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the discordant, the unresolved—this, they believed, was the province of art, of film, of literature.
    She considered all that, and then, as she crossed the threshold of the café, she considered the opposite—or at least she entertained the possibility that the opposite was true. Perhaps it really was the role of art to confront and disturb, to jolt us out of our comfort zones, to dispel our protective assumptions, to horrify us, to make our teeth rattle. Perhaps that was what she should really think, even if she were tempted to persist in a belief in beauty and all its works. That was the problem with being a philosopher: it was not easy. As a philosopher one could not believe just one thing; one had to explore the possibility that what one thought was true might be false; that what one
wanted
to believe might not be what one really
should
hold to be true. So much for the examined life: how uncomfortable it could be.
    But at least she knew what she wanted for lunch.
    SHE WAS THERE before Jane.
    “It’s a small place,” Isabel had said over the telephone. “You’ll know it’s me, and I’ll know it’s you, even if we haven’t met before.”
    “I’ve seen your photograph,” Jane had interjected. “I looked you up online. There’s a photograph of you on the
Review
’s website, as you probably know.”
    Isabel hesitated, and then decided to come clean.
    “Well, I looked you up too,” she said.
    She had always felt that one could not refrain from confessing to an equal fault if somebody else confessed first; not to do so was to leave the other at a disadvantage. Of course it was not necessarily a fault to research another person if you were about to meet; indeed, it could be taken as rude not to do so—implying, perhaps, that the other was unworthy of your curiosity.
    Jane laughed. “There’s a
very
unflattering picture of me online,” she said. “It must have been put there by one of my enemies.” She paused. “Not that I have many enemies—I hope.”
    “We all have enemies,” Isabel had said, trying to think of who hers were—or had been. Minty Auchterlonie, that scheming, ambitious woman with whom Isabel had crossed swords more than once? Hard-faced … No, she should not be uncharitable. Christopher Dove, the plausible, ruthless philosophical sidekick of Professor Lettuce? She wondered whether Jane had come across Christopher Dove, or even Professor Lettuce, great slug, great—Charity. Charity.
    Now Jane came in, and Isabel, waving, rose to greet her.
    Jane took off the lightweight mac she had been wearing; there had been a few drops of rain—not much—and she brushed these off the fabric of the coat before she sat down opposite Isabel.
    Isabel pointed to the menu on the board behind the counter. “You choose from that,” she said. “I always have the same thing. Mozzarella and tomatoes. Caprese. And if you ask, you might get olive oil from the Zyw estate in Tuscany. Aleksander Zyw was a Polish painter who settled in Edinburgh after the war. His son makes olive oil in Italy. And his grandson, Tommy, works with Guy Peploe in the Scottish Gallery.”
    Jane smiled. “What a nice thing that even the olive oil in your life has its associations. That’s what I like about Edinburgh. Everything is … connected somehow. It still has a sense of itself, of what it is.”
    Isabel said, “But Melbourne must be like that too.”
    Jane shook her head. “A bit, but only a bit. Our identity’s changing—as everybody’s is.” She looked at Isabel. “I’m not at all sure what it is to be an Australian. Do you know what it is to be Scottish?”
    “I think so,” said Isabel. “I’m half American, though—on my mother’s side. So I suppose I know what it is to be a half-Scottish, half-American woman who’s a working philosopher and a mother and … well, that’s the whole point about identity today: it’s much freer, much looser. Which is a good thing, don’t you think?”
    Jane