Alexander McCall Smith - Corduroy Mansions

‘Yes,’ said Hugh. ‘But I wondered whether those advertisements were . . . well, were kind . I know that seems an odd word to use here but it’s the word that came to me. Sometimes I think it’s best not to voice doubts about beliefs that mean a great deal to someone else.’

‘Yes,’ Barbara said. ‘I agree. I suppose that being kind to one another includes not saying things you think may be true but which threaten to upset other people unduly. People may need their beliefs. For all I know, in their essence, in the heart of what they say, those beliefs may be expressing something that is very true - something that people really need to help them through life.’

‘Such as?’

‘That we need to love one another. It might be that people need to believe that they are loved by some divine being because they get precious little love on this earth. Would you set out to shatter such a belief?’

Hugh was certain he would not. ‘It would be like . . .’

Barbara took over. ‘Like shooting a dove. Or, as Harper Lee told us, like killing a mockingbird.’

Hugh mulled this over in silence. There was a curious intimacy about the moment, an intimacy that had been promoted by the subject of their discussion. Talking about love, and God, and what people owed to one another had brought them to a point of close spiritual communion that he had never before shared with a lover; it was a stripping away of everything, because one could not conceal anything in such a conversation. It was a conversation about essentials - the sort of conversation that mourners sometimes have after a funeral when for a few moments the reality of death brings people together in mutual appreciation of the simple gift of life.

Hugh looked at his watch. ‘Dinner . . .’

‘Of course.’

He touched her gently on the shoulder. ‘You go and sit down. I’ll bring things through from the kitchen.’

She saw that he had laid the table. There were two candles, yet to be lit, and another arrangement of flowers that she thought he must have bought from the florist’s round the corner. There was a small flower, a small blue flower, on her plate, and she touched it, bruising the petals. She wanted to cry - to cry for sheer happiness.

He brought through the first course - slices of duck on a bed of salad, served with a dark red sauce. He lit the candles and took his seat opposite her, from which position he poured them both a glass of wine. He raised his glass in her direction.

‘To Father Christmas,’ he said.

She smiled. ‘Even if it’s not Christmas.’

‘I know. But he must have such a difficult time. People expect him to give, give, give.’

She tasted the duck. The sauce was slightly tart, which was how she liked it. Suddenly she said without thinking, ‘Don’t go away, Hugh.’

He gave a start. ‘Why do you say that? I never said anything about going away.’

Barbara took a sip of her wine to hide her embarrassment. She had spoken aloud, giving expression, as we sometimes do, to thoughts that she had not intended to reveal. ‘I know you didn’t. Sorry, I wasn’t really thinking.’

Hugh was staring at her. ‘About going away - of course I won’t. And there’s something that I need to say.’

She looked down at the table, at the small blue flower that she had put to the side of her plate.

‘I’d like to marry you,’ he said.

The next morning in Barbara Ragg’s office at the Ragg Porter Literary Agency, she said to her colleague, Rupert Porter, ‘I have some news for you, Rupert.’

‘Ah!’ said Rupert. ‘Who’s done a big deal then? Six figures. Dare I say it - seven?’

‘It’s nothing to do with advances,’ said Barbara. ‘It’s to do with me.’

‘Oh, to do with you, is it? Let me guess then. The author of your yeti book has turned up and he’s covered in hair, as I said all along he would be, and you don’t really know whether you can take him out to lunch or not?’

‘Can’t you be serious for two seconds?’

‘Oh, little Miss Gravitas! All right, sorry. Some personal news.’

She waited for a few moments before she told him. ‘I’m engaged.’

He had not expected this, and for a short time he seemed to lose his composure. ‘You?’ he asked in disbelief. And then he realised that that sounded a bit rude, and he followed it with immediate congratulations. ‘Well, you and Oedipus! An MP’s wife!’

She shook her head. ‘Not to Oedipus. He and I haven’t got back together. It’s somebody else.’

‘To the yeti? Is that wise ? Such different backgrounds . . .’

‘Very funny. To a young man called Hugh. I haven’t known him all that long, but we became engaged last night.’

Rupert had now recovered sufficiently to congratulate her properly. He stepped forward and embraced her warmly. ‘I’m very pleased to hear this, Barbara. It’s very good news. Tell me about him.’

She realised that had he asked that question only a couple of days ago, she would not have been able to tell him very much. Now she knew a little more but it was still not a great deal.

‘He’s Scottish,’ she said. ‘He’s lived in South America. He’s . . .’

Rupert waited. ‘What does he do?’

‘I’m not too sure.’

Rupert’s expression changed. ‘You’re not sure? How long have you known him?’

‘Not very long,’ said Barbara airily. ‘But I’m sure. I’m absolutely sure.’

Rupert looked down at the floor. He had known Barbara for so long - all his life, in fact - that he almost regarded her as a sister. He had thought Oedipus was a terrible mistake, and he had been pleased to hear that they were no longer together, but was she now about to make another mistake, on a par with, or even exceeding, her Oedipal mistake?

He began nervously. ‘I’m . . . I’m very pleased that you’re happy, Barbara. The only thing is that this is rather . . . well, sudden, wouldn’t you say? You know the old expression - “marry in haste, resent at leisure”.’

‘Actually it’s repent , Rupert, although resent makes sense too. People do resent their partners, don’t they?’ She corrected herself. ‘Not their business partners. Their spouses.’

‘Of course they do - or some do. But the point is: are you sure?’

She smiled serenely. ‘Never more sure.’

Rupert thought for a moment. There was the question of the flat. That was always present, somewhere in the background, and now it came to the fore.

‘Where are you going to live?’ he asked, affecting a nonchalance that was not really there.

‘Why, in London, of course. Hugh seems happy enough here.’

Rupert pursed his lips. ‘I see. But what I meant was, where in London? Has Hugh got a place?’

‘He’s with me at the moment.’

Rupert persisted. ‘But has he got his own place? His own flat?’

‘I don’t think so. He’s a bit younger than me, you know. He hasn’t bought anything yet.’

Rising from her desk, Barbara walked to the window and looked out over the rooftops. The office was on the top floor of a three-storey building in Soho and there was a good view of the neighbouring roofs. Directly opposite, the occupant of an attic flat had opened a window and was putting a small tub of red flowers out onto the roof to expose it to the sun. The flowers were a tiny splash of red against the grey of the roof.

‘I wonder,’ Rupert said. ‘I would have thought that you might need a bit more room. You might move somewhere bigger.’

Barbara turned to look at him. You have this thing about my flat, she thought. You always have had. And my father bought it fair and square from your father, and that’s all there is to it.