you to remember her. I almost didn’t when I saw her this morning, but then she helpfully told me exactly who she was. People sense it when you haven’t got a clue who they are.”
“Garlic,” said Jamie.
She looked at him quizzically. “Garlic?”
“Sorry. I’m trying to get this right. I haven’t put any garlic in and she said that I should. Or I think that she did.”
“She being?”
Jamie dipped a spoon into the contents of the pot and tasted the result. “Mary Contini.”
“Check the recipe.”
He put down the spoon, shaking his head. “I don’t know where I put the book. It’s somewhere, but I don’t know … Do you think garlic makes a difference?”
Isabel smiled. “Yes, of course. Garlic in a dish makes it taste garlicky.” She paused; what was wrong with Jamie this evening? “Don’t you agree? Whereas dishes without garlic …”
Jamie sighed. “Don’t taste of garlic.”
She looked at him. The sigh was uncharacteristic; it suggested that he had found her comment tiresome, a weak attempt at humour.
“Do you want me to take over?” She had not asked him to cook that evening—he had volunteered. He was a good cook, she had discovered, and unlike many men he seemed prepared to stick closely to the recipe—or most of the time, at least. Men, she had noticed, were inclined to be slapdash in their measuring of quantities and even choice of ingredients; her father, who belonged to a generation of males who rarely ventured into the kitchen, had occasionally cooked but had been gloriously cavalier in his methods, substituting mint for basil and, on one famous occasion, onions for potatoes.
Jamie declined Isabel’s offer, but not very graciously, she thought. He was rarely irritable, and there seemed to be something on his mind this evening. Should she ask him? She watched him at the stove. Yes, his body language gave it away; there was something tense about his position, as if he were feeling hostility to the task he was performing, as if he were poised to move away. He was standing, she thought, in the way of an opera singer about to stride off the stage in a display of high dudgeon.
“Should I …”
He did not let her finish. “I’m fine. It’s just that I wish I had the recipe to hand … Garlic.”
“Put it in. You can’t go wrong with garlic.” You could, of course.
He mumbled something she did not catch. Then he gave the casserole dish a final stir, replaced the lid and turned to face her. “This woman, Jillian what’s-her-name—what about her?”
“Jillian Mackinlay. I met her today at the delicatessen. She came to sit at my table.”
Jamie walked over towards Isabel and pulled out a chair.“Oh? Did you mind? I find it a bit irritating when I want to read something or just sit and think and somebody comes up.”
Isabel shook her head. “No, I didn’t mind.”
“And?” He hesitated, watching her closely. “She didn’t …” He sighed. “She asked you to do something? Is that it?”
Isabel did not reply for a moment. She knew exactly what Jamie would think—and say—about this. He had advised her to stop what he called meddling—but it was
not
meddling, she felt. Meddling was interfering unasked; she was always asked. And there was another difference: a meddler did not necessarily interfere for the good of somebody else—meddlers as often as not had their own interests in mind, or were driven by vulgar curiosity. And what, she wondered, was the difference between vulgar curiosity and acceptable curiosity? Was it just that our own curiosity was perfectly understandable, whereas the curiosity of others was vulgar? She smiled at the thought; that sort of distinction lay at the heart of many of our acts of discrimination. What I like is art; what you like is kitsch. My old car has character; yours is a wreck.
Jamie frowned. “What’s the joke?” He sounded peevish, and Isabel stopped smiling.
“I was thinking of something,” she said
“Garlic,” said Jamie.
She looked at him quizzically. “Garlic?”
“Sorry. I’m trying to get this right. I haven’t put any garlic in and she said that I should. Or I think that she did.”
“She being?”
Jamie dipped a spoon into the contents of the pot and tasted the result. “Mary Contini.”
“Check the recipe.”
He put down the spoon, shaking his head. “I don’t know where I put the book. It’s somewhere, but I don’t know … Do you think garlic makes a difference?”
Isabel smiled. “Yes, of course. Garlic in a dish makes it taste garlicky.” She paused; what was wrong with Jamie this evening? “Don’t you agree? Whereas dishes without garlic …”
Jamie sighed. “Don’t taste of garlic.”
She looked at him. The sigh was uncharacteristic; it suggested that he had found her comment tiresome, a weak attempt at humour.
“Do you want me to take over?” She had not asked him to cook that evening—he had volunteered. He was a good cook, she had discovered, and unlike many men he seemed prepared to stick closely to the recipe—or most of the time, at least. Men, she had noticed, were inclined to be slapdash in their measuring of quantities and even choice of ingredients; her father, who belonged to a generation of males who rarely ventured into the kitchen, had occasionally cooked but had been gloriously cavalier in his methods, substituting mint for basil and, on one famous occasion, onions for potatoes.
Jamie declined Isabel’s offer, but not very graciously, she thought. He was rarely irritable, and there seemed to be something on his mind this evening. Should she ask him? She watched him at the stove. Yes, his body language gave it away; there was something tense about his position, as if he were feeling hostility to the task he was performing, as if he were poised to move away. He was standing, she thought, in the way of an opera singer about to stride off the stage in a display of high dudgeon.
“Should I …”
He did not let her finish. “I’m fine. It’s just that I wish I had the recipe to hand … Garlic.”
“Put it in. You can’t go wrong with garlic.” You could, of course.
He mumbled something she did not catch. Then he gave the casserole dish a final stir, replaced the lid and turned to face her. “This woman, Jillian what’s-her-name—what about her?”
“Jillian Mackinlay. I met her today at the delicatessen. She came to sit at my table.”
Jamie walked over towards Isabel and pulled out a chair.“Oh? Did you mind? I find it a bit irritating when I want to read something or just sit and think and somebody comes up.”
Isabel shook her head. “No, I didn’t mind.”
“And?” He hesitated, watching her closely. “She didn’t …” He sighed. “She asked you to do something? Is that it?”
Isabel did not reply for a moment. She knew exactly what Jamie would think—and say—about this. He had advised her to stop what he called meddling—but it was
not
meddling, she felt. Meddling was interfering unasked; she was always asked. And there was another difference: a meddler did not necessarily interfere for the good of somebody else—meddlers as often as not had their own interests in mind, or were driven by vulgar curiosity. And what, she wondered, was the difference between vulgar curiosity and acceptable curiosity? Was it just that our own curiosity was perfectly understandable, whereas the curiosity of others was vulgar? She smiled at the thought; that sort of distinction lay at the heart of many of our acts of discrimination. What I like is art; what you like is kitsch. My old car has character; yours is a wreck.
Jamie frowned. “What’s the joke?” He sounded peevish, and Isabel stopped smiling.
“I was thinking of something,” she said
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