The Careful Use of Compliments Read online

  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 this had finished before they rose to their feet and began to make their way towards 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.

  “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 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?”

  “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 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.

  ISABEL ARRIVED HOME 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 some 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, 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.”

  Grace said nothing, and Isabel did not look at her to gauge her reaction. She did not want to argue with Grace because she felt that it would be wrong for her to do so when Grace was her employee. That gave her an advantage over the other woman which she should not use; Grace could not fight back on equal terms, and that was unfair. But at the same time, it was not unreasonable of her, she felt, to insist on being asked before Charlie was given things like gripe water. Fennel! Ginger! Unnamed herbs!

  She began to move away, but Grace had something to say, and she stopped.

  “Cat telephoned.”

  In the past, Cat had telephoned regularly. Then, with the breach in their relations, these calls had stopped; the significance of this was not lost on Grace, who said, “Yes. She actually telephoned.”

  Isabel turned round. “What about?”

  “An invitation. She wants you to go to dinner with her.” She paused, watching Isabel’s reaction.

  Isabel decided to be cool about this. “Oh? That’s kind of her.”

  “Jamie too,” said Grace. “She wants him to go too.”

  Isabel’s manner remained cool, although this was a very unexpected development. “And Charlie?” she asked.

  Grace shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she said. “She didn’t mention him.”

  Isabel went into the house, into her study. For a few minutes she just stood there, inwardly seething. Grace had no right to take over Charlie like that. She was acting almost as if he were her baby, not Isabel’s. And it irritated her, too, that the other woman should behave as if she knew more about babies than Isabel did; there had been many instances of that, sometimes subtle, sometimes not so subtle. Isabel knew that Grace had always thought of her as somebody who was otherworldly, somebody who did not really know how things worked. Isabel had ignored this in the past, but she found it hard to do that now.

  She sat down. Things were going wrong: the job, her failure of nerve in the auction, that odd exchange with Jamie over money, Grace giving Charlie gripe water, and now this odd invitation from Cat. Why would Cat invite Jamie? To interfere? To try to get him back?

  Isabel looked down at the floor. The carpet in her study was an old red Belouchi that had been in the house for as long as she could remember. She and her brother had played on it as a child. He had used it to make a tent from which he had shot rubber-tipped arrows in her direction. One had hit her in the eye and he had been punished by their father. He had blamed her for his punishment, for telling on him. I’ll hate you forever, he had hissed at her. Wait and see. I’ll hate you forever. And now, after all those years, she hardly ever saw him, and he never wrote. It was not the Belouchi, of course; it was something else, something private and nothing to do with Isabel herself. Children hated for a very short time; they forgot, sometimes after a few minutes, while adults could keep hatreds going indefinitely, across generations.

  She thought of Jamie. It would have been so much simpler if he had been her own age and she could have accepted his proposal of marriage there and then. It was bad luck, just bad luck to fall in love with the wrong person. People did that all the time; they fell in love with somebody who for one reason or another could never be theirs. And then they served their sentence, the sentence of unrequited, impossible love, which could go on for years and years, with no remission for good behaviour, none at all.

  She looked up at the white expanse of ceiling. In her mind the most worrying thing about Cat’s invitation was this: Jamie had recovered from Cat—Isabel thought of it as a recovery—but if he were to spend any time in her company his feelings for her might be reignited. It could happen. So should she conveniently forget to mention the invitation to him? Or should she go further and tell Cat that he did not want to come? For a short time the dilemma which this posed made Isabel forget her worries. If she simply did not pass on the invitation, she was merely omitting to do something; if she went further and told Cat that he did not want to come then she was actually telling a lie. As to the omission, she was not sure what duty one had to pass on information to another. If A says to B please tell C something or other, does B have any obligation to do so? It would depend, thought Isabel, on whether B had agreed to take on the duty of passing on the message. If he had not, then a liberal individualistic philosopher would probably say that he did not have to exert himself. That was liberal individualism, of course, with which Isabel did not always agree. Don’t go swimming with a liberal individualist, she told herself; he might not save you if you started to drown. No, liberal individualism was not an attractive philosophy. Except now. Now it offered a very attractive solution to her problem.

  I’ll discuss the question with Jamie, she decided. And then she thought: How can I be so stupid? Oh, Christopher Dove, if only you could hear this interior monologue. If only. And you too, Professor Lettuce, you great slug!

  She felt much better.

  CHAPTER SIX

  TWO DAYS AFTER THE AUCTION , Isabel was seated at her desk, halfheartedly paging through a submission for the journal—not a good one, she thought, but she always read to the end, no matter how tedious. She had not done anything about Cat’s invitation, and was still uncertain just what she would do about it; so when the telephone rang she looked at it for a few moments, uncertain whether to answer. It could be Cat, in which case she would be put in an immediate spot for having ignored the invitation.

  She picked up the receiver and gave her numbe
r. Cat always interrupted her if she did that. “I know your number,” she would say. “I’ve just dialled it.” But, rather to her relief, it was not her niece, but Guy Peploe.

  “I’m sorry that you didn’t get your picture,” he said. “I was crossing my fingers for you.”

  “That’s what happens at auctions,” Isabel said. “And there’ll be another chance some day, no doubt.”

  Guy laughed. “True words,” he said. “In fact, there’s a chance right now, if you’re interested. Not that picture, of course, but another McInnes. Interested?”

  Isabel said that she was. But was it at auction?

  “No,” said Guy. “Somebody has brought it in to the gallery and wants us to sell it on commission.”

  Isabel thought for a moment. She was interested in seeing it, but she wondered whether she would want to buy it. The picture she had missed at auction had been a special one, as far as she was concerned, because of its link with the small study that she already owned; she had no particular desire to own a McInnes just because it was a McInnes.

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll take a look at it some time over the next few days”

  Guy hesitated at the other end of the line. “Sorry to press you,” he said, “but I think that you should come down more or less immediately. I’ve got somebody coming in later this afternoon to look at a number of other things who may well go for this one too. He buys for a collector in Palm Beach. This is exactly the sort of thing that his man in Florida likes.”

  Isabel looked at her watch and then glanced down at the manuscript she was reading. “Look, Guy, I’m in the middle of something really tedious. It’ll take me about forty minutes to finish and then I can come. And can I bring Charlie?”

  Charlie, she was told, would be very welcome: one could never start them on art too young. Isabel then returned to the paper she was reading. She had lost the thread of the argument, which was all about individual autonomy within the family, and had to go back several paragraphs to regain it. There was something wrong with this paper, she thought; something odd that she could not quite put her finger on. Then it occurred to her: the author did not believe what he was writing. He was making all the right arguments, saying all the right things, but he simply did not believe it. She looked at the title page, where his name and institution were typed. Yes. It was just as she thought. That particular department of philosophy was known for its ideological position; one could not even get an interview for a job, let alone a job, unless one adopted a radical position. This poor man was uttering the shibboleths, but his heart was obviously not in them: he was a secret conservative! In this paper he had argued against the family, calling it a threat to individual autonomy, a repressive institution. That was the party line, but he probably loved his family and believed that the best way of growing up adjusted and happy was to have a mother and a father. But that was heresy in certain circles, and very unfashionable.