Alexander McCall Smith - Corduroy Mansions

‘But why would he sack you? What’s he got to gain?’

Jenny shrugged. ‘He’s bored with me, I imagine. He thinks . . . well, I don’t like to say this, but he thinks that I show him up. He thinks that he knows everything and then he discovers that I’ve read books he’s never even heard of. Some men can’t take that.’

Dee nodded. ‘I knew somebody like that. He couldn’t bear the thought that a woman could have her own ideas and that these ideas could be better than his. There are a lot of men like that. We make them feel insecure if we show signs of knowing more than they do.’ She paused. ‘Did he ever . . . did he ever make any moves? You know . . .’

Jenny frowned. ‘Moves?’

Dee explained further. ‘Did he ever make a pass at you?’

Jenny looked up at the ceiling. She could not recall Oedipus ever doing anything like that; he had shown no interest in her, she thought, as a woman. She had assumed that this was because he had that girlfriend of his, Barbara Ragg, but it could equally well have been because he was so narcissistic that he could only think of making a pass at himself. What had somebody said of him in a newspaper column somewhere? ‘If Snark were to be found covered in love bites they would surely be self-inflicted.’

She told Dee about this and they both laughed. Then she explained about her temporary job with William, starting the next day.

‘Mr French upstairs?’ asked Dee. ‘But he’s lovely, Jenny. He’s the nicest man there is. You’ll be far happier with him.’

Dee went off to make them both a cup of tea and when she came back she discovered that Jenny was sitting up in bed and although her face was still puffy around the eyes from her tears, she was looking more cheerful.

‘So, let’s not talk about him any more,’ said Jenny. ‘I’ll get my own back some day.’

‘Great,’ said Dee. ‘And I’ll help you. Any ideas?’

‘I’ll think.’

They drifted into pleasant, companionable conversation. Jenny was going to buy a new blouse that she had seen in a shop off Oxford Street. Dee approved. Jenny was going to book a holiday to Tunisia online, for about three months’ time. Dee approved of that too.

‘And you?’ asked Jenny. ‘What about you, Dee?’

Dee looked at her watch. It was already half past eleven and there was no sign of Martin. They had agreed on eleven o’clock and everything was ready for the colonic irrigation session but he had simply not arrived.

‘I was going to do colonic irrigation for somebody,’ she said. ‘But he hasn’t turned up. He promised. It’s my assistant at the vitamin shop, Martin. You met him when you came in that day. Remember? That rather nice-looking boy.’

Jenny sipped at her tea and looked at her flatmate. ‘You were going to give Martin colonic irrigation?’

Dee nodded. ‘Yes. You see, when I looked at his eyes I saw flecks, which indicated toxins. You can always tell. He needs it.’

Jenny grimaced. ‘But . . . but do you think it’s a good idea to give colonic irrigation to somebody you work with? Especially if he’s a young man and you’re . . . well, you’re you. Don’t you think that . . . ?’

‘I don’t see what the problem is,’ Dee retorted. ‘You know, people treat colonic irrigation with such suspicion - as if it were open heart surgery or something. It really isn’t. It’s simple, you know, you just—’

Jenny raised a hand. ‘I really don’t want to hear about it, Dee. Frankly, I don’t think it’s the sort of thing you should talk about. Vitamins, OK. Echinacea, OK. But colonic irrigation, that’s another thing altogether.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘No, you obviously don’t. But think of it from the point of view of that poor young man. Here’s his boss - his boss, remember, even if it’s you - saying to him that she wants to take down his trousers and—’

‘It’s not like that at all,’ Dee said. ‘Colonic irrigation is not like that at all.’

‘Well, he’s not here, is he?’ snapped Jenny. ‘You’ve scared the poor boy, haven’t you? And who can blame him?’

‘He’ll be grateful,’ said Dee. ‘You’ll see. He just needs a bit of time, that’s all.’

William was delighted with his new assistant.

‘Our customers are quite sophisticated,’ he explained to her as he showed her round the shop. ‘Buying wine is not like buying groceries. The enjoyment of wine is an aesthetic experience, you know. Wine is about place and the culture of place.’

Jenny looked at him anxiously. ‘I don’t really know much about wine, you know.’

‘You don’t have to,’ he said. ‘If somebody asks for a recommendation and you feel out of your depth, then simply say so. Refer them to me. And if I’m not here, suggest to them that they try something new, something that looks interesting to them. Say something like, “Well, you’re going to be the one who’s drinking it. What do you think?” Something like that. Of course there are a few tried and tested expressions you can use. You can always talk about nose. Most wines can be said to have an interesting nose.’ He smiled encouragingly. ‘Shall we have a little practice before the first customer comes in? I’ll be the customer and you be you. But you’ll be me, if you see what I mean.’

He adjusted his tie. ‘All right. Here we go. You say to me: “Can I help you with anything?” Go on - you say that.’

Jenny took a deep breath. ‘Can I help you with anything?’

‘Well, good morning. Yes, you can actually. I’m looking for something for a dinner party I’m going to be having. Can you recommend anything?’

She looked flustered. ‘Well . . .’

‘Ask what I’m having,’ whispered William.

Jenny complied. ‘What are you having?’

‘I was thinking of a venison stew,’ said William. ‘And maybe smoked salmon to begin with.’

Jenny thought quickly. ‘You’ll want white for the fish and . . . er, red for the venison.’

‘Good, good,’ whispered William. ‘But you need to be a bit more specific. Ask what sort of white I like.’

‘What sort of white do you like?’

‘Something clean.’

She stared at him.

‘New Zealand,’ he whispered. ‘You can’t go wrong with New Zealand.’

‘I don’t think you can go wrong with New Zealand,’ said Jenny.

William nodded. ‘Good, good. So you show me the New Zealand section over here. See? And then you wave a hand at the whites and you say: “Would you care to look over some of these?” And I do, like that. And I choose this one, let’s say, and you say, “That’s very nice.” Because it is. All the wines I stock are nice - so you won’t be telling a lie. And then you say, “As for the red, you’ll need something big for venison, don’t you think?” And I’ll say “Big? Yes, that would be nice.” So you take me to the Bordeaux section over there and you wave your hand at that shelf - those are all big wines - and I choose one and, again, you say, “That’s very nice.” You see how it is. Simple, isn’t it?’

He showed her the till and the way the credit card machine was operated. ‘Always turn your face away when customers put in their PIN,’ said William. ‘Thus. You see? You must never watch them putting in their PIN.’

That was the end of her training, and she was launched. When the first customer came in, William deliberately held back and gave her a nod of encouragement. It was not difficult and by the time that William made her a mid-morning cup of coffee, she had competently attended to over ten customers, all of whom seemed pleased enough with her service.

Then, while she was drinking her coffee with William in the back office, her mobile phone rang. She glanced at the number on the screen just in case it was Oedipus - in which case she would not answer. But she did not recognise the number, so she answered.