William reached out again and put an arm on the young man’s shoulder. It was bony. He wanted to embrace him, but could not. He wanted to say sorry. “There’s something I want to give you before you go.”
“What?”
William walked through to the office and took his cheque book out of the drawer. Then he sat down and wrote out a cheque for one thousand pounds. Returning to the counter, he passed the cheque over to Paul, who stared at it with wide eyes.
“That’s what they call a golden parachute,” said William. “Ever heard of it?”
49. A Confession of Loneliness
“THAT WAS GENEROUS of you,” Marcia said. “One thousand pounds. And he didn’t give you any notice at all?”
“Ten minutes,” said William. “Maybe fifteen.”
It was Saturday evening, and Marcia was sitting on William’s sofa, her favourite seat in his flat. She wished that he would join her there, and occasionally she patted a cushion, not too overtly, she hoped, but in a way that could be interpreted either as an adjustment of the upholstery or as an invitation. But William, if he was aware of the gesture, ignored it and remained firmly seated in the place that he preferred, a single armchair on which it would have been impossible for Marcia to perch, had she decided to try.
Marcia had come round to the flat in response to William’s quietly desperate telephone call earlier that day. He had called at about five, an hour before the shop was due to close. “I’ve had it,” he said. “I’ve been single-handed all day. I’m finished.”
Marcia had immediately offered to come to his aid. “Poor darling,” she said. “Would you like me—?”
He did not let her finish her question. “To cook supper? Yes, I would. You’re an angel.”
The compliment thrilled her. He had occasionally called her an angel before, and the term had given her cause to debate with herself the precise implications of the compliment. Just how warmly did one have to feel about somebody before angelic status was conferred? Did one have to feel actual affection?
Now, however, there was no time to consider nuances. “I need to talk to you about something,” she heard William say. “A problem.”
“Oh …” There were so many things she would have loved to talk to William about other than problems. In a rare moment of realism she thought, I’m a sympathetic ear for him, nothing more.
And now, sitting with Marcia, and with a restorative gin and tonic on the table beside him, William unburdened himself of the day’s trials. He told her about Paul’s sudden decision to leave; he told her about the hectically busy day; he told her about the sheaf of unfilled orders that he would have dispatched had Paul been there to assist him with the customers. And he told her about Eddie’s Damascene conversion to liking Freddie de la Hay and the resultant failure of his plan. Marcia listened attentively, making sympathetic faces as each hammer blow was described.
“I feel so frustrated,” said William at last. “I feel that I just allow events to wash over me. Where is my life going?”
“Make a list,” said Marcia. “Make a list of the things that are wrong, and then write a solution. Look, come over here. I’ve got a pen. Get some paper.”
Once again, she patted the cushion beside her. William hesitated, but decided that it would be churlish to remain where he was. They were going to make a list, that was all. He rose to his feet and crossed the room.
“Now,” said Marcia, folding the piece of paper he handed her. “Let’s write down the big thing, the worst thing in your life.” Her pen was poised over the paper. “Begins with a capital E, I’d say.”
William sighed. “I suppose so.”
Marcia wrote down: Eddie. Won’t grow up. Won’t go.
“All right. Now number two. ‘Being short-handed at the shop. Need to replace Paul.’”
William nodded. “That’s a serious one.”
“All right. Serious, but still number two.” Marcia lowered her gaze. “On to number three.”
William looked up at the ceiling. “I can’t really think of a third thing,” he said. “I suppose …”
“Loneliness?” Marcia spoke softly, almost seductively. “I’d say loneliness must be number three. Here, I’ll write it down. ‘Loneliness.’”
“I don’t know—” William began.
“Of course you’re lonely,” Marcia interrupted. “You’re all on your own.”
“But that’s exactly what I’m not,” protested William. “I’d like to be on my own, but there’s Eddie. And now there’s Freddie de la Hay. I’m not really on my own.”
Marcia smiled, tolerantly, with the air of one who has an insight that others lack. Men often had no idea how lonely they were, how much they needed women; she was convinced of it. Masculine independence? Nonsense. That was an oxymoron.
“What do they say about big cities, William? That they’re the loneliest places on earth. Full of people, millions of people, but how many of those are by themselves, really lonely? How many do you think?”
William shrugged. “Four hundred and seventy-five thousand,” he said.
She frowned. “I didn’t mean it like that. And it’s not a joke.”
“Sorry.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“How many people in London are lonely?” She did not give him the chance of another flippant answer. “I’ll tell you. Lots and lots. Including you.”
He decided not to argue. “All right. I’m lonely.”
“There!” exclaimed Marcia. “I knew you were.”
“But I don’t really see what I could do about it anyway. Ever since Mary died I’ve been by myself—lonely, if you insist. That’s the lot of widows and widowers. They’re lonely.”
Marcia shook her head. “Widows may be,” she said. “But not widowers. Men can do something about it. It’s easy for them to … remarry.”
“I don’t see why it should be any different,” said William. “Men and women these days—either can make the first move.”
