Alexander McCall Smith - Corduroy Mansions

On Monday, Barbara Ragg went into her office in Soho, the Ragg Porter Literary Agency (founded 1974, by her father, Gregory Ragg, and his friend, Fatty Porter). She was usually the first to arrive in the morning, coming in even before the cleaning lady, who emptied the wastepaper bins and vacuumed the floor, and then, her duties done, was to be found in the waiting room reading unsolicited manuscripts over a cup of tea. She had a good eye for a promising script, Barbara and her colleagues had found, and they encouraged her to note down her verdict on a piece of paper and pin it to the front page of the manuscript. ‘Promising’, a note might read, or ‘A bit sentimental, I think’, or simply ‘Rubbish’. And sometimes these notes would be accompanied by a request for fresh cleaning supplies, as in: ‘A good romance - credible characters - and please order more liquid soap for the toilets.’

The Ragg Porter Literary Agency did not reveal to the world that some of its reading was done by the cleaning lady; such an admission would be misunderstood by those who did not know the cleaning lady in question and her record of spotting a good literary prospect. It was as reliable a system, the agents felt, as any other, and certainly more truthful than the practice of sending manuscripts back completely unread but accompanied by a letter which implied that the manuscript had been carefully considered. The statement ‘Your manuscript has been carefully considered by our reader’ did not reveal that the reader in question was the cleaning lady. And why reveal this? asked Barbara. What difference does it make?

That Monday morning, when the cleaning lady came in and began her cheerful rounds of the various cubicles that made up the office, she noticed that Barbara’s light was on. A glance through the open door revealed Barbara at her desk, writing a letter.

‘Early start, Barbara!’ she said.

Barbara looked up. ‘I’m writing a letter, Maggie. I woke up very early this morning.’

The cleaning lady nodded. She liked Barbara and she was pleased to see her looking bright. That awful man of hers, that MP, she thought, the horrible one, he’s the one who makes her miserable. It’s always a man - always. If there’s an unhappy-looking woman, then there’s an awful man somewhere. Always.

Barbara returned to her letter. She was writing to her friend James Holloway in Edinburgh, telling him about her weekend.

‘I know you don’t mind my burdening you with the details of my life, James, and that’s why I’m writing to you this morning about something really, really important that has occurred. No, don’t worry - this is not something difficult or challenging. Far from it. Something really remarkable has happened to me and I wanted you to know about it. I’m not looking for any advice - I am utterly sure of what I’m doing and I think it’s the right thing for me. I just want to tell somebody about it. You know how it is when something good happens - when you read a book that strikes a chord, or see a picture that really speaks to you - you want to share it with a friend. You just have to. That’s how I feel.

‘The first thing I have to tell you is this: I’ve left Oedipus. Now I know that you’ll be pleased by this because I always knew your view of him - and you were right. Do you remember how you said to me, “Sorry, but he’s not for you, Barbara”? Those were your exact words, as I recall. You had come down to London for some meeting or other, and we went for lunch at the Poule au Pot and Oedipus was with us to begin with and then had to dash off to the House. At first you didn’t want to give a view, and then, when I pressed you, you did. Well, you were right. As the saying goes, Oedipus is now history - or history to an extent. I still have a score to settle with him and will do it. I know, I know, one shouldn’t be vengeful, but that’s the way I feel and he deserves it. He’s used me, and I’m going to make sure he knows it.

‘But that’s not what I’m writing to you about, James. It’s something that happened almost immediately after I left Oedipus. I met the most wonderful, kind, handsome, considerate, soft-spoken, gentle, sympathetic, interesting man. How can a man be all that? Well, he can, and I’ve found him.

‘And now, James, the bombshells. One: he’s six years younger than me. Twenty-five; but so what? Two: I found him in a car park in Rye. Yes! And I took him back to London in the British Racing Green car - remember I drove you to Oxford in it once? - and, anyway, we drove back together and, apart from an Isadora Duncan moment, it was a blissful trip. And then one thing led to another and . . . well, he’s moved into the flat. Last night he made me scrambled eggs and we watched To Kill a Mockingbird together. I cried; I just cried. And he didn’t say that I shouldn’t cry; he just held my hand and let me do it.

‘And how do I feel? Well, I feel happy. That’s the only way I can describe the way I feel: happy. Do you know that anthem, “I Was Glad” - the Parry one? That’s what I feel like singing at the top of my voice, the first line of it, announcing to everybody that I feel today that I am the most fortunate woman in London, by far. That’s how I feel, James, and I know that happiness doesn’t last for ever, but when you’re truly happy, you think it will. That’s what I think. I really do.

‘Bless you for listening, James, and love from your friend, Barbara Ragg, who feels today the most blessed of women: ecstatic, fulfilled, and wanting for nothing.’

For Jenny, Monday was the first day of her new job as assistant to William in his wine shop. The shock of her dismissal by Oedipus Snark had dominated her weekend and had left her with that curious numb feeling that we feel when we encounter a real setback. Of course she knew that she did not deserve to lose her job - and certainly did not deserve to be dismissed as Oedipus had done, by text message - but this knowledge could not protect her from the smarting sense of rejection that the dismissal brought with it. She had worked hard in her job; she had done everything Oedipus had asked of her, including the constant sending of made-up excuses when he broke his word to do one thing or another. I colluded in his lies, she thought, and I am ashamed.

On Sunday, lying in bed in her flat in Corduroy Mansions, she had been too dispirited to get up and had instead lain there rehearsing all the possible reasons for her dismissal. She could think of nothing, other than that Oedipus had simply grown tired of her and wanted a change. And when Dee had knocked at her door to see if she was all right, she had simply burst into tears, unable for a few minutes to say anything cogent. Nice, patient Dee; they had held hands, with Dee sitting at the edge of the bed comforting her as best she could.

‘He what? ’ asked Dee. ‘He sacked you? Snark did?’

‘Yes. He sacked me. I’ve lost my job.’

‘But that’s ridiculous! You must be the most efficient assistant or whatever that there is. We all know that. Are you sure?’

Jenny nodded miserably. ‘Look, here’s the text.’

She reached for her mobile phone and brought up the text message she had received from Oedipus the previous day:

SORRY. JOB OVER. ☹ WILL PAY ONE WEEK’S SALARY IN LIEU. ☺ THANKS FOR EVERYTHING. OEDIPUS.

Dee read the message, her astonishment giving way to outrage. ‘Is he serious?’ she said. ‘How can anyone . . . ?’

‘It’s the sort of thing he does,’ said Jenny, taking the phone from her friend. ‘He’s horrible. He doesn’t care about anybody. He doesn’t care about me. He doesn’t care about the leader of his party, about the constituents, about the people who work for him in his constituency office. Nobody. We’re just disposable.’