The Uncommon Appeal of Clouds: An Isabel Dalhousie Novel (9) by Alexander McCall Smith Page A

house, you see, and it’s much
     cheaper for me to stay there than to rent a flat, or even a room in a flat, while
     I’m a student.”
    “Naturally,” said Isabel. “And lots of people do that, don’t they?”
    Diane confirmed this. “But it’s a bit more complicated in my case,” she said. “They
     give me money. I’ve taken out a large student loan, but it’s never enough, even if
     you’re careful. So they give me money each month.”
    “Many parents do that. And the child can pay it back later on.”
    Diane nodded. “But the complication is this: they don’t like Eddie. They just don’t.”
    “Have they seen much of him?”
    “They’ve met him twice. It wasn’t a success.”
    Isabel sighed. “Eddie might not come across all that well on a first or second meeting.
     He’s shy. He becomes anxious.”
    Diane said that she knew that, but the problem with her parents was deeper-rooted.
     “They think he’s not good enough for me. It’s as simple as that. And …”
    Isabel waited for her to continue.
    “And they think that it’s not going to last. They think that I’ll grow out of him;
     that I’ll realise we don’t have very much in common; that I’ll decide Eddie doesn’t
     quite fit in.” She paused. “They’re snobs, you see.”
    Isabel was not sure what to say. It certainly sounded to her as though Diane’s parents
     were behaving snobbishly, and yet she could hardly admit that she agreed with her
     and her parents really were snobs. One may speak disparagingly of one’s own parents,
     but one did not like to hear others expressing the same sentiments.
    “They’ve said that if I go and live with Eddie, then I won’t get any more money. They
     spelled that out.”
    Isabel waited a few moments before saying anything. Then she said, “I’m very sorry
     to hear it.”
    “No,” said Diane. “But you see the problem now?”
    “I do,” said Isabel.
    “So we can’t live together,” said Diane. “It’s just not on. Eddie thinks it is, and
     I’d love him to be right. But he isn’t. It’s just not possible. I’m too much in debt
     as it is. End of story.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

 
    C AT ’ S RECOVERY WAS QUICKER than expected. On the following day she telephoned the delicatessen to tell Isabel
     that she was now up and about and that it looked as if the vomiting had stopped. She
     felt well enough to come in to work but thought it wiser to remain off for a further
     day in case she was still infectious. Isabel encouraged her in this. “The last thing
     you want is to pass these things on,” she said. “One wouldn’t wish projectile vomiting
     on anyone.”
    After Isabel had rung off, Eddie, who had overheard Isabel’s side of the conversation,
     called out to her, “What did you say about projectile vomiting? Is she still doing
     it?”
    “Why the big interest in it?” asked Isabel. Vomiting was vomiting, she thought, projectile
     or otherwise.
    Eddie defended himself. “Well, it is pretty interesting, isn’t it? I wonder how far
     she was projecting? Two or three feet, do you think?”
    Isabel assumed an expression of disgust. “Really, Eddie, I don’t share your fascination
     with the subject.”
    “Well, you mentioned it first,” he said. “You were talking to her about it. You raised
     the subject.”
    “I just said that it’s not something you would want to pass on to others. That’s all.
     And it isn’t, is it?”
    “Of course not.” He looked thoughtful. “I suppose with projectile vomiting you could
     really pass it on, couldn’t you. If you hit anybody, even if they were standing a
     couple of feet away, thinking they were safe …”
    “Eddie! You’re disgusting.”
    “I was just thinking aloud.”
    “Well, please don’t. You can keep those sorts of thoughts to yourself.”
    He was silent for a few moments. Isabel had noticed that Eddie’s mood was very changeable
     that morning; perhaps he was anxious about Diane. She eyed him carefully.