The Lost Art of Gratitude

IT IS HARD to ignore the other people in a room when there are only a few of you. You can try, of course, and some people make a passable job of acting as if others are just not there. Grace had once recounted such an experience when she had found herself in a small room with two other candidates for a part-time job in a hotel. One of the others had acknowledged her presence and smiled encouragingly; the other woman, “putting on airs” said Grace, pretended that nobody else was in the room and looked everywhere but at her companions—up at the ceiling, at the pictures on the wall, at her wristwatch. Isabel relished the thought: Grace in combat was glorious.

“And what happened?” asked Isabel.

“When I walked past her I stood on her toe,” said Grace. “Deliberately.”

Although Isabel would have preferred not to encounter Minty in the National Trust café, the other woman was none the less there, and was looking in Isabel’s direction.

“Isabel!”

Isabel looked up from her feigned scrutiny of the menu; it had been upside down anyway.

She smiled at Minty, who rose from her table and crossed the floor towards her.

“Are you by yourself?” Minty asked brightly.

Isabel had no alternative but to welcome Minty to the empty seat on the other side of her table.

“I very rarely come to this place,” said Minty. “I usually have lunch at my desk. I send my assistant out for a sandwich. Of course there are business lunches, and I have my places for those. What about you?”

Isabel waved a hand airily. “Oh, just like you. A sandwich. A bowl of soup. Mostly at home.”

“You’re so lucky,” said Minty. “Not to have a job.”

Isabel’s eyes narrowed; she would not be condescended to by Minty. “Actually, I do have a job. As you know, I edit a journal.”

Minty seemed hardly to hear the reply. This was not a real job as far as she was concerned. “Of course.”

Isabel glanced at the menu. The soup was Tuscan bean. “Tuscan bean,” she began to point out, but was cut short by Minty. “I was going to phone you this evening,” she said. “This is fortuitous.”

Isabel looked at Minty evenly. “Yes, I wanted to talk to you too.”

“Well, here we are,” said Minty breezily. “Tell me, how did—”

Isabel decided that it was her turn to interject. “I’ve just seen Jock Dundas,” she said. “I went to his office.”

Minty was silent. Isabel saw a muscle on the side of her face twitch slightly; it was almost imperceptible, but she saw it.

“Yes,” Isabel continued. “I went round to McGregor, Fraser and talked to him.”

“A good firm,” said Minty. “We occasionally use—”

Isabel was aware that any conversation with Minty was a struggle for control. Again she cut in. “He told me something quite extraordinary. He said that Margaret Wilson had been speaking to him.”

Minty frowned. “Margaret Wilson? The Margaret Wilson at the bank? That one?”

“Yes. Your Margaret Wilson. And what she told him has effectively frightened him off.”

Minty shook her head in puzzlement. “I’ve never mentioned you to Margaret. Never.”

Isabel watched her. Minty would have no difficulty, she thought, in denying any knowledge of this. But she was determined to persist.

“Margaret Wilson is a friend of yours, I believe.”

“She isn’t,” snapped Minty. “She works at the bank, yes, but I don’t know her all that well. And let me repeat what I’ve just said—she and I have never discussed anything to do with you. We just haven’t.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Isabel. “I’m afraid that I think that you have. The significant thing is that she told Jock Dundas that you had set me on to him and that I was some sort of … ‘enforcer.’ She said that my job would be to ruin him.”

Minty’s eyes opened wide. “What?”

“And Jock Dundas believed her. He’s very concerned about a partnership in the firm. He thought he wouldn’t get it if a scandal blew up.”

Minty seemed to be listening very carefully. “Even if …”

“Even if that means giving up Roderick.”

Minty sat back in her chair. Isabel found herself feeling surprised over her adversary’s reaction. She had anticipated a flat denial from Minty, which she would simply discount. But what she saw now was something quite different. There had been an initial denial—at least with regard to Margaret Wilson—but that had been followed by a reaction that was altogether more calculating.

Minty now leaned forward. “Well, I must say that this is very satisfactory, Isabel,” she said. “At least from my point of view. As for this … this ridiculous story that Jock came up with—who knows where he got that from. He probably made it up.”

“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.”