Corduroy Mansions

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “Anyway,” Caroline continued, “I’ll look after it. Then we can work out what to do.”

  The pair returned to Caroline’s flat and made themselves a cup of coffee.

  “Well,” said James, “what are we going to do?”

  Caroline picked up the painting and studied it closely. “Did you look at the snake?” she asked. “It has lovely, fluid lines. As if somebody’s just taken a crayon and drawn an S. Just like that.”

  “That’s what makes a great painting,” said James. “Everything looks as if it should be there. Of course, Poussin was interested in snakes. There’s that famous picture in the National Gallery of the man bitten by the snake at the side of the road.”

  “What are we going to do, James?”

  “That’s what I just asked you.”

  Caroline sighed. “Of course we could just do nothing.”

  James frowned. “You know, I rather regret agreeing to take it. What if it is stolen? We’ll be in possession of stolen property. And who would believe us if we said that it had been found in a wardrobe?” He looked anxiously at Caroline. “I think that we should take it back to William. It’s his problem—not ours.”

  Caroline agreed. “I’ll take it back to them right now.”

  “I hope that you don’t disturb them.”

  Caroline looked puzzled.

  “I mean, they were having some sort of romantic dinner. You know …”

  Caroline laughed. “But he’s ancient,” she said. “Fifty-something.”

  “I’m just warning you,” said James. “You might find them having a cuddle on the sofa.”

  “I’ll take that risk,” said Caroline. “They’re probably playing Scrabble.”

  As she went upstairs, she thought about what James had said. It was all very well for him to imagine the neighbours having a love life—but where was his? They had skirted around the issue of their relationship both verbally and physically. Nothing had happened—absolutely nothing. She, of course, found James attractive, and he had said, had he not, that he found women interesting, and yet there had not been so much as a kiss or a tender gesture—he had been as chaste as a monk.

  It’s hopeless, she thought; it really is. Lovely, amusing James was lovely and amusing because he was above all that. If she wanted a love affair then she was wasting her time with him; they would be friends—they already were close in that sense—but it would never mature into anything else. Perhaps she should be satisfied with that—her half a glass of blessings rather than a full one.

  Unless, of course, she made the first move. Perhaps that was the key to it. James was inexperienced and probably did not know what to do, or was too shy to do it. Well, she could show him. She could turn the lights down and put on a suitable piece of music, and perhaps one thing would lead to another. What music? she wondered. “My Heart Will Go On.” That was a good choice. People had been using it as a romantic background for years.

  By the time she had climbed the stairs to William’s flat she had decided that she would act. Tonight would be the night where things were decided: whether she and James would have a proper relationship, or whether it would be made finally and unambiguously clear that they were just good friends.

  She looked at the fanlight above the door. It was in darkness, and she hesitated. Perhaps James was right; perhaps it would be tactless to ring the bell now. She bent down and peered through the letterbox; the dim light coming through a window picked out the shape of the hall table but there was no light from anywhere else.

  She stood up again. She would have to take the Poussin back to the flat, which was irritating, unless … She peered through the letterbox again. It was as she had remembered: the floor was carpeted.

  Very gently, taking care not to scratch the frame, she posted the painting through the letterbox. There was a dull thud as it landed on the carpet. No, it’s not irresponsible, she told herself. I’ve merely returned it to its owners—or its sort-of-owners.

  Back in the flat below, James asked her what had happened.

  “It’s back where it belongs,” she said. “You can get William to take a photograph of it and you can show that to people at the Institute.”

  James agreed that this was a good idea.

  “Now,” said Caroline, “there was something I wanted to talk about.”

  James was sitting on the sofa, paging through a magazine. He looked up with interest. “Paris?” he asked. “Do you want to talk about our trip to Paris? I’m so looking forward to that, Caroline. Aren’t you?”

  She nodded. “Yes. It’s going to be great.”

  “Do you know the Renoirs in the Orangerie?” asked James. “There’s a whole corridor of them. They’re really lovely.”

  “I love Renoir,” said Caroline vaguely. She suddenly thought that it might be better to put her plan into action in Paris. Paris was far better than “My Heart Will Go On” for seduction purposes. Seduction … Is that what I’m doing? she asked herself.

  “Where are all the others?” James suddenly asked. “Jenny. Dee. Jo. Where are all your flatmates?”

  “They probably went to the pub,” said Caroline.

