Alexander McCall Smith - Corduroy Mansions

‘But you’re not! You’re not.’

He waited, and then she turned to look at him. She was wearing mascara, which had smudged. There was a black streak down her cheek. He felt in his pocket for his handkerchief, which he used to dab at the smudge. One could surely do that these days: one could unsmudge somebody.

She looked into his eyes. ‘I’ve been . . . been fired,’ she said. ‘I’ve lost my job.’

William frowned. ‘Your job with that MP? What’s his name? Snarp?’

She shivered as she uttered the name. ‘Snark.’

‘Oh dear, I’m very sorry.’

‘He did it by text message,’ she said. ‘He fired me by text.’

By the time William eventually got back to his flat, Marcia had prepared the risotto and was becoming anxious.

‘You took your time,’ she said, glancing at her watch. ‘That was a long walk. Did Freddie de la Hay run off or something?’

William shook his head. ‘No. Freddie de la Hay was a model dog - as always. No, our walk was not all that long. It was that young woman.’

Marcia arched an eyebrow. ‘You met a young woman?’ It was her constant fear: William would meet somebody and go off with her. It was her nightmare.

‘One of the downstairs girls. You know, the tall, good-looking one.’

Marcia did not like to hear William use the term ‘good-looking’, especially in relation to young women. She remained silent.

‘Yes,’ William went on. ‘Jenny. She worked for that oleaginous MP, Snark. Apparently he sacked her today. Sent her a text telling her. Can you believe it?’

Marcia relaxed. ‘Oh, I can believe anything of politicians,’ she said. ‘I cater for them from time to time. You should see them! Quite a few of them exist entirely on free food, you know. They go to meetings and presentations and the like where there’s free food and they stuff themselves with whatever’s available. They’re real shockers.’

‘I can well believe it,’ said William. ‘And free drink too. I provide the wine for a lobbyist. Gets through gallons .’

‘So he sacked her? Just like that? Can you do that these days?’

‘If you have grounds,’ said William. ‘Or if somebody’s not worked long enough for the legislation to apply. Your people - those students you take on - have no protection. They’re casuals.’

‘I wouldn’t sack even one of them by text,’ said Marcia. ‘It’s really unkind.’

William nodded. ‘Of course you wouldn’t. No decent person would. This chap Snark must be a real shocker. She was in floods of tears, poor girl. Her mascara had run all the way down her cheek. She looked so . . . so vulnerable.’

Marcia stiffened. ‘I’m sure she did.’

‘I did my best to comfort her,’ William continued.

Marcia’s eyes narrowed. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘That was kind of you.’

‘Well, I could hardly do anything but,’ said William. ‘And Freddie de la Hay was marvellous. I swear he knew that she was upset. He went up on his back legs to try to lick her face. And he nuzzled her as if he was trying to make it better for her.’

‘Dogs can tell,’ said Marcia. ‘They can always tell. And so . . . what happened?’

‘Well, I spent about fifteen minutes with her in the flat. I saw her in - we saw her in, Freddie and I. Her flatmates were out, but I managed to see that she was all right. And then . . . well, then I had a brilliant idea.’

Maria looked puzzled. ‘A way of getting her job back?’

William said no. That would not have been a good idea at all, he explained. ‘She said that she had no desire to go back to Snark. She seemed determined, in fact, to get her own back in some way. But I didn’t go into that. No, it suddenly occurred to me that she would be the ideal stop-gap for Paul. She’s just lost her job and I’ve just lost my assistant. Perfect match.’

Marcia was not at all sure that she welcomed this. A male assistant would have been better, she thought, but she felt she could hardly make that point.

‘Has she got any experience?’

William shrugged. ‘I doubt it. Or at least no experience of working in a wine shop. But it’s hardly rocket science, Marcia. She won’t have to advise anybody - she can refer them to me for that. She’ll just have to open up the shop and do the till and so on.’

‘And did she accept?’

William told her how Jenny had been doubtful at first, but had thought about it and accepted - for a month or two. ‘I don’t see myself doing this for ever,’ she had said, adding apologetically, ‘not that there’s anything wrong with the wine trade.’

He had not taken offence. She knew about Proust and Wittgenstein and the like; she could not be expected to operate a till for too long.

‘So,’ he said to Marcia, ‘that’s all fixed up. And what started as a terrible day has turned into something much better. Much better.’

Marcia smiled. She was pleased that his mood had changed, because she had decided that she would simply have to act. She had placed a bottle of champagne in the fridge and it would be nicely chilled by now. She would serve the risotto, which she was confident would also help matters. It was a magnificent risotto, reverse-engineered from a dish she had eaten in her favourite restaurant, Semplice: Milanese risotto with small pieces of grouse worked into the rice. William would not be able to resist, especially after a glass or two of champagne.

‘Bibbly,’ she said, using her idiosyncratic pronunciation. ‘This calls for bibbly, which I have fortunately put on ice.’

William rubbed his hands together. ‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘Bibbly. Just perfect.’

Marcia went into the kitchen and poured two glasses of champagne. When she came back into the drawing room, William was doing something with his shoes. What was it? Changing into . . .

He stood up. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Do you like my new Belgian Shoes?’

She looked down at the ostrich-skin slip-ons. ‘Oh, William!’ she said. ‘They’re beautiful! Absolutely beautiful! Belgian, you say! Who would have thought?’

William accepted the glass of champagne that she held out to him. ‘You like them, Marcia? You really do?’

‘I love them,’ said Marcia. ‘And they look perfect on you.’

They raised glasses to one another. It was going very well. And in front of the fireplace, Freddie de la Hay watched them somnolently. The world of humans was a strange one - quite unintelligible to a dog. But Freddie could tell that things were going well, and he liked the smell of risotto. Would they leave some for him? One never knew, but for Freddie de la Hay, even the smell of such a risotto was enough.

By nine o’clock it was agreed. William would later reflect on the actual process of agreement and ask himself how it came about. At no point, he thought, did Marcia come right out and ask him whether she could move in, and yet there was no room for misunderstanding or ambivalence: she would pack up Eddie’s things for him and move them into the hall; then she would move her own possessions into his room and arrange for the lock on the flat door to be changed. It was a bold move, but, as she pointed out to William, Eddie had failed to take hints and had ignored a succession of direct requests. In the circumstances what else could they do?

The delicate issue of Marcia’s taking up residence was glossed over. ‘I’ll take his room,’ she said. ‘It won’t be any trouble. And this place could do with a woman’s touch. Nothing dramatic, of course - just a bit of sprucing up.’

Nothing was said about any of the other normal concomitants of moving in with somebody. Was she merely going to be a flatmate, sharing in the same way as the girls downstairs shared? Or was she planning to live with William, in the sense in which most men and women live with one another? Had it not been for the champagne, William would have resisted. He liked Marcia, but he had not yet decided whether they would be lovers. He knew that was what she wanted, but he was unsure whether she was quite right for him and he realised that if he made a move in that direction, it would not be easy to extricate himself should he wish to do so. And now she was moving in . . .