Corduroy Mansions Page 0,70

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