  There was a sound at the front door. Caroline thought that somebody—one of her flatmates—was coming back, but then the sound became a knock.

  “Somebody at the door,” said James.

  “Evidently,” said Caroline.

  She looked at her watch; it was a bit late for a casual caller. William? Did he want to find out why they had returned the Poussin? Or somebody else?

  89. Resolution

  “TOM!”

  He stood before her, in black jeans and a striped jersey, fiddling with a car key in his right hand. He looked at her in a slightly bemused way.

  “Pleased to see me? I was passing by.” He leaned forward. “Give us a kiss.”

  She stepped towards him and he seized her, dropping his car key as he planted a kiss on her cheek.

  “Your hair smells terrific,” he said.

  She could not help but laugh. “What?”

  “Your hair. It smells terrific.”

  She made an incredulous face. “Are you serious?”

  “Of course I am. I know it’s a cheesy thing to say, but it does.”

  She was not sure what to do, but she could hardly leave him standing in the hall. “Come in. You can’t stand out there all night.”

  He followed her in. “I was driving past,” he said. “And I thought I’d drop in. Did you get my messages? I left them on your mobile. Three. Maybe four. You should turn it on some time.”

  She winced. “I haven’t checked my messages for days. I know I should. Sorry.”

  He looked at her reproachfully. “You haven’t been in touch for ages. I had to go off to Frankfurt for … I forget, about six days. But I did try to contact you.”

  They were standing in the flat now and Tom was looking towards the living room, where she and James had been sitting. Tom had noticed the light coming from there. “The others?” he asked. “Dee and what’s-her-name?”

  “Just me,” said Caroline. “And a friend. He’s still here.”

  The effect of her words was immediate; she saw Tom become tense.

  “Yes?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Come and meet him. He’s on the course with me.”

  She was relieved that James was still there. She had intended that things should fizzle out with Tom, and they had been drifting apart, but she had not taken the final step. I should have spoken to him before this, she thought. It’s always messy if things are left hanging in the air.

  They went into the living room. James had picked up another magazine and was flicking through it—one of Dee’s vitamin magazines, Caroline noticed. He looked up when she came in with Tom.

  “James,” she said. “This is Tom. I don’t think you’ve met.” She was certain that they had not encountered one another before this; what she was less certain about was whether James would remember who Tom was.

&nb
sp; Tom stepped forward and the two men shook hands. She noticed James flinch at Tom’s grip. The two had completely different handshakes, James’s being artistic and Tom’s being somewhat firmer. She almost smiled at the sight; the handshakes, she thought, said it all.

  “So,” said Tom. “Busy?”

  “How about coffee?” said Caroline. “James and I were about to—”

  “About to what?” Tom interjected.

  “About to have coffee. Would you like some?”

  He nodded. “All right. Thanks.”

  He and James sat down while Caroline moved off to the kitchen. This is not good, she said to herself. And once in the kitchen, which gave off the living room, she stood near the door while the kettle boiled, listening to what was being said.

  “So you’re doing the same course? You and Caroline.”

  “Yes,” James replied. “It’s a great course.”

  “Mostly women?”

  There was a brief silence. “Mostly, I suppose. Mind you, look at most courses these days. I know somebody who’s a medical student and she says that most of the people in her year are women.”

  “Oh. Well.”

  The silence returned. Then Tom spoke again. “Known Caroline long?”

  “Just this year. On the course.”

  “I see.”

  Silence.

  Tom cleared his throat with the air of one about to announce something portentous. “You know that she and I are quite close? You know that?”

  In the kitchen, Caroline froze.

  James sounded quite calm. “Yes, I did actually. Or used to be. I thought that you and she …”

  “What?”

  “I was about to say that I thought that you and she were … were drifting apart.”

  “Who told you that? Caroline?”

  James began to flounder. “Well …”

  “Well, whatever Caroline may have told you, the fact is that she and I have been seeing one another for ages. Get it?”

  “Listen, this has got nothing to do with me. Caroline just said that she—”

  Tom cut him short. “Actually, I shouldn’t really be worried. It doesn’t seem to me that she’s your type. Know what I mean?”

  For a few moments nothing was said. Then, “No, I don’t know what you mean. Maybe you could explain.”

  “I mean you don’t look the type to me … to be all that interested. Sorry, I don’t want to get personal, but you just don’t.”

