Alexander McCall Smith - Corduroy Mansions

‘I’m sorry, dear, we don’t know much about that boy. In fact, we know nothing about him at all. There’ll be plenty of other invitations.’

‘But I do know him! He’s not unknown at all. He’s really nice.’

‘He may well be, dear, but we don’t know that, do we? And unknown boys - well, we don’t really have to go into that, do we?’

Caroline would have indeed preferred to be able to go into all that. What exactly was the problem with unknown boys? What did unknown boys do, if anything, that known boys did not do? In her mind one thing at least was clear: the moment maternal authority was weakened and she was in a position to run her own life, she would seek out the company, without any delay, of the most unknown, the most obscure of boys.

Of course the motives behind her mother’s concern were transparent. Her ambition for Caroline was simple: marriage to a suitable boy. Anything else, in her mind, was merely preparatory to that objective. Caroline, however, thought differently. She might have sprung from a background in which a woman’s ideal destiny was to marry and settle down to the task of raising children, but this was not what she wanted to do. She wanted to study the history of art. She wanted to travel. She wanted to think for herself. She wanted to move among people who stimulated her - who had something to say. The sorts of boys thrown in her path by her mother were the antithesis of all that: they were dim, rather sporty boys from boarding schools with a reputation for rugby. Not what she wanted. She wanted a boy with style, a boy with a whiff of danger about him, a witty, artistically literate boy, a boy a bit like . . . James, come to think of it.

And now, standing with James in the kitchen as he paged through How to be a Domestic Goddess for a suitable recipe, she found herself thinking: perhaps it’s been obvious all along. Perhaps the reason why James is thinking of redefining himself is that he really wants me . Not girls in the abstract, but me.

It was an intriguing idea. And even more intriguing was the idea of explaining the situation to her mother. Frances had views on such matters. ‘Such boys, Caroline, are fine - in their place. Which is playing the piano, like Noël Coward or somebody like that.’ That is what Frances thought.

She glanced at James. He would probably make her breakfast in bed. He would even come shopping with her. They would go to lunch at Daylesford Organic round the corner and chat about the day’s events. There was a lot to be said for it. But what did he feel about her? It is all very well, she thought, from my perspective, but what does he feel about me?

James had found a suitable recipe in Nigella’s book. ‘Lemon gems,’ he said. ‘Look.’

Caroline examined the large photograph of lemon biscuits sitting on a cooling rack and nodded. ‘Just what we need,’ she agreed. ‘And we’ve got everything, including the ground almonds.’

‘Heaven,’ said James.

Once again, Caroline thought that this was a bit of an exaggeration. But then it occurred to her that in saying heaven , James was referring not only to the biscuits, with what Nigella herself described as their lemoniness , but also to the heavenliness of being there, with her, about to do some baking together.

‘Are you enjoying yourself?’ she suddenly asked.

He looked at her with surprise. ‘Immensely. Why do you ask?’

‘Because I was just wondering. The two of us . . . baking together. It just seems . . . very right.’

He looked away, out of the window. The London afternoon light was attenuated, soft. There would be rain, he noted.

He reached out and touched her hand, gently, brushing against it.

‘ Festina lente ,’ he said, and smiled.

Festina Lente, thought Caroline, would be a good name for a cookery writer. Almost as good as Delia, or even Nigella.

Even if there are many negative features to my job, thought Jenny, there is at least one that is unconditionally positive. Oedipus Snark might require of her that she be loyal to his highly dubious personal cause, but at least she was more or less left to her own devices every afternoon, when the oleaginous politician went to the House of Commons or enjoyed lengthy lunches with his friend, Barbara Ragg, at the Poule au Pot restaurant. He had made it clear to Jenny when he first employed her that if there was nothing still to be done in the afternoon, then she was free to go home.

‘I don’t know what you get up to in your spare time, darling,’ he drawled, ‘and I don’t care too much, frankly. No offence! So if there’s nothing doing here at headquarters, please toddle along and do whatever girly stuff you fancy.’

He smiled at her with the air of one conferring a favour, or even some sort of benediction.

‘You mean this is a flexi-time job?’

‘If you must use such terms, yes. Perk of the position. My own job, of course, is pretty much flexi-time, as you put it, although heaven knows how much I exert myself. See?’

Jenny bit her lip. Girly stuff! She was a graduate of the London School of Economics. She was currently reading a biography of Wittgenstein. She was . . . She felt herself getting warm with resentment.

‘Mr Snark, I feel that I must—’

He raised a hand to stop her. ‘Please! Oedipus. We don’t stand on formality here. Now then . . .’

And they had progressed to the next item of business, leaving Jenny secretly fuming and determined to correct his erroneous impression of her. But she never did; as the months wore on, she realised that she would never succeed in getting him to see her as an intellectual equal, to treat her without the condescension that he seemed to show in all his dealings with women. And the reason for that, she decided, was that Oedipus Snark was profoundly solipsistic. If he paid no attention to her feelings, it was because he did not see her. For one who was constantly adding ‘See?’ to his observations, he saw remarkably little.

That afternoon, as Caroline and James embarked on the baking of Nigella’s lemon gems, Jenny found herself just a few blocks away, standing outside Daylesford Organic, debating with herself whether to go inside and treat herself to a cup of coffee, or walk up to Hatchards bookshop on Piccadilly and consult Roger Katz about what to read. It had been her birthday several days earlier and her aunt in Norfolk had sent her a book token, as she had done every year since Jenny’s fifth birthday. The value of the book token had increased by two pounds each year, with the result that it was now sufficient to allow the purchase of several hardbacks.

The onset of rain decided the matter. Jenny looked up at the sky; heavy purple clouds had built up in the east and the first drops of rain were splattering on the canvas awning of Daylesford. Inside, all was light, warmth and tempting aromas.

Just inside the doorway as she went in, an elegant dark-haired woman was dispensing small cups of tea to arriving customers. Jenny took the proffered cup and sipped.

‘Jasmine,’ said the woman. ‘Can you smell it?’

Jenny nodded, glancing at the open silver packet of tea on the table. The Rare Tea Company.

‘White tea,’ said the woman, ‘scented with jasmine. And this is oolong. Would you care to try it? I’m Henrietta, by the way.’

Jenny sipped at the second cup. ‘Very delicate,’ she said.

‘Proper tea,’ said Henrietta. ‘When one thinks of what goes into the tea bags most people make do with . . .’

Jenny agreed, and was about to say so when she noticed that a man had entered the café and was standing beside her. He reached out for the cup of oolong being offered him and it was then that she recognised him.