She was reflecting on this—on economic injustice—when she alighted at the Mound and made her way into the gallery. The temperature had dropped a bit, although the sky was still clear; a breeze was coming in from the North Sea, enough to cool the city and invigorate its citizens after a languid day. Somewhere in the distance, from the Castle Rock above, she heard a pipe band playing; a warm-up perhaps for the Tattoo, when the massed pipes and drums would march across the esplanade in a spine-tingling display of swirling tartan and military braggadocio. She stopped to listen: “Mist-Covered Mountains,” a favourite of her father’s, and of hers too, the notes wafting down on the wind. A man stood beside her and lifted his head, listening too, and they exchanged understanding and appreciation, united for a brief moment in some shared sense of Scottishness. But he was French, a visitor, for suddenly he muttered, “Bon,” and continued on his way.
She went into the gallery. Although it was not the official opening of the exhibition, it was a special viewing for the paid-up Friends of the National Gallery of Scotland, of which Isabel was one. At the doorway a young woman in a white blouse and tartan skirt checked Isabel’s name against a list. There were glasses of wine on silver trays and canapés on rectangular platters. Isabel took a glass of wine but, mindful of the Café St. Honoré ahead, resisted the snacks.
The exhibition was of neo-classical art from the seventeenth century onwards. The title was “The Classical Impulse,” which intrigued Isabel. What exactly made people embrace classicism? The notion that beauty was to be found in classical themes and forms? A desire for order?
She turned a corner, her glass of wine in one hand, the exhibition brochure in the other. In the first gallery, there were several Poussins, and paintings by his disciples. There was no mistaking the master, of course, and for a few minutes she luxuriated before a study of figures in a classical landscape, their rich red robes caught in a breeze from the hills. One of them was looking at her, it seemed, and she reflected that this shepherd would have been a real person, a model in Poussin’s studio, who could not have imagined that there would be a woman staring at him hundreds of years later in so alien a place. She could imagine his life, but he could never have imagined hers. Sympathy looks backwards not forwards, she thought. Or does it? Can we think about our great-great-grandchildren and feel sorry for them? We should, she decided.
She moved away from the Poussin. A man with an irritating voice had come up behind her and was expounding at length on Poussin’s sense of nature to the woman beside him. Poor woman, thought Isabel; a whole evening of that voice ahead of her. She imagined their going for dinner afterwards and the woman’s eyes glazing over as he continued to talk about Poussin between mouthfuls of chicken. One would have to eat poussin in such circumstances.
“Of course, nature is not entirely benign in Poussin,” the man intoned. “Remember that wonderful painting in London? The one of the man bitten by the snake, and there’s somebody running for help? I’ve always thought that—”
Isabel sidled away; the woman was looking at her, and she did not want her to think that she was … running for help. She looked at the painting before her: Giacinto Gimignani, Joseph and Potiphar’s Wife. Joseph was handsome, an embodiment of temptation to the seductress on the couch; she was reaching for his tunic and he was recoiling. Isabel studied the woman’s expression; the artist had caught the moment, she thought—the moment when thwarted passion turns to the rage of rejection. Her eye moved to Joseph’s face: he was clearly frightened, but there was also disgust. And that was understandable: in the story Joseph was interested only in food; he was a bon viveur—insofar as a slave, even a successful one, can be a bon viveur.
She stood back from the painting. Temptation. Adultery. Rejection. Misunderstanding.
She looked at her watch. She had an hour before Jamie was due to arrive; perhaps slightly more if she sent him a text message and told him to come later. He would pick that up when he turned on his phone after his concert. An hour and a half, perhaps. That was ample.
THE SMELL OF STONE GREETED HER AGAIN as she made her way up the stairs to Millie’s flat. Of course she might not be in, Isabel realised. Millie liked the theatre and would have that evening several hundred Festival Fringe performances to choose from. It could be an entirely wasted trip—as well as representing the abandonment of her resolution not to get involved. But resolutions were aspirational, Isabel knew; honesty required one to acknowledge that.
Millie came to the door in a blue chinoiserie dressing gown. It must have been elegant once, but was now somewhat crumpled and worn, the silk lapels dull and frayed.
“I’m unannounced,” Isabel said. “I hope you’re not …” She hesitated, her eye drawn to the room beyond. “Not entertaining.”
Millie shook her head and gestured for Isabel to enter. “I was planning to go out to a show, but I had a headache.”
“I’m sorry.”
Millie invited Isabel to sit down, moving a newspaper off a chair as she did so. “And then it went. I have the occasional migraine, but they have this new stuff that you swallow immediately and it stops it in its tracks.” She touched her brow gingerly, as if afraid to reawaken the pain. “Would you like something—coffee? Tea? I don’t have any wine, I’m afraid, and I never have spirits. I’d just drink them, I suspect, and then where would we be?”
Isabel sat down. “I was at an exhibition. ‘The Classical Impulse.’ There was a lovely Poussin.”
“Not for me,” said Millie. “For people who like Poussin, perhaps.”
Isabel nodded. “Many would agree.” She paused. She had imagined that Millie might be puzzled by her visit. “I had to come to see you.”
