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  William accepted the mug of tea offered him. ‘It’s difficult. I find that—’

  Manfred, lowering himself into a chair opposite the sofa, cut him short. ‘Alphabetical arrangement is not the only option,’ he said. ‘And I’m always slightly suspicious of people whose books are arranged alphabetically. OCD issues. One isn’t a bookshop, you know. Nor a library.’

  William shrugged. ‘It must be helpful, though. I find that when—’

  ‘The late Alistair Cooke had a wonderful scheme,’ Manfred continued, ‘whereby he placed books on the United States in such a position on his wall of shelves as to reflect their geographical situation. Books on Montana were at the top and those on Florida were down in the bottom right-hand corner.’

  William smiled. ‘I once read about how the Victorians—’

  ‘Yes,’ said Manfred, ‘shelved books by male authors separately from those by female authors, out of a sense of propriety. Frightfully funny.’ He took a sip of his tea, staring intently at William over the top of the mug. ‘Now then, Freddie de la Hay. It’s an extraordinary coincidence that Maria—’

  ‘Marcia,’ interrupted William.

  Manfred looked slightly annoyed. ‘Of course. Marcia. That Marcia should have discovered that we wanted to share our dog. And then discovered that you would be quite keen on an arrangement of that sort. Isn’t London extraordinary? There will be a consensus ad idem somewhere for every matter under the sun. And this applies to selling things too. If there is one person wishing to sell a collection of the stamps of Fiji, there will be some other person anxious to buy just such a thing. London, I think, is the perfect market. Ideas. Things. People. Every vendor will find a purchaser.’

  ‘I’m a wine merchant,’ offered William. ‘I sometimes go to the wine auctions and you find that even the most obscure—’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ interjected Manfred. ‘Now, Freddie de la Hay. He’s a remarkable dog, you know. We found him down in Kent, in a little place called Sutton Valence. Charming spot. A friend had put us in touch with a breeder down there and we chose him from a litter of four. He was by far the most intelligent-looking of the lot. I can’t stand an unintelligent dog, can you?’

  ‘It depends on the personality,’ said William. ‘You find that some dogs who are a bit dim are very affectionate, and then—’

  ‘Of course,’ interrupted Manfred. ‘That’s to be expected. But we wanted to carry out a little experiment with our dog and so we wanted one that was up to the challenge.’

  William frowned. ‘Experiment?’ He decided that the best way to conduct a conversation with the columnist would be to use sentences of only one word. In this way, a contribution could be made before Manfred had time to interject.

  ‘Yes. An experiment. We wanted to see whether one could raise a dog for the twenty-first century.’

  William stared at him. ‘Oh?’

  The columnist adjusted his glasses; behind the lenses, the eyes were large. The aquiline nose tilted higher. ‘Do you realise the damage that dogs cause to the environment?’

  William thought for a moment. ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I can give you the figures. Or rather, I could look them up, I have them somewhere. If you work out how many cattle dogs get through with that disgusting dog food of theirs, you can extrapolate how many acres of rain forest are felled for pasture to feed those cattle. Quod erat—’

  ‘Demonstrandum,’ supplied William.

  The nose tilted again. ‘Exactly. So we have tried to bring up Freddie de la Hay to be a responsible world citizen. This has two dimensions to it. One is behavioural, and the other is dietary.’

  ‘Dietary,’ muttered William.

  ‘Yes. Freddie de la Hay, you see, is a vegetarian.’ Then he added, ‘For starters.’

  16. An Invitation to Bake is Misconstrued

  Caroline’s tête-à-tête with her friend James in a coffee bar off Tottenham Court Road proved to take longer than she had anticipated. She had no further lectures to attend that day, but she had thought that she might spend the late morning and afternoon writing an essay that, even if it was not yet overdue, had about it an air of impending tardiness. For the most part, her course assignments went smoothly, but every so often she found herself working on something where her thoughts never seemed to rise above the banal. This essay was one such project.

