The Lost Art of Gratitude

“Ah,” said Isabel. Minty, she reminded herself, came from a world where people were immediately interested in knowing what business others were in; she and Jamie did not. Particularly Jamie: his main interest was in the sort of music that people liked. “That man,” he might say, “that man who’s keen on Wagner. I saw him today.” Or, “That pupil of mine—the one who likes Chopin—left his rugby boots in the flat. Covered with mud.”

“He has his own blend,” went on Minty. “One that he bottles himself. The Lochaline.”

Isabel knew very little about whisky—no more, really, than she had picked up from her occasional attendance at a talk by her friend, Charlie Maclean. She had never heard of the Lochaline, which sounded rather obscure to her and not really deserving of a definite article, or at least not yet; a definite article took time. Some whiskies, she knew, adopted a definite article, as an affirmation of their fame. The Macallan was one; a practice justified in its case by habit and repute. And some Scottish clan chiefs did a similar thing. There was a MacGregor who simply called himself The MacGregor, which had the virtues of simplicity and clarity even if it implied that other MacGregors were, by contrast, indefinite.

So Paul Hogg had been disposed of … no, she should not assume that. Paul Hogg may well have disposed of Minty, or indeed they might even have disposed of one another in an act of mutual emotional suttee. “And you?” asked Isabel. “Are you working?”

Minty nodded. “Rather hard, actually. This is one of my rare days off.” She paused. She was looking at Jamie again, and it seemed to Isabel that her answer was directed to him. “I run a bank. An investment bank.”

Jamie looked impressed, or tried to; Isabel could tell that investment banks meant little to him. And she liked that. There was nothing essentially wrong with investment bankers, but they were usurers, after all, and she was not sure that she would want to live with a usurer. A reformed investment banker, of course, would be another matter.

She immediately reproached herself for that thought. It was immature, unjust, and above all uncharitable. She knew bankers, and liked them. There was an ocean of difference between a usurer, properly so called, and a banker. Usurers exacted excessive interest, whereas bankers extracted … moderate interest. We needed bankers, and they were entitled to the same moral respect as anybody else. Most of them did their jobs with integrity and care; some did not, of course, but there were plenty of greedy people in other professions, and philosophers were in no position to claim the moral high ground that they spent so much time and effort identifying for others. Look at Rousseau, who was so rude and ungrateful to David Hume in spite of all that Hume did for him. Look at Schopenhauer, who refused to speak to his mother for years. And look at me, she thought, who has just thought uncharitable thoughts about an entire section of commercial humanity …

“Well done,” said Isabel.

Minty’s pleasure at this compliment was manifest. “Thank you,” she said. “It’s hard, you know, for a woman. They claim that the playing field is level, but it isn’t really. The men still do private little deals amongst themselves. They still … huddle.”

“And women?” asked Jamie, in a tone of innocence. “Isn’t there an association of professional women in Edinburgh that’s women-only? I played in a quintet for them once—at a dinner. All women. I was the only man there.”

Minty laughed. “Yes, there is. There’s more than one, in fact.”

“So women huddle too?” Jamie had a sense of fairness and little time for the hypocrisies of the age.

Minty was not ready to concede so easily. “We have to. We have to do it to make up for past injustice.”

Jamie nodded. “I see.”

It was clear that Minty now regarded the topic as resolved—in her favour. Jamie might be an attractive young man, but he was still a man. She turned to Isabel and asked her about the Review. Isabel explained that she still edited it, but as owner. Minty had the good manners at least to return the compliment that Isabel had paid her. “That’s something,” she said.

Minty’s order arrived and they continued their lunch. The conversation flowed rather well, Isabel thought, and when, at the end of the meal, Minty suggested that they exchange telephone numbers, her views on the other woman were beginning to change.

“Roderick is having a second birthday party on Sunday,” said Minty. “I know it’s no notice, but why not bring Charlie? They seem to get on very well.”

They do not, thought Isabel, but did not say it. She accepted, and Minty, who had some shopping to do, left.

Jamie, who seemed relieved that Minty had gone, now said, “So, what did Dove write?”

Isabel’s mind was elsewhere. She was thinking of the invitation; it would be Charlie’s first party. Would there be olives? “What?”

“Dove. What did he write? You said it was a bombshell.”