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