Free The Careful Use of Compliments by Alexander McCall Smith Page A

she could not. You can say anything to me, she said to herself; anything at all. Because we’re lovers. And I love you, Jamie, every bit of you; I love you so much.
    She reached out and touched him. She swept the hair back off his forehead and then she slipped her hand down to the back of his neck. “There are shares in a company,” she said. “They came from my mother. The company had land and buildings in Louisiana, and in Mobile too. It did well.”
    â€œYou don’t have to tell me this,” said Jamie. “I’m sorry—”
    â€œEleven million pounds,” said Isabel. “Depending on the value of the dollar.”
    Jamie was silent. He stared at her in astonishment.
    â€œIs your curiosity satisfied?” she asked.
    Jamie seemed flustered. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. I don’t know why I did. I really don’t.”
    Isabel took his hand. “Could you telephone the school and tell them that you can’t come in?” she said on impulse. “We could go home.”
    He shook his head.
    â€œGo on,” she urged him.
    He shook his head again. “Siren,” he said.
    They kissed, and she watched him for a few moments as he walked down Broughton Street. He must have sensed her gaze, as he turned round and waved to her before continuing. She blew him a kiss, which he did not return.
    Isabel turned away and began to walk along Queen Street. The late-morning air was bright, the air warm for the east of Scotland. She was worried that she had divulged something that she should have kept private. A few minutes earlier she had thought of the giving of hostages. Well, she said to herself, I’ve just given another one.
    Â 
    ISABEL ARRIVED HOME to find that Grace had taken Charlie out into the garden in his pram, and was sitting under the sycamore tree at the back. Isabel peered down at Charlie, who was sleeping on his back, his head shaded by the pram’s retractable hood. His mouth was slightly open and his right hand was holding the silk-lined edge of the blanket, the fingers where they were when he had fallen asleep.
    â€œSomething seemed to be bothering him this morning,” said Grace. “He was all niggly and he wouldn’t settle. Girned a lot. Then he became a bit better. I gave him some gripe water.”
    Isabel stayed where she was, bent over the pram, her face just above Charlie, but she looked sharply at Grace. “You gave him gripe water,” she said evenly. “And?”
    â€œAnd it did the trick,” said Grace. “No more girning. Well, no more after about ten, fifteen minutes.”
    Grace used the Scots word girn, which Isabel always thought so accurately described the sound of a child’s crying. But it was gripe water that concerned her. “I didn’t know we had any gripe water,” she said. And then, straightening up, she continued, “We don’t, do we? We don’t have it.”
    â€œI bought some,” said Grace. “A few weeks ago.”
    Isabel walked round the side of the pram. “And he’s had it before?” she asked.
    â€œYes,” said Grace. “Quite a few times. It really is effective.”
    Isabel took a breath. She rarely felt angry, but now she did, aware of the emotion welling up within her—a hot, raw feeling. “But gripe water contains gin, doesn’t it? For God’s sake. Gin!”
    Grace looked at her in astonishment. “Not anymore! It used to, I believe. I had it when I was a child, my mother told me. She said that she would take a swig or two herself as well. But that’s years ago. You know how fussy people are these days.”
    â€œSo what does it have in it now?” asked Isabel. “I like to know what medicines Charlie’s taking, you know. As his mother I feel…” She knew that she sounded rude, but she could not help herself. And it did not help that Grace seemed so