“I thought you might,” said Millie. “After your last visit, I told myself I’d see you again quite soon.”
Isabel was surprised. Did Millie realise that she had given herself away? Not that a positive answer to that question would change what Isabel intended to say. It made it easier, perhaps, but did not fundamentally alter the message she had come to give.
Isabel steeled herself. “You might say that this is none of my business. You might say that I should keep out of it.”
Millie hesitated before replying, and Isabel realised that this was precisely what her friend must be thinking. But when she did reply, it was calmly, and without any sign of irritation. “I wouldn’t say that.” She looked directly at Isabel. “Friends have to interfere from time to time.”
Taken aback, Isabel took a moment to decide what to say next. “The only reason I’ve come to see you is that I believe that your affair with George is possibly putting you in danger. I think that Roz MacLeod is a bit unstable and might do something foolish if she found out—”
Millie stopped her. “My affair with George?”
Isabel felt her breath come quickly; the chemicals of fear, she thought. “I believe that you’re having an affair with George. You lied to me, you see. Sorry to have to say that, Millie, but you lied to me. You gave yourself away when you made that comment on the Elephant House. I didn’t say anything about our having met there, but you knew that was where the meeting had taken place. Whom did you hear it from? From George, I assume.”
Millie stared at her. Her lips moved slightly, as if she were about to speak, but she said nothing.
“And then,” Isabel continued, “Roz hounded me down in the supermarket. She was hysterical—about her suspicions about George, about their rotten marriage, all the affairs—and I formed the opinion that she was unstable. I decided to come and tell you that you should be careful. That’s all.” She hesitated. The next part would be difficult. “But what upsets me, Millie, is that you betrayed me as a friend. I told you about how I was being falsely accused by Roz and you said nothing. You said nothing at all. You could have relieved me of my anxiety right there and then by telling me. But you didn’t.”
There was a silence. Isabel did not look at Millie’s face but stared instead out of the window behind her. This, she told h
erself, is how some friendships end. Things are said that cannot be unsaid: a cliché, of course, but one of complete accuracy.
Millie suddenly stood up. She’s going to ask me to leave, thought Isabel. But she did not; she crossed to the window and stood there, looking out at her washing line, which bore an odd mixture of unidentifiable garments. “Have you ever thought?” she said. “Have you ever thought of just how wrong we can sometimes be?”
The philosopher in Isabel wanted to ask: Wrong in what sense? But she said nothing.
Millie turned round. There was no anger in her. “I’m friendly with George,” she said quietly. “He’s a very good friend. But we are not lovers. That is just not true.”
“Well, I have every reason—”
Millie interrupted her. “However, you’re right that I misled you. I did. I misled you badly.”
Isabel waited.
“You see,” Millie went on. “There is also a friendship between me and Roz. It is very close. Or was close, should I say. Very.”
“I see.”
“No,” said Millie. “I don’t think you do, Isabel. Roz is somebody who can fall in love with both men and women.” She paused. “And does.” She paused again. “And I’m the same.”
Isabel stared at her friend. She should have told me. No, she should not. These things can be entirely private, if people want it that way.
“George still loves Roz,” Millie continued. “He loves her dearly. And she loves him too. I understood that, and I feel bad about ever getting involved with her in the first place. I urged her to stay with him—I broke up what was between us. And then I confessed to him what had happened, and he said that he had known all along—it happened from time to time, and he knew. He forgave me.”
“But the window cleaner,” protested Isabel. “What was that about?”
Millie allowed herself a smile. “We think of window cleaners as men. But do they have to be?”
Isabel returned the smile, tentatively. “A sexist assumption on my part.”
“Exactly.”
“But why would she go on about George having affairs?”
Millie shrugged. “Anxiety on her part. Guilt.”
“I wondered about that.”
“Then you were right.”
“She should get help.”
“She is,” said Millie. “I’ve arranged it. There’s a therapist I know who has agreed to take her on. She’s very good.”
Millie sat down again and reached for Isabel’s hand. “So,” she said. “That’s that. All I have to say now to you is: sorry. I’m sorry that I haven’t been exactly straight with you. But then, you see, I’m not exactly straight myself.”
They both laughed. Then Isabel said, “I’m sorry too, Millie. I’m sorry that I misunderstood everything.”
“Your misunderstanding is entirely understandable,” said Millie. “That’s what I tell my students, you know—when they get things wrong, as they do with distressing frequency.”
“And how do they react?” Isabel asked.
“They laugh,” said Millie. “Which is, I suppose, one of the healthiest ways of reacting to anything. To the world. To our silly attempts to make something of our lives. To all the curious ways we have of complicating our existence.”
They stayed together for another twenty minutes. Then Isabel, noticing the time, explained that she had to meet Jamie at the exhibition. She did not mention the dinner they planned. It appeared that Millie would be alone that night, and Isabel wanted to be tactful. To have another person to have dinner with: it was a simple and entirely adequate goal in life, but not one that everybody, it seemed, could attain.
The Café St. Honoré was busy, but not so crowded as to prevent an intimate conversation at the table. Isabel told Jamie what had happened, and he listened gravely.
