look, as if the choosing of a foreign au pair was somehow disloyal.

  Isabel could not let that pass. “Yes,” she said. “And that, in my view, is a big plus. I’ve always liked the Italians. They’re warm people; they make wonderful friends.”

  “I’m sure they do,” sniffed Grace. “But whether one needs an Italian in the house is another matter, I would have thought.”

  Now, standing in the hall, Grace was greeted with the sight of Antonia and her copious luggage. She looked at her suspiciously, noting, with disapproval, the bright-eyed vitality, the slightly olive skin tone, the lush beauty of the shoulder-length auburn hair.

  “Yes?”

  It was hardly a warm welcome, and the young woman at the front door was momentarily taken aback.

  “This is Mrs. Dalhousie’s house?” The English was precise, and well articulated.

  Grace pursed her lips before replying. “Ms. Dalhousie,” she said.

  Antonia looked flustered. “Dalhousie?” she asked.

  Grace nodded, reluctantly. “You’d better come in.”

  Unassisted by Grace, Antonia first brought in two of her suitcases before turning back for the others.

  “You have a lot of luggage,” observed Grace. “Do you need it all?”

  Antonia smiled nervously. “My father says I take too many things,” she said. “He says that you should only have one suitcase.”

  “He’s right,” said Grace. She turned away. “I’ll tell them you’re here.”

  Antonia was standing in the hall, looking about her, when Jamie came downstairs. He shook hands with her and picked up two of her suitcases.

  “I’ll take these upstairs for you,” he said. “We’ll put them in your room and then I’ll bring the rest up afterwards.” He smiled at her. “You’re very welcome, by the way.”

  They went upstairs, passing the open door of the bathroom where Isabel was dealing with Magnus.

  “Antonia’s arrived,” Jamie called out. “I’m just showing her to her room.”

  Isabel appeared at the bathroom door. She was wearing a pair of blue rubber gloves.

  “I’m sorry not to have been there to greet you,” Isabel said. “I was changing one of the boys...” She inclined her head towards the bathroom behind her. “An emergency, you see.”

  The effect of this on Antonia was immediate. “Emergency?” she said. “Emergency?”

  “Oh, the usual sort of thing,” said Isabel. “Nothing untoward.”

  But Antonia had already stepped forward and was looking past Isabel into the bathroom. “Oh dear,” she said. “I can help.”

  Isabel laughed. “My goodness, no. You’ve just arrived.”

  But Antonia insisted. Almost pushing her way past Isabel, she went into the bathroom, where Magnus was lying on a changing mat. The consequences of his stomach upset were still visible, and prolific.

  “I can do this,” said Antonia. “I insist.”

  Isabel glanced at Jamie, who was grinning. She peeled off her gloves and offered them to Antonia. “You really shouldn’t,” she said. “I was coping fine.”

  “Poor little boy,” said Antonia. “This is not a good way for a little boy to start the day.”

  “No,” said Isabel. “I suppose it isn’t.”

  “But I am here to help,” continued Antonia.

  Grace had now appeared from downstairs and from the landing was watching what was going on. She looked disapproving.

  “Antonia has swung into action,” Isabel remarked.

  Grace said nothing.

  “I’m going to take her suitcases up to her room,” said Jamie. He and Isabel exchanged looks of satisfaction. They were both as impressed with Antonia as Grace appeared hostile.

  “Isn’t it kind of her?” asked Isabel.

  “Very,” muttered Grace.

  * * *

  —

  ANTONIA WAS LEFT in her room to unpack; Grace had taken charge of Magnus, whisking him off on a walk to feed the ducks in the canal, ignoring, as Isabel later pointed out to Jamie, the fact that taking a toddler with diarrhoea for a long walk was not the best idea; while Jamie found himself in the kitchen, where Isabel was helping herself to a postponed breakfast.

  “Well?” he said. “First impressions?”

  Isabel buttered a piece of toast. “Amazing,” she said. “How many Scottish girls would do that? Go right in at the deep end?”

  “Who knows? But not many, I suspect.”

  “And she was completely unfazed by it. You can imagine what it was like: poor little Magnus had had what is euphemistically referred to as an accident—a train crash, in this case—and she didn’t bat an eyelid. She had him cleaned up and in a new set of clothing in two seconds.”

  “She must be keen to impress,” said Jamie.

  “Or she’s genuinely helpful. And she was an instant hit with Magnus. He was looking up at her and virtually cooing with pleasure.”

  Jamie referred to Grace’s sourness. “Not everybody was...”

  He did not need to finish. Isabel groaned. “Grace.”

  “Yes.”

  “She’ll come round.”

  * * *

  —

  HALF AN HOUR LATER, through the open door of her study Isabel heard Antonia coming downstairs. With Charlie at nursery and Magnus with Grace—and likely to remain with her, Isabel suspected, as a gesture of ownership—she was not sure if there was anything for the au pair to do, at least in respect of childcare. She decided to suggest that Antonia take some time to explore the city, and she could start work in the house the following day. But when she put this to the young Italian, the proposal was quickly rejected.

  “I can go into the town later, perhaps this afternoon. For now, I must start my work.”

  Isabel did not argue. Antonia’s earlier attention to Magnus had been a foretaste of her enthusiasm—and Isabel found it endearing. “You could start cleaning the house, if you like.”

  Antonia’s eyes lit up. “That is what I would like to do. You can show me, please.”

  Isabel nodded. “And one thing: Do you want me to correct your English as you speak? Not that you’re making many mistakes, but since you’re here, really, to improve your English it could be helpful.”

  “B
ut of course. That is what I want to do. I want to meet people and speak English to them.”

  Isabel smiled at the thought. It sounded so much like a mission statement of the sort that firms made up for themselves. Meeting the needs of consumers—that sort of thing. Empowering people in their search for authenticity—she had seen that one printed on a newspaper advertisement proclaiming the merits of a Scottish knitwear firm. She had wondered where authenticity came into it. Could one become more authentic by wearing a cashmere sweater? Or was the reference to the search for authentic cashmere, as opposed to artificial substitutes? She had felt that a more honest, less pretentious mission statement might have been Empowering people in their search for sweaters. And even then, empowering was a bit much; what was wrong with the word helping? Or would it have been better altogether for the knitwear firm simply to state We sell sweaters? Perhaps We sell woollen things would have been even friendlier. That at least was direct. That did not involve the circumlocution, the slightly pious tone of the typical mission statement. So an au pair might well have the mission statement I want to meet people and speak English.

  “All right,” said Isabel. “You might say: ‘Could you show me what to do?’ That sounds a bit more natural than ‘You can show me.’ Not that ‘You can show me’ is incorrect, but it’s just a question of what sounds more natural.” She paused. She was not sure whether Antonia was ready for that sort of subtlety; her English seemed really rather good, and it was probably not helpful to be burdening her with such nuanced observations at this stage. And anyway, it might be better for her to concentrate on idiomatic, everyday English, of the sort that people actually spoke. Antonia’s contemporaries would not have said “Could you show me?”; they would have said...Isabel thought for a moment. What would they have said? “Okay, show me.” Or they might even have simply said “Cool,” which sufficed to show acceptance in any circumstances, of virtually anything. “Cool. I’m cool with that.” Or “Sounds good,” which appeared to be replacing “Yes.”