Hotel du Lac - Anita Brookner [11]
This I must see, thought Edith, pouring herself another glass of water. She was already aware of powerful and undiagnosed feelings toward these two: curiosity, envy, delight, attraction, and fear, the fear she always felt in the presence of strong personalities. And they were undoubtedly strong, there was no doubt of that, although their presence here was problematic. They seemed destined for better things. This was apparent in the way that waiters appeared from all sides to settle them in their chairs; menus were flourished, laughing remarks exchanged. The woman with the dog, quite eclipsed by this activity, looked back at them with another complicated expression on her face; Edith noted that although she had already encountered the two women on her way out they had quite ignored her. Again, a tiny thrill of fear whispered at the back of her mind. But they were worth watching; they were veritable concentrations of energy, as well as of charm. And not only were they charming to look at, they had glorious appetites to match. Talking busily to each other, knives and forks flashed as they ate their way enthusiastically through four courses; at the same time, plans were being drawn up for the following day. ‘What time did you order the car?’ Edith could hear, and ‘Remind me to take those shoes back, Mummy.’ Then, like many greedy women, they sat back fastidiously, as if the food had scarcely come to their notice. