The Lost Art of Gratitude_ An Isabel Dalhousie Novel - Alexander McCall Smith [78]
“Why? Why would he make it up?”
Minty shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest idea.” She paused for a moment. “To get back at me? Probably. A parting shot. Yes, why not? People get pleasure from harming others … after it’s all over. Hell hath no fury—you know the expression.”
“Like a woman scorned,” Isabel continued. “That saying rather focuses on women, as I recall.”
Minty laughed. “Oh, come on! Men are just as bad as we are. A man can be as vituperative as a woman any day. Are you telling me that men don’t go in for revenge?”
“They do, I suppose.”
“Well,” said Minty. “There you are.”
Isabel needed to find something out. “I take it that you ended the affair? It wasn’t the other way round?”
Minty did not answer immediately; she glanced away. “It was me. Yes. I became a little bit bored, frankly. Some men—these good-looking ones—are really rather, how shall I put it delicately, disappointing. You’ll know that, of course.”
Isabel caught her breath at the naked effrontery. Minty had seen Jamie and was obviously including him in this category of disappointing good-looking men. You’ll know that, of course.
“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” she said icily. “Perhaps I’ve just been luckier.”
They stared at each other. Isabel felt her dislike for Minty well up; simple, pure dislike. Is this what hate is? she asked herself. Or is hate something even stronger? Is hate the desire to annihilate, to stamp out—to annul the other? She could not recall hating in that sense—ever—but perhaps this is how it started.
The intensity of her antipathy worried her, and she briefly closed her eyes. Unbidden, a line of poetry came to her: Let hatred not distort us / nor make crooked our ways. She could not place it; it was dredged from some deep place in her memory, detached from its reference, its anchor. But she would heed it, wherever it came from.
“I suppose it’s possible,” she said. “I suppose he might wish to harm you.”
Minty sensed a small victory. “Yes,” she said, simply. “As I told you.”
Yet it still seemed implausible to Isabel—why would Jock Dundas bother? And she remained puzzled by Minty’s reaction. If Minty had indeed set the whole thing up, then surely she would have taken more trouble to protest her innocence. She had not even bothered about that, as if she did not care at all whether or not Isabel believed her.
Isabel’s appetite had disappeared, and even had she still felt hungry and in need of soup, she could not face the prospect of lunch with a triumphant Minty. She looked at her watch. “I’m not sure that I have time for lunch after all,” she said. “I have to see somebody.”
Minty smiled sweetly, almost conspiratorially. “Somebody interesting?”
“Very,” said Isabel. I’m married, she thought. Or almost—and you know it. It was Charlie—she would go home and wait for him. She would make him a warm chocolate drink, which he loved, even on a sunny day. She would settle him for his afternoon rest and hold his hand while he went to sleep. Charlie belonged to a world of innocence and truth—not to the world of lies and deception inhabited by Minty.
“I’m grateful to you,” said Minty. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am. Everything’s changed now. You helped, and I owe you.”
Isabel looked at her watch once again—unnecessarily—and began to rise from the table.
“I really am grateful,” Minty said. “If there’s ever anything …”
Isabel tried to smile. “Thank you,” she said. “One never knows.”
“No,” said Minty. “One doesn’t.”
Isabel started to leave, but Minty suddenly stood up and reached out for the sleeve of her jacket; she felt her fingers around her arm, surprisingly tight.
“A final thought,” said Minty.
Isabel moved her arm slightly, causing Minty’s grip to loosen.
“You know something? I think that Jock had no real interest in Roderick at all. None at all.”
Isabel waited for her to continue, although she wanted to leave now; she felt that