Alexander McCall Smith - Corduroy Mansions

She turned back to face William and Freddie de la Hay. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You’re not a bad dog, Freddie de la Hay. We all fall into temptation from time to time.’

‘Hear that, Freddie?’ said William. ‘Marcia says that you’re not so bad after all.’

Freddie looked at Marcia and made to lick her from a distance - a token, virtual lick, but an important gesture nonetheless.

‘I’ll buy you a new pair of Belgian Shoes,’ Marcia said to William. ‘Tomorrow.’

‘Oh, you can’t do that,’ protested William. ‘They’re very expensive.’

‘How much?’ asked Marcia.

‘One hundred and seventy pounds,’ said William.

Marcia laughed. ‘That wouldn’t be expensive by the standard of women’s shoes. Men’s shoes are obviously much cheaper.’

‘Maybe,’ said William. He was remembering the pair of handmade shoes he had bought from John Lobb in St James’s Street. ‘Unless you get a pair of made-to-measure from Lobb. They’re rather expensive.’

Marcia repeated her direct question. ‘How much?’

William looked embarrassed. ‘Two and a half thousand pounds,’ he said. ‘But they last a long time.’

Marcia let out a whistle. ‘Imelda Marcos! You didn’t, did you . . .’ It was meant to be a question but it came out as an accusation.

William sighed. ‘I’m afraid so. But they’re extremely comfortable. At least Freddie didn’t choose to chew them . . .’ He stopped. A terrible possibility had occurred. And if the worst came to the worst, would he be able to forgive two and a half thousand in the same way he had forgiven one hundred and seventy?

Marcia had reached the same conclusion as William. ‘You’d better go and check,’ she said. ‘Or would you like me to do it for you?’

William shook his head. ‘I’ll go.’

He went out of the kitchen. While he was away, Marcia looked down at Freddie de la Hay, who looked back at her, uncertain as to what this latest development meant. Was he in renewed disgrace? he wondered. And if so, why?

William returned, smiling; Freddie de la Hay’s aberration had been confined to his Belgian Shoes and nothing else had been eaten. So while Marcia finished preparing the coquilles St Jacques, he went to the telephone to dial the number of the flat downstairs. Dee answered and confirmed that Caroline was in; she had a friend round, Dee said, but she was sure that she would be happy to speak.

‘My friend Marcia and I need some advice on a painting,’ William said to Caroline when she came to the phone. ‘I wonder if you would be able to come up for a drink, or coffee, later on? Perhaps you would look at it.’

‘You’ve bought a painting?’ asked Caroline. ‘How exciting.’

‘Not quite bought,’ said William. ‘Sort of . . . sort of found, I suppose.’

‘Even more exciting,’ said Caroline. ‘And of course I’d be happy to come up. May I bring my friend, James? He’s doing the course with me but he knows much more than I do. He could be helpful.’

That, said William, would be perfect, and rang off. Then it was time for the coquilles St Jacques, which Marcia had cooked to perfection. They ate them in silent mutual enjoyment. There was no real need to say anything, at least on William’s side, as he felt quite happy and replete. The new arrangement with Marcia, which removed all the threat from an otherwise tricky situation, was an unmitigated relief. Eddie was no longer living in the flat and inflicting his music on him - another cause for relief, if not outright celebration. And although he had lost a Belgian Shoe, his John Lobb shoes had escaped the attentions of Freddie de la Hay. The world, or his very small corner of it, could have been in a far worse state, and he was grateful for it. And for the scallops and Sauvignon blanc too.

When Caroline and James arrived half an hour later, William and Marcia were ensconced in the drawing room, Marcia on her sofa and William in his chair. Marcia had made no attempt to persuade William to sit on the sofa with her - a sign, he thought, of her better understanding of the relationship between them. So James was able to sit next to Marcia while Caroline occupied the small tub chair alongside William’s armchair.

William asked James about his course and where it would lead. ‘I’d like to work for a gallery or one of the auction houses,’ James explained. ‘I’ve been promised an internship at the end of the course, and that might help. But there are lots of people after those posts. Everybody wants to do that sort of thing. Or everybody who has a degree in the history of art, that is.’

‘Well, it must be wonderful work,’ said William. ‘I sometimes go to the wine auctions at Sotheby’s. I understand the excitement.’

‘I’d like to work in the Old Masters department,’ said James. ‘I wish!’

‘James has a very good eye,’ said Caroline. ‘He really does.’

‘Go on,’ said James modestly. ‘Just because . . .’

‘No, you do,’ Caroline persisted. ‘Remember when we saw that Brescia-school painting and everybody said that it was something else, and you said, no, it was Brescia. Even Professor Marinelli was wrong about that. And what he doesn’t know . . .’

James laughed. ‘Beginner’s luck.’

‘Well, we won’t be showing you anything special,’ said William.

‘What will you be showing us?’ asked James.

William shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It looks old - or it looks old to me. But I suppose that somebody could paint something today and make it look old.’

‘Of course they could,’ said James. ‘They’d have to make their own paints, of course - you can’t get modern paints to do the trick. Everything painted with modern paints - paint out of a tube - looks far too chalky and white. You need to mix pigments with varnishes and a drop of oil. That enables you to get the light effect that you find in Old Masters. You put on layer after layer and the light shines through.’

‘James knows how to do it,’ said Caroline. ‘James could have been a great painter if he wanted.’

James blushed. ‘You’re really flattering me tonight, Caroline. I couldn’t.’

As they spoke, Marcia looked on, bemused. She was wondering about the nature of the relationship between the two students - were they just friends or was there something more between them? It was difficult to tell. He was obviously the sensitive type, which meant that he might not be interested, but one could never tell. It was quite wrong to assume that just because a man tucked his legs underneath him, as James was doing on the sofa next to her, and lowered his eyelids when he spoke - it was wrong to assume just because he did those things that he would not be interested in Caroline. And even if he was not interested in her, it was clear to Marcia that Caroline was interested in James. Any woman could tell that.

For his part, William was wondering what Caroline saw in James. That was a very peculiar way to perch on the sofa, but then everybody was so peculiar these days, in William’s view, one could not read anything into anything. Caroline was really very attractive, but William wondered whether James was even aware of it. He rather thought James was not, and he felt a momentary pang of regret. Here was an attractive, physical girl, obviously in desperate need of a boyfriend, and here was he, William - too old even to be considered by her - while this boy seemed to take her completely for granted. It was all very depressing. He thought of Eliot’s poem, and of wearing the bottoms of one’s trousers rolled. Prufrock, was it? Am I Mr Prufrock in the flat above? Is that what I am to her?

‘Shall I get the painting?’ he said.