Free The Forgotten Affairs of Youth by Alexander McCall Smith

company floated by a friend—not a good investment, as it turned out—but one that loyalty at least dictated.
    “West of Scotland Turbines?” Gareth asked. “Those people over in Paisley?”
    “I’m not sure where they are,” said Isabel. “But Paisley sounds about right. They make … well, I believe they make turbines for hydroelectric schemes.”
    “Indeed they do,” said Gareth. “As it happens, I know the company slightly. They’re small—listed on the alternative market rather than the main exchange. We’ve been looking at their shares. Solid enough, I think, but nothing spectacular.” He paused as he typed details into his computer. “In fact, Isabel, I would say that they were rather dull for you. You’ve always gone for slightly quirkier things—those disposable syringe people, for instance. West of Scotland Turbines is an engineering company. They … well, they make turbines. I’ve actually seen pictures of their products in one of their brochures. Big metal boxes. The water comes in a pipe and goes out another. The turbine is the bit in between.”
    Isabel listened as Gareth went on to discuss the price-to-earnings ratio of the turbine shares—he had brought the details up on his screen and had the figures at his fingertips.
    “They’re priced round about right, I would have thought, which fits with what I said before: nothing special, solid; a reasonable choice if you’re feeling conservative.”
    “As opposed to feeling reckless? Risky?”
    Gareth laughed. “I can’t imagine you feeling reckless. It doesn’t quite fit with being a philosopher.”
    “I’m quite capable of throwing caution to the winds,” said Isabel. “It makes such an exhilarating sound, when you toss caution into the wind. It’s a sort of whooshing …”
    “Isabel? Are you all right?”
    “Sorry. Just speculating.”
    “Well, speculation is something I don’t really recommend—when discussing investments. If you’re on the lookout, I can come up with a much more interesting option. We had a meeting here the other day—my colleagues and I—and we talked about a company that runs cruise liners. Somebody has come up with a formula to track the relationship between obesity levels and the profitability of cruise lines. Apparently the heavier people get, the better cruise lines do. Interesting.”
    Isabel laughed. “These are dark arts you practise, Gareth.”
    Gareth responded that dark sounded better than the sobriquet normally given to economics—dismal—and the conversation returned to West of Scotland Turbines.
    “You’d like me to put some of your funds into them? Are you sure?”
    “Everybody needs electricity,” said Isabel. “And hydroelectricity is as green as it gets.”
    Gareth agreed. “Well, there’s no real reason for me to advise you against it, and so I’ll go ahead. How much?”
    A brief discussion ensued. Isabel found it awkward to talk figures: she had not asked for all this money, she felt, and she had no intention of letting it dictate the course of her life. She could give it away, of course, but …
    And there she recognised the contradictions in her position. She did not like to think that she needed the money, but she did. She had the house to maintain. She had to pay Grace. She had all the expenses connected with Charlie—the playgroup charged fees; her green Swedish car would need major surgery, she had been told—possibly a new transmission. There were taxes to pay, insurance, local rates: the list seemed endless. So although she gave generously to a number of causes—Scottish Opera, in particular—she had to keep
something
.
    They decided on one hundred thousand pounds, and the telephone conversation came to an end. Rising from her desk, Isabel crossed the room to stare out of the window. She asked herself what she had done. It was absurd, even shameful. She—who had often criticised speculators who played with the currencies and assets of others, those