  James, however, wanted to talk, and the claims of friendship were stronger than the promptings of academic obligation. His problem, too, was not something that could be disposed of in a few minutes; it was a matter that could affect the entire direction of his life.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she said to him. ‘Are you quite sure?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes. I really am.’

  ‘You see,’ she said, ‘this is not something that one normally gets wrong, is it? One either feels a particular way, or one doesn’t. Do you see what I mean?’

  He frowned. ‘But if it’s a question of taste, can’t one’s tastes change as one goes through life?’ He warmed to the theme. ‘Think of music. I used to like the Carmina Burana - now I can’t stand it. I can’t take Orff. And Britten - I used to think he was tremendously boring, but now I actually enjoy his music. I saw The Turn of the Screw the other day at the ENO, by the way. I loved it.’

  Caroline considered this. Had her own tastes changed? They had, she thought, but she was not sure the analogy was entirely appropriate. ‘I don’t know whether it’s quite the same thing,’ she ventured. ‘It’s not like a preference for red wine over white. I don’t think it’s that simple. It can’t be.’

  James looked at her searchingly. ‘But if you read what the developmental psychologists have to say, isn’t it true that people go through stages? I read that it’s standard stuff for boys to be fond of other boys when they’re growing up and then to start liking girls instead. Maybe that’s what’s happening to me. I’m going from one stage to another. Just a little bit later.’

  Caroline stared into her cup of coffee. She was not sure whether she should be expressing an opinion on developmental theories. What did she know about all this? Nothing, really. All she knew was that there were people who liked one or the other, and some who liked both. Perhaps that was where James was. He was one who liked both. And if that was the case, then there was not very much that anybody else could do about it, even if they wanted to. James would have to decide what to do.

  They rehearsed various possibilities, but forty minutes later they were no further on. ‘Why don’t you wait and see what happens?’ she said eventually. ‘Give it a year. Then if you really are going through some sort of change, you’ll know about it. See how things turn out.’

  James looked thoughtful. ‘But if I’m to make a choice - and maybe you’re right, maybe that’s what I should do - then surely I’ll need to try being straight? Which means I’ll need to find a girlfriend.’

  Caroline agreed. ‘Fine. No problem with that. Find one.’

  ‘But that’s hardly fair on the girl,’ said James. ‘Nobody wants to be an experiment.’

  That, thought Caroline, is why I like you. You’re so decent, so good. In general, men were only too willing to treat women as experiments.

  ‘I think you should just tell her,’ she said. ‘You should explain the situation.’

  James looked doubtful. ‘But will anybody want me if I say that?’

  Caroline knew the answer to this. ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘There are hundreds of girls - thousands - who believe that they can win over a man who appears not to be interested. These girls think that they just need to show him what he’s missing. They really do. Such men are seen as projects.’

  James laughed. ‘Then they’re wrong.’

  ‘Misadvised,’ said Caroline.

  ‘I don’t want you to think that I believe there’s anything wrong about it,’ said James. ‘I suspect I could be equally happy either way. It’s just that I’m not sure which way I am.’

  The conversation had come full circle, and Carol
ine now looked at her watch. ‘I have to go to Blackwell’s,’ she said, ‘and then I want to go back to my flat.’ She hesitated. She did not want to leave him in the coffee bar, uncertain about who he was, but nor did she want to stay too long. She would ask him to accompany her. He was easy company and he would be no bother.

  ‘Look, James,’ she said. ‘Would you like to come back to Corduroy Mansions with me?’

  He gave a start, and spilled a small amount of coffee on the sleeve of his shirt. ‘You mean—?’

  Caroline realised that he had misunderstood. ‘Of course not,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean you to think that. Oh dear.’

  For a moment he looked crestfallen. She swallowed hard. ‘Listen, James,’ she went on, ‘I find you really attractive. And you are, you know. Anybody would find you attractive. But you and I are just friends, aren’t we? There would be no point in changing the nature of our relationship.’

  He nodded. ‘I suppose you’re right. But that’s what everybody’s going to think, aren’t they? They will want me as a friend and that’s all. How will I ever know what I want if all I’m going to get is friendship?’