  Caroline decided that this was the point at which she would have to intervene. With the kettle almost boiling, she came out of the kitchen and caught Tom’s eye. “Tom, could I have a word in the kitchen, if you don’t mind?”

  Tom got up, smirking. He crossed the room and went into the kitchen, closing the door behind him. “Yes?”

  Caroline spoke through clenched teeth. “Give me one reason, just one, why I shouldn’t throw you out right now.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh don’t you? Well, I’ll tell you then. What did you say to James just now?”

  Tom shrugged. “This and that. Small talk.”

  Caroline came up to him and stood up close. “Oh yes? Well, I want you to go right now. If it wasn’t quite over between us before, it is now.”

  He didn’t flinch. “Are you saying that you prefer him through there to me?” He gestured with a motion of the thumb in the direction of the living room. “That …”

  “Don’t you dare!” shouted Caroline.

  “There’s no accounting for taste, I suppose.”

  “Get out!”

  He turned and made to leave. “So,” he said. “This is how it ends.”

  She hesitated. She had not ended it properly before this because she dreaded upset of any sort. And now, because she had failed to act, it was ending wretchedly.

  She reached out to him. “I’m sorry, Tom. I really am. I meant to talk to you and I … Well, I just let it drift. I like you. But it’s not working any more. Sorry.”

  He said nothing for a moment. It was clear to Caroline that there was some sort of internal struggle going on; she would let it. Then, after a while, he looked at her and said, “I’m going to go through and apologise to him.”

  He turned away and walked back into the living room. James had picked up the magazine again but had obviously not been concentrating on it.

  “Listen,” Tom began. “I’m sorry about what I said. I was upset. Jealous, I suppose. What I said was unkind and … Well, it was just stupid.”

  James stood up. “I don’t mind,” he said. “Thank you for apologising, anyway.”

  Caroline watched as the two men shook hands. This time Tom tried to avoid crushing James’s hand, and James made an effort to be firmer.

  Later, when Tom had left, James said to Caroline, “You know, Caroline, your hair does smell terrific.”

  “Did you overhear that?”

  “Yes. And tell me: Is that what real men say? Is it really?”

  90. A Major Surprise (of the Pleasant Variety)

  “YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE TO CARRY ON telling me about Colombia over supper,” Barbara said to Hugh. “I can’t wait to hear, but I’m absolutely starving. It’s been that sort of day.”

  “Of course,” said Hugh. “How selfish of me. I’ve been nibbling at things while preparing them. And you’ve been working hard all day.”

  She smiled at this. He berated himself for selfishness but he was, in fact, as far as she could make out, completely unselfish. Ever since she had met him—although, admittedly, it was not all that long ago—she had been struck by the fact that what appeared to give him pleasure was doing things for her. He had insisted on carrying her luggage from the car; he had bought her flowers; he had cooked meals. Oedipus had done none of this. He had never even bought her a birthday present.

  She looked at Hugh fondly. “How did this happen?” she asked.

  “What? The Colombian thing? I was telling you …”

  “No. Not that. This thing between us. How did it happen?”

  Hugh shrugged. “We met. And …”

  “And what?”

  “We hit it off. I thought: Here’s the most interesting woman I’ve ever met. And then I thought: She won’t even look at me.”

  Barbara was astonished. “You thought that I wouldn’t look at you?” She laughed at the very notion. “Do you know that I was thinking exactly the same thing?”

  Hugh reached for her hand. “We were both wrong. Fortunately. The planets were in alignment.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “You don’t believe in all that, surely?”

  He shook his head. “Of course not. Who does?”

  “Nobody I know. But I suppose there are some who do. And I suppose it’s rather reassuring. All sorts of beliefs that we can’t justify or prove may be reassuring.” She paused. “I used to be so arrogant, so sure of myself, that I laughed at people who had what I wrote off as irrational beliefs. Then I realised that we all need something to cling on to. And that it’s not necessarily a bad thing to have beliefs, as long, of course, as they aren’t positively harmful.”

  He thought about this. “I saw an advertisement on a bus yesterday,” he said. “It was an advertisement for atheism. It said, ‘There’s probably no God.’ It made me think.”

  Barbara had read about these advertisements but had not herself seen one. “I suppose everybody has the right to advertise a viewpoint. Atheists. Religious people. It’s the same right they’re exercising.”

  “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 e
ssence, 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.”