“I would have reached exactly the same conclusion myself,” he said. “Don’t blame yourself.”
“I’m not blaming myself,” she said. “I just feel foolish.”
“But we’re all foolish,” he said. “And you’re far less foolish than anybody I know.”
She smiled at him. “Flatterer.”
“It’s true.”
“Then you’re very kind.” He was kinder that anybody she knew, to borrow his phrase. Far kinder. And more gentle. And more lovely in every respect.
“I wish Poussin could have painted you,” she said suddenly.
Jamie looked at her in astonishment. “Why on earth do you say that?”
“Because it’s true,” she said. “And because, in general, it’s better for things to be true than to be false.”
He thought about this. “Of course.” They had been studying the menu over a glass of light white wine. Now he returned to his scrutiny of the evening’s offerings. Something caught his eye.
“Poussin,” he said.
“There you are,” said Isabel.
BOOKS BY ALEXANDER McCALL SMITH
IN THE ISABEL DALHOUSIE SERIES
The Sunday Philosophy Club
Friends, Lovers, Chocolate
The Right Attitude to Rain
The Careful Use of Compliments
The Comforts of a Muddy Saturday
The Lost Art of Gratitude
The Charming Quirks of Others
The Forgotten Affairs of Youth
IN THE NO. 1 LADIES’ DETECTIVE AGENCY SERIES
The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency
Tears of the Giraffe
Morality for Beautiful Girls
The Kalahari Typing School for Men
The Full Cupboard of Life
In the Company of Cheerful Ladies
Blue Shoes and Happiness
The Good Husband of Zebra Drive
The Miracle at Speedy Motors
Tea Time for the Traditionally Built
The Double Comfort Safari Club
The Saturday Big Tent Wedding Party
IN THE CORDUROY MANSIONS SERIES
Corduroy Mansions
The Dog Who Came In from the Cold
IN THE PORTUGUESE IRREGULAR VERBS SERIES
Portuguese Irregular Verbs
The Finer Points of Sausage Dogs
At the Villa of Reduced Circumstances
IN THE 44 SCOTLAND STREET SERIES
44 Scotland Street
Espresso Tales
Love over Scotland
The World According to Bertie
The Unbearable Lightness of Scones
The Girl Who Married a Lion and Other Tales from Africa
La’s Orchestra Saves the World
Coming from Pantheon in December 2011
The Forgotten Affairs of Youth
The Latest Installment in the Isabel Dalhousie Series
eBook ISBN: 978-0-307-90679-3
Print ISBN: 978-0-307-37918-4
Read an excerpt from
The Forgotten Affairs of Youth
An Excerpt from The Forgotten Affairs of Youth
Isabel continued her walk, and five minutes later was standing in front of Cat’s delicatessen. Looking inside, through the large display window, she saw that Cat was pointing out something to a customer, while Eddie, her young assistant, was standing behind the counter. He caught Isabel’s eye and waved enthusiastically, beckoning her in, in the manner of one who had important news to convey. Eddie was normally shy, but not now; now he had something to tell her.
EDDIE SAID TO HER, “You sit down, Isabel. I’ll make you a cappuccino. And I’ve got something to tell you.”
“I sensed that,” said Isabel. “Good news, obviously.”
She smiled at Eddie encouragingly, pleased that he was so manifestly happy. There had been little happiness in his life, she suspected, not that she knew too much about him. She knew that he was in his early twenties; that he lived with his parents, who had moved a few months ago to a new flat in Sighthill; that his father had something to do with the railways; and that something traumatic, something dark and unspoken, had happened
to Eddie when he was seventeen or eighteen. Cat knew what that was, but Isabel had never asked her and did not want to know—not from indifference, but out of respect for Eddie. If he wanted her to know, he would have told her, and he had not.
Eddie was making progress. There had been one or two girlfriends, and this had helped his confidence, and over the last year or so he had shown greater readiness to accept responsibility. Cat could now leave him in charge of the shop for an entire day, even if he was still unable to look after it for much longer than that. Of course, he knew what to do and did it competently, but if he felt that he was on his own he panicked. This had something to do with what had happened—Isabel was sure of that—and only the passage of time would help with that.
Eddie ushered her across to one of the tables at which coffee was served. “We haven’t got that Italian newspaper you like,” he said. “But here’s the Scotsman.”
“I’ve already done the Scotsman,” said Isabel. “And I don’t really need anything to read. You go and make my coffee. Then give me this news of yours.”
Eddie left her, and Isabel glanced at Cat, who was still with her customer. Her niece noticed and nodded. Something in Cat’s expression indicated to Isabel that this customer was taking a long time to make up her mind over which tea to buy.
Eddie produced the cappuccino with a flourish. He had recently taken to signing the frothy milk-top with a thistle, a trick he had learned from an Irish barman who served Guinness with the outline of a four-leaved clover traced on the foam. He sat down and smiled broadly at Isabel.
“Guess,” he challenged. “Go ahead and guess.”
She made a show of thinking. “Let me see. You’ve won the Spanish lottery. El Gordo—the fat one. A million euros, tax-free.”
“Nope.”