  ‘Oh come on, don’t talk such rubbish. As I told you, there’ll be plenty of girls wanting to . . . to get to know you better. Plenty.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  She rose to her feet. ‘Come on, let’s go to Blackwell’s. Then, when we get back to Corduroy Mansions, we can bake something together. I want to make some biscuits.’

  He looked at her mournfully. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Would any woman ever invite a straight man to cook biscuits with her?’

  Caroline was about to dismiss his objection out of hand, but then she thought, yes, he’s right. No woman would ask a completely straight man to cook biscuits with her. It just wouldn’t happen.

  17. Brutalism in Architecture

  ‘Arts and Crafts!’ exclaimed James. ‘Is this your place, Caroline? Corduroy Mansions.’

  They had walked together up Ebury Street and turned into the side street on which, along with several other less distinguished blocks of flats, stood Corduroy Mansions. James, who had a strong interest in architecture, was ecstatic.

  ‘Look at your chimney,’ he exclaimed. ‘Pure Domestic Revival! And the sharply sloping roof. And the dormers. Oh, Caroline!’

  ‘Those dormer windows are fake,’ Caroline said. ‘William - he lives on the top floor - says that there’s nothing in the roof, just empty space.’

  James became even more enthusiastic. ‘Fake windows! Even better. Can you think of one contemporary architect, just one, who would bother to put in fake windows?’

  They were standing on the pavement outside Corduroy Mansions, both looking up at the building’s cream-painted brick façade and at the fake windows jutting out of the roof. Caroline tried to think of a contemporary architect who would resort to such decoration, and could not. Her problem was more profound, though: she was having difficulty thinking of any contemporary architect, whether or not he would resort to fake windows. She was weak on architects but she knew that there was one, at least, who was iconic. What was the name of the man who designed Stansted airport? Norman Foster. That was it.

  ‘Norman Foster?’ she ventured. ‘No, he wouldn’t, would he?’

  James laughed. ‘Certainly not. Mind you, he’s all right, compared with some of them.’

  ‘Stansted airport,’ suggested Caroline. ‘I quite like it.’

  ‘Lots of air,’ said James, making an extravagant, airy gesture above his head. ‘And lots of light. Unlike most of Heathrow, which is a glorified souk these days.’ He gave a shudder. ‘All those low ceilings and tatty carpets and flashy shops. When you go to an airport abroad now - virtually anywhere - you find clean floors - stone floors - and ceilings that allow you to breathe. Everything has become so mean in this country.

  ‘Mind you,’ he went on, ‘one shouldn’t just pick on Heathrow. There’s the British Library, a lot of people still hate that. I think it’s rather nice inside though. That poor architect. I don’t think he deserved all that criticism.’

  He turned away from his inspection of the building and looked at Caroline. ‘Do you think that architecture and morality are linked, Caroline?’

  Caroline had been thinking about biscuits, and wondering whether she still had any lemons in the fridge. It would be nice, she thought, to make lemon biscuits rather like the organic ones Prince Charles baked for his Duchy Originals. They were delicious, those biscuits, but a bit of a treat, not being all that cheap. She could afford them - her father gave her a generous allowance - but when one shared with others one should be careful about what sort of food was left lying around in the kitchen. Not that any of them would eat food that was not theirs (a nibble, perhaps, now and then); it was more a question of tact. Dee had no spare money for expensive food; she largely lived on food supplements and brown rice. And the others, though not as hard up as Dee, had to watch what they spent. Oedipus Snark paid Jenny a pittance, she said, and although Jo seemed to find sufficient funds to go on regular paintballing weekends in Essex - a bizarre activity even for a man, and doubly so, thought Caroline, for a woman - even so, she was always grumbling about the price of essentials such as milk and bread.

  ‘They’re not essential,’ Dee had once snapped. ‘You don’t need cooked grains. And milk is bad for you, as everybody knows. It’s full of chemicals that the cows pick up when they eat the chemical-covered grass. Chemicals, Jo, chemicals. There was an article about it in Anti-oxidant News.’

