A Conspiracy of Friends by Alexander McCall Smith Read Free Book Online Page B

perfectly reasonable discussion. But if you think that you can’t
discuss
anything with me, then …”
    Caroline put down the pod she had been stripping. She turned away.
    “Caroline?”
    She said nothing. Her mother, pushing aside the bowl of shelled peas, reached out across the table for her daughter’s hand. “Darling. Darling.”
    Caroline looked up. “I’m sorry.” She wiped away a tear. “I’m just …”
    “Oh, darling. Of course you are. We all get upset from time to time. The world …” She shrugged. “The world can be so hard, so difficult, can’t it? And things are never quite right, are they? Is it … is it a boy? Is that the trouble?”
    Caroline nodded. “Yes.”
    Frances fished a tissue out of her pocket and passed it to her daughter. “Well, darling, you can talk to me, you know. It’s obviously not going well but these things can change, can’t they? Tell me about him. Who is he?”
    Caroline blew her nose. “My nose runs when I cry,” she said. “Stupid nose.”
    “Everybody’s does. But tell me about him, darling. Who is he?” There was an edge to Frances’s question; the sympathetic mother could be the inquisitive mother too—the same mother who had talked about boys being suitable and who had, ever sinceher daughter had started taking an interest in boys, sought to bring her into contact with the right sort of boy, a
nice
boy.
    “You know him already.”
    This answer piqued her mother’s curiosity. “Oh I do, do I? So he’s local …”
    Caroline shook her head. “London.”
    Frances frowned. “So …”
    “It’s James, Mummy. James!”
    “Oh, darling!” Frances shook her head. “No, darling, no! We’ve been through that. Surely you see—do I have to spell it out to you? And you said, anyway, that there was nothing between you and him—you said it just a few moments ago.”
    “There’s nothing between us at the moment,” said Caroline stubbornly. “But that doesn’t stop me wanting him, does it?” That was precisely the problem; she still yearned for James. She had recently met another boy—one who seemed completely suitable—but it had not worked out. Her feelings had been hurt, and she had thought: James would never have done this to me.
    Her mother sighed. “There are bags of people, bags of them, who go through life wanting what they can’t have. And what does it bring them? Nothing. It’s a complete waste of time.”
    “That implies that there can never be anything between James and me.”
    “Well, that’s the case, isn’t it?”
    Caroline looked up. “Why? Why do you say that?”
    “Because I don’t think he’s interested. Don’t you see that?”
    Caroline shook her head. “No, I don’t. James is just not sure at the moment. He … he may be a little bit that way, but not everybody is one hundred per cent one way or the other. You can be a bit of both. Look at …” She searched for an example. “Shakespeare. Yes, look at Shakespeare.”
    Frances picked a handful of pods out of the colander and beganto shell them aggressively. “Shakespeare was happily married,” she said.
    Caroline remembered the sonnets, which she had studied in one of her university courses. “The twentieth sonnet?” she challenged.
    Her mother was unimpressed. “I don’t care what he wrote,” she said. “It’s what he did that counts. And he got married.”
    Caroline reached for some peas. “The point is, Mummy, that I think that James and I are perfect for one another. I used to think it wouldn’t work, but I’ve changed my mind. I’m never happier than when I’m in his company. When I’m not with him, I wonder what he’s doing. And when we do meet up, we get on so well. We talk about everything. He bares his soul to me. He’s my friend, Mummy, my best, best friend.”
    “Then keep him as a friend, if you must. Not that I think men and women can be real friends, as I’ve just said …”
    “No.”
    Frances stared at her daughter.