The Lost Art of Gratitude

She had to decide, and now, at this extreme moment, she found it remarkably easy to choose. There was no self within her saying, Go on, go ahead and threaten her; all that she heard was the self that said, It would be wrong; what you have to do is forgive her.

“I told you that I wouldn’t tell him, and I won’t.”

Minty’s relief was palpable. “Good.”

Isabel watched her. “I notice that you said good and not

thank you.”

“Thank you,” said Minty.

“An afterthought.”

Isabel swallowed. Her heart was thumping again, as it always did at these moments. Minty’s heart, she thought, will not be thumping, or turning somersaults, or doing any of the things that the hearts of normal people are said to do.

“One final thing,” Isabel said. “You have wronged me, but you have wronged others—George Finesk included.”

Minty stared at her. “George Finesk? Let me tell you something. That man has a dispute with me. A simple business disagreement. He’s the one who’s taken it nuclear.”

Isabel held her gaze. “But I know what happened. And it seems to me that you should have told him that you were going to sell the bank’s holding in that company.”

Minty’s expression now showed amusement. “But I did. I told him about it. There was complete disclosure.”

“He says there wasn’t.”

Minty waited for a few moments before she replied. “He’s a liar.” She paused, watching the effect of her words on Isabel. “Can’t you tell when somebody’s lying?”

No, thought Isabel. I don’t seem to be able to do that at all.

She looked away, unsure as to whether she would have the courage to challenge Minty. “People tell a lot of lies, don’t they? So what if I were lying when I told you that I wouldn’t tell Gordon about your affair? What then?”

Minty froze. She opened her mouth, but said nothing. Isabel felt her eyes upon her; cold rays.

“Well, I wasn’t lying when I said that. But tell me something—have you heard of the liar paradox?”

Minty looked uncertain. It was what Isabel wanted; she had forced the other woman on to her own territory.

“It’s something that philosophers talk about,” said Isabel. “A Cretan says ‘All Cretans are liars.’ But he’s a Cretan, you see. More to the point, though, I might say to you, ‘All Scots sometimes tell lies,’ which is probably true. There can’t be anybody, really, who hasn’t told a lie—even a little one—at some point in life, particularly as a child. So what this suggests is that you shouldn’t always believe what a Scottish person tells you. And, of course, I’m a Scot …” She smiled. “What a ridiculous conversation, though. Please don’t pay too much attention to what I say. I’m a professional philosopher, you see, and we go on about things rather a lot. Strange, unrealistic speculation, and so on.”

Minty was watching her, but Isabel now felt confident. Wickedness was tawdry when you came right up against it—as she felt she was doing now. It was tawdry and banal. There was nothing impressive or frightening about Minty Auchterlonie; she was very ordinary.

“Yes,” Isabel went on, “I love philosophical speculations. So I might ask myself, for example, whether in a case like this it would be appropriate for one person to compensate another. What do you think, Minty—do you enjoy speculating about that sort of thing?”

Minty remained quite still. “I understand what you’re saying,” she said. “I will. I’ll do something.”

Isabel watched her. No, she thought, she’s lying. Again. But she had played with her enough. It was not for her to punish Minty.

“I don’t think you will at all,” said Isabel. And then, rather reluctantly, she added, “And I don’t think that you really understand me. So let me reassure you. When I said that I wouldn’t say anything to Gordon, I meant that. You can trust me.”

IT TOOK HER TIME to calm down as she drove back, but by the time she reached the turn-off for Flotterstane she felt normal again. Her visit to Minty Auchterlonie, she decided, had not been a waste of time; nor had she allowed herself to become angry. She found herself wondering what would have happened had she yielded to the temptation to force Minty to make amends to George by threatening to tell Gordon of the affair. Again, she had made the right decision, as to do otherwise would have been to play by Minty’s rules, and Minty, she suspected, would always win in any such game.

She looked out of the car window, down towards Roslin and Dalkeith beyond. The evening air seemed to have applied a wash to the countryside, like the layer of faint blue that a watercolourist will use to blur the details. It gave the land that feeling of peacefulness, of near somnolence, of a country getting ready for the darkness that was still an hour or two away. She loved that view; she loved that bit of land, which, when she turned the next corner following the road that curved round Hillend House, would become the city.

Charlie had been put to bed by the time she arrived at the house.