  Jo had ignored this. ‘Back home in Perth,’ she said, ‘you never thought twice about buying something like milk. You just bought it. Here—’

  Caroline’s train of thought was interrupted by James.

  ‘When I was at Cambridge,’ he went on, ‘there was a Fellow of Peterhouse called David Watkin. Heard of him? A very amusing, interesting man. He said that modernism in architecture involved a frightening, stern morality. Everything must be functional, stripped bare, stark. Brutal. Hence the South Bank Centre.’ He paused. ‘I think he’s right about modernism.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Caroline. ‘So . . .’

  ‘Of course,’ James continued, ‘we all know that buildings express an attitude to the world. And that means we can judge them morally.’

  ‘Stansted airport?’ asked Caroline.

  ‘Open. Reasonably friendly. Not scary. It’s OK from the moral point of view.’

  Caroline was intrigued. She enjoyed James and his conversation. What would it be like, she wondered, to be married to somebody like him - somebody who would keep one entertained all the time? The world would be always be interesting with James by one’s side. She looked at him again. He was very good-looking; there was little doubt about that. And yet, and yet . . .

  ‘Give me an example of an evil building,’ she asked. ‘Can you?’

  James did not take long to come up with an answer. ‘Anything commissioned by Mussolini,’ he said. ‘Or designed by Speer. Fascist buildings. Soviet architecture - you know, those great horrid blocks of flats that showed such contempt for the people who lived in them. Treated them like ants. Las Vegas - virtually everything there.’ He thought for a moment longer. ‘Or that Romanian dictator’s palace. You know, the one who was shot in his long winter coat when people rose up against him.’

  ‘What about prisons? Don’t they express . . . well, cruelty?’

  ‘I’m trying to think of famous prisons,’ said James. ‘I suppose, by their very nature, prisons will look unfriendly and hard. They have very small windows, you see, and that makes a building look threatening. The Bastille? San Quentin?’

  ‘Yes. Those are certainly cruel buildings.’

  James sighed. ‘But look at modern fortress architecture. Schools with tiny windows and large swathes of concrete. Look at the Hayward Gallery, in all its brutality. How could they do it, Caroline? How could anybody make a thing like that?’ He sighed again. ‘And here’s this lovely building, your
Corduroy Mansions. Crumpled - if a building can be crumpled. Utterly friendly and human. A building that says, “Come in, love.” That’s what it says: it calls us “love”, like a tea lady. A building that one would like to sit down and have tea with. That sort of building.’

  They both looked up at the comfortable brickwork.

  ‘Those are our windows up there,’ said Caroline.

  James smiled. ‘Lovely. Lovely windows.’

  Caroline looked at him appreciatively. What other man would compliment one’s windows? As her younger sister would say - with the elongated teenage vowel that signified utter approbation - he’s sooooo sympathetic.

  Was there a possibility? That business about stages - was there any truth in it? she wondered.

  No, she must put all of that out of her mind. James was here to bake biscuits. Nothing more.

  18. On the Sofa

  James enthused further about the building, on the staircase and on the landing. ‘Original doors,’ he said. ‘Worth their weight in . . . well, not quite gold, but very nice anyway. And look, your fittings, Caroline. The handle. To die for!’

  Caroline thought this a little exaggerated, but said nothing. She had never inspected their door handle, and now, viewing it through James’s aesthetically keener eyes, she realised that it was rather attractive. Vaguely Art Nouveau, she thought.

  They went inside. ‘Not much to get excited about in here,’ she said. ‘Our furniture is pretty ordinary. A bit run-down, in fact.’

  James looked about him. ‘I see what you mean. It could certainly do with a makeover. However, that sofa looks tempting.’ He lowered himself onto the sofa, stretching his legs out in front of him. ‘I could be very comfortable living here.’

  Caroline raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, there’s no room, I’m afraid. Four people is about as many as this flat can hold.’