Marcia was silent, and William knew immediately, almost as soon as he had finished speaking, that he had said something very dangerous. Like a diplomat who makes an inadvertent confession of state perfidy or a negotiator who gives away a strategy in a careless phrase, he sought to repair the damage. “That is,” he said, “where both want the move to be made. Where it’s right for something to happen.”
Marcia was thinking. “So a woman can—?”
And at that point, almost on cue, Freddie de la Hay, who had been sleeping in the kitchen, chose to enter the room. The dog looked about him, and then, seeing William, bounded across the room to hurl himself onto the sofa between William and Marcia.
William greeted him with undisguised affection—and relief. Marcia, however, was cooler. Freddie had been her idea, but she had not anticipated this.
“Can Freddie not go back to the kitchen?” she asked pointedly.
“I don’t think so,” said William. “I think he wants to go out. I’ll take him. Why don’t you start cooking dinner? I’ll take Freddie outside for a few minutes. Freddie,” he said, once they were out on the landing. “Good boy!”
Freddie looked up. It was as if he understood.
50. The Dignity of Distance
WILLIAM TOOK FREDDIE downstairs, relieved that the corner into which he had inadvertently painted himself had proved to have this escape route. He liked Marcia and, if he was honest with himself, he was very slightly dependent on her—if one can be slightly dependent on anything, he thought. Dependence was surely something that was there or was not: a boat was either tied to the jetty or it was not. Would it matter to him if Marcia were to take it into her head to leave London? Would it make any real difference to his life? No, it would not. But then people are extremely resilient; most of us could lose somebody from our lives and not feel that the resulting gap could never be filled. Of course it could. Most of us know how to bounce back.
He looked down at Freddie de la Hay as they went out int
o the street. Dogs were an example to us all: they made the most of their current circumstances, whatever hand of cards they were dealt. Of course dogs, unlike humans, did not look back; what interested them was what lay ahead. So Freddie, he imagined, did not think back to his former career as a sniffer dog, but was instead more interested in the possibilities of Corduroy Mansions, such as they were.
“I’ll do my best by you, Freddie,” he said. “Starting with a change in diet. Would you like that? Meat?”
Freddie, aware of the fact that he was being addressed, looked up and wagged his tail. He liked William, indeed he loved him. He would have died for William, even after only two days, because that was his job, his calling as a dog. That was what dogs did.
William turned the corner. Freddie de la Hay had business with lamp posts but was quick and considerate, and did not linger. Their walk round the block completed, William found himself approaching Corduroy Mansions just as one of the young women from the flat below was returning from the shops, laden with bags of groceries.
“I’ll open the door for you,” he called out.
The young woman turned round and William saw that it was Jenny. He liked her, although he had on occasion found himself slightly intimidated by her conversation and her tendency to litter her remarks with references to the works of obscure writers. And even when she referred to somebody of whom he had heard, he felt that he had little to add.
“Don’t you think that modern transport rather diminishes the world?” she had once observed to him when they had found themselves standing at the same bus stop.
He had thought quickly. How is the world diminished by modern transport? In one sense, surely, it opens up the world, makes it available. Could that be construed as a diminution in that it shows the world not to be the grand place we fondly thought it to be? Or did she mean that it shrinks the world? That made more sense, perhaps.
He did not have time to answer because Jenny, peering down the road for the arrival of the bus, expanded upon the theme. “As you’ll probably know,” she went on, “Proust said that steamships insult the dignity of distance. I think he was right. But just imagine what he’d say about the Airbus 380.”
William laughed. “Of course. Just imagine!” And then he added, just to be on the safe side, “Proust.”
Jenny looked at him expectantly. She seemed pleased to have discovered a neighbour who could discuss Proust; so few neighbours could.
William looked down the road. There was no sign of the bus.
“Proust wasn’t a great one for buses,” he said. It was a wild remark: he had no idea whether Proust had views on buses, or even whether there were buses in Proust’s time. When had Proust lived? Eighteen-something? In which case a reference to buses was inappropriate. “Not that he saw many buses,” he added quickly, and laughed. That would cover the possible non-invention of buses in Proust’s time.
Jenny smiled. “Proust would not have liked all the germs you find on buses,” she said. “He was a frightful hypochondriac. Most of his time he spent in bed—and when he did go out, he worried about draughts.”
“Of course,” said William. “He was always going on about that sort of thing, wasn’t he?”
“And remember when they held that wonderful dinner party?” Jenny said. “It was the biggest event of the nineteen-twenties.”
So there were buses, thought William. “Vaguely.”
“And Proust came along and met Joyce and Diaghilev. He had had his maid call up ten times in advance to ensure that there would be tea for him on arrival. And he enquired about draughts.”
“Hah! His famous draughts!”
The bus had lumbered into view and the conversation had stopped at that point, but William had remembered it and had been slightly wary of Jenny since then. But now, burdened with shopping bags, she could hardly start talking about Proust.
“Here,” he said, “I’ve got my key. And then I’ll give you a hand with the bags once we’re in.”
