Jamie had said nothing to her about this. Nothing. And where was that picture of Brother Fox? Had she made a dreadful mistake? And did he really love her, or was she just labouring under some huge delusion?
She looked at the beginnings of the letter to Dove on her computer screen, as if that might distract her from the cold dread that had suddenly come upon her. She moved her hands back to the keyboard. Why did people hurt one another? Why did we punish one another in all the inventive ways we had devised for the purpose? She stared at the screen through her tears and decided she would not bring disappointment; she would not be the agent of Nemesis, not this time, not now. “Dear Christopher,” she wrote. “Thank you for sending me that piece on the Trolley Problem. Yes, we shall publish this. Not this issue but the next. Warmest wishes, Isabel.”
She pressed the key that would print the letter on the letterhead of the Review. Then she stood up, but sat down again almost immediately. She did not know what to do. She felt as if she wanted to run out of the house, to get away from everything; but Charlie was upstairs, and she could not. She was tied down. Jamie was free, as she wanted him to be, but she was tied down.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
JAMIE WAS ON THE TRAIN that left Glasgow at six o’clock. He arrived back at the house shortly after seven, letting himself in by the front door and going straight upstairs to see if Charlie was still awake. The nursery was in semidarkness, the shutters closed, the only light being that from the dim-burning bulb that calmed Charlie through the watches of the night. He could tell from his breathing that Charlie was fast asleep, and when he looked down he saw the small head on the mattress, his eyes closed, his mouth open in repose. He bent down and planted the lightest of kisses on his son’s forehead, or just above it, as he did not want to wake him. There was the smell of soap, of down, of washed wool blanket, of a tiny life.
He found Isabel in the kitchen, leaning against the polished steel guardrail of the cooking range, paging through a magazine. She looked up when he came in, and he sensed immediately that something was wrong. At least Charlie was all right; it had nothing to do with that. The Review? She had been worrying over some business with Dove. Or that doctor and his troubles; Isabel could get caught up in the problems of others to the point where she allowed them to destroy her peace of mind. Maybe it was that.
“Is something wrong?”
She shook her head; far too quickly, he thought.
He crossed the room. “Yes, there is. Of course there is.”
She avoided meeting his gaze, and that, he thought, was another sign. He was standing in front of her now and took the magazine from her hands; he saw that it was upside down.
“What is it, Isabel? Please tell me.”
She looked down at the floor steadfastly. “There was a message for you on the answering machine.”
He frowned. “What about?”
“About Boston,” she said. “About…”
He took her hand. “Oh,” he said.
She waited for him to continue, but he was silent.
“Nick Smart,” she said. “He telephoned to say that the audition was on.”
Jamie looked at her uncomprehendingly. “What audition?”
“The audition he’s arranged for you.” She paused and their eyes met, but only briefly. “So if they like you, presumably you’ll go and work there. Live there.”
Slowly the look on Jamie’s face changed from incomprehension to understanding. “That audition’s not for me,” he said quietly. “And the message wasn’t for me either. I think he dialled the wrong number.”
“Yes, he did,” said Isabel. “He thought this was your flat.”
Jamie took her hand. She tried to take it away from him, but he held on, tightly. “No, don’t. Don’t. Just listen to me, Isabel. That audition is for Will. You know, the oboist. The one you heard play that solo at the Queen’s Hall last time. He and Nick have been hitting it off rather well recently, and Will said that Nick was arranging for him to have an audition over in Boston. I only half listened at the time, but it was something to that effect.” He stopped. He was trying to work out why Nick had telephoned the house. “And so I think what happened is that he meant to phone Will but phoned us instead. He’s got this number. I gave him both. He must have looked the wrong one up.”
He felt Isabel stop trying to release her hand. She did not care how the error had come about; the important thing was that it was an error. “So you’re not going to Boston,” she said.
“Of course not. And I certainly wouldn’t go anywhere at Nick’s suggestion.” He paused. “There’s something about him that makes me uncomfortable, you know. He’s sarcastic about other people. Belittles them. But I don’t want to be rude to him.”
Isabel gave him her other hand. He was cold, from the walk up from Haymarket, and she squeezed his hands to warm them up.
“You’re kind,” she said. “You’re kind to him. To me. To everyone.”
“I’m not…” He was embarrassed, and turned away. It was now sinking in that she had believed him to be about to desert her. How could she think that?
Isabel put her arms around him. “Please,” she said. “Please forgive me…forgive me for even thinking that you could hide something from me. I’m so sorry.”
“I wouldn’t…I really wouldn’t even think…”
“Of course you wouldn’t. It’s all in my mind. I’m the stupid one.”
They stood in silence, and then, after a few minutes, he reminded her that they were due to go out to dinner; that he needed to take a shower and that she would want to get dressed. “Also,” he said. “Also, I’ve got a little present for you.”
Her heart gave a leap; the picture of Brother Fox, and she had almost spoiled the occasion of its presentation by accusing him of being about to desert her…and Charlie.
He left the room and came back with something in his hands. A small bunch of flowers, freesias, carefully done up in the florist’s thin printed foil, their strong, sweet scent rising from the packaging; a simple bunch of flowers.
She kissed him on the cheek. “A real surprise,” she said, adding, “in more ways than one.”
“Why?”
She hesitated. Why had she added anything? Thank you would have been enough. “I was expecting something else, I suppose. These are very nice, but I was expecting something else.”
It was too late to withdraw the remark, and she found that she did not have the heart to lie. So when he asked her what she had been expecting, she told him what she had thought that it might be.
“I thought you were going to give me a picture,” she said, and, seeing his surprise, added, “a picture of a fox.”
“A fox?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I saw it more or less by mistake.”
“I thought that you would like these flowers,” said Jamie.
“Of course I do,” she said. “And I should never have said that I was expecting something else.”
Jamie began to smile. “On the other hand…Or, shall I say, in the other hand…” He had been holding the painting in his other hand, concealed behind his back, and now he gave it to her, a small parcel wrapped in green paper, about which a silver ribbon had been inexpertly tied. Men are not good at tying ribbons, thought Isabel; but she would not have it otherwise—she would not change this inadequately tied ribbon for anything else.
“I knew that you knew about it,” Jamie said. “Robin showed it to you, as I’d asked him to. I had forgotten to tell you about it, and so I decided to add an element of anticipation. And wrap it too.”
“You’re very romantic,” she said.
He laughed. “I try.”
She slipped the ribbon off and eased the painting out of its wrapping. “Brother Fox,” she whispered.