The Sunday Philosophy Club by Alexander McCall Smith

Her hand went up in what seemed to be an attempt to prise off his fingers, but all the time she was smiling-Isabel could see that.

She moved sideways, as if to shrug him off, but he held on tight. Suddenly the man in the blue jacket stopped gesturing, reached forward and rested a hand on the woman's shoulder. He looked vaguely familiar, she decided, but it was difficult to tell from that distance and angle. She strained to make out the features of one of them, a tall man wearing a blue jacket, who was talking animatedly to a woman beside him, gesturing to emphasise some private point. At the front door stood a small knot of smokers, drawing on cigarettes, bound together in their exclusion. One of these smaller galleries was hosting an opening and Isabel could see the crowd milling about within. Most of them would be disappointed, of course, as they discovered that the world did not share their conviction, but they tried nonetheless, and continued to try. Some were well established, such as the Scottish Gallery and the Open Eye, others were struggling to make a living on the work of young artists who still believed that great things lay ahead. She edged her chair forwards in order to see a little more of what was happening on the other side of the road, at a slight angle. This was a compromise-to sit in the window, protected by glass, and yet feel part of what was going on outside. Edinburgh was normally too chilly to allow people to sit out while drinking their coffee, except for a few short weeks in the high summer when café life spilled out onto the pavement, tentatively, as if expecting a rebuff from the elements. Isabel liked this café, where the display windows of the shop it had once been had now been made into sitting areas for customers. From that point in the street, one could see in the distance the hills of Fife beyond: dark-green hills in that light, but at times an attenuated blue, softened by the sea-always changing. She was sitting in the window of the Glass and Thompson café at the top of Dundas Street-where it descended sharply down the hill to Canonmills.

Isabel adjusted the position of her chair. But between such curiosity, which is permissible, and nosiness, which is not, there lies a dividing line that some people simply miss-even if it is a line that is painted red and marked by the very clearest of warning signs. To take an interest in the affairs of others is entirely natural so natural, in fact, that even a cat, lying cat-napping on top of a wall, will watch with half an eye the people walking by below.

The Sunday Philosophy Club by Alexander McCall Smith