She nodded gratefully, and he opened the door. Once inside, he released Freddie de la Hay from his leash and reached out to relieve Jenny of one of her bags. And it was then that he noticed that she was crying.
“My dear …” He was about to place his hand on her shoulder but stopped himself. He would have done so a few years ago, would have put his arms about her to comfort her, but he realised now that the times discouraged such gestures. We did not touch one another any more.
“My dear … what is it?”
She looked away. “It’s nothing. I’m all right.”
“But you’re not! You’re not.”
He waited, and then she turned to look at him. She was wearing mascara, which had smudged. There was a black streak down her cheek. He felt in his pocket for his handkerchief, which he used to dab at the smudge. One could surely do that these days: one could un-smudge somebody.
She looked into his eyes. “I’ve been … been fired,” she said. “I’ve lost my job.”
William frowned. “Your job with that MP? What’s his name? Snarp?”
She shivered as she uttered the name. “Snark.”
“Oh dear, I’m very sorry.”
“He did it by text message,” she said. “He fired me by text.”
51. A Very Good Risotto
BY THE TIME WILLIAM eventually got back to his flat, Marcia had prepared the risotto and was becoming anxious.
“You took your time,” she said, glancing at her watch. “That was a long walk. Did Freddie de la Hay run off or something?”
William shook his head. “No. Freddie de la Hay was a model dog—as always. No, our walk was not all that long. It was that young woman.”
Marcia arched an eyebrow. “You met a young woman?” It was her constant fear: William would meet somebody and go off with her. It was her nightmare.
“One of the downstairs girls. You know, the tall, good-looking one.”
Marcia did not like to hear William use the term “good-looking,” especially in relation to young women. She remained silent.
“Yes,” William went on. “Jenny. She worked for that oleaginous MP, Snark. Apparently he sacked her today. Sent her a text telling her. Can you believe it?”
Marcia relaxed. “Oh, I can believe anything of politicians,” she said. “I cater for them from time to time. You should see them! Quite a few of them exist entirely on free food, you know. They go to meetings and presentations and the like where there’s free food and they stuff themselves with whatever’s available. They’re real shockers.”
“I can well believe it,” said William. “And free drink too. I provide the wine for a lobbyist. Gets through gallons.”
“So he sacked her? Just like that? Can you do that these days?”
“If you have grounds,” said William. “Or if somebody’s not worked long enough for the legislation to apply. Your people—those students you take on—have no protection. They’re casuals.”
“I wouldn’t sack even one of them by text,” said Marcia. “It’s really unkind.”
William nodded. “Of course you wouldn’t. No decent person would. This chap Snark must be a real shocker. She was in floods of tears, poor girl. Her mascara had run all the way down her cheek. She looked so … so vulnerable.”
Marcia stiffened. “I’m sure she did.”
“I did my best to comfort her,” William continued.
Marcia’s eyes narrowed. “Good,” she said. “That was kind of you.”
“Well, I could hardly do anything but,” said William. “And Freddie de la Hay was marvellous. I swear he knew that she was upset. He went up on his back legs to try to lick her face. And he nuzzled her as if he was trying to make it better for her.”
“Dogs can tell,” said Marcia. “They can always tell. And so … what happened?”
“Well, I spent about fifteen minutes with her in the flat. I saw her in—we saw her in, Freddie and I. Her flatmates were out, but I managed to see that she was all right. And then … well, then I h
ad a brilliant idea.”
Maria looked puzzled. “A way of getting her job back?”
William said no. That would not have been a good idea at all, he explained. “She said that she had no desire to go back to Snark. She seemed determined, in fact, to get her own back in some way. But I didn’t go into that. No, it suddenly occurred to me that she would be the ideal stop-gap for Paul. She’s just lost her job and I’ve just lost my assistant. Perfect match.”
Marcia was not at all sure that she welcomed this. A male assistant would have been better, she thought, but she felt she could hardly make that point.
“Has she got any experience?”
William shrugged. “I doubt it. Or at least no experience of working in a wine shop. But it’s hardly rocket science, Marcia. She won’t have to advise anybody—she can refer them to me for that. She’ll just have to open up the shop and do the till and so on.”
“And did she accept?”
William told her how Jenny had been doubtful at first, but had thought about it and accepted—for a month or two. “I don’t see myself doing this for ever,” she had said, adding apologetically, “not that there’s anything wrong with the wine trade.”
He had not taken offence. She knew about Proust and Wittgenstein and the like; she could not be expected to operate a till for too long.
“So,” he said to Marcia, “that’s all fixed up. And what started as a terrible day has turned into something much better. Much better.”
Marcia smiled. She was pleased that his mood had changed, because she had decided that she would simply have to act. She had placed a bottle of champagne in the fridge and it would be nicely chilled by now. She would serve the risotto, which she was confident would also help matters. It was a magnificent risotto, reverse-engineered from a dish she had eaten in her favourite restaurant, Semplice: Milanese risotto with small pieces of grouse worked into the rice. William would not be able to resist, especially after a glass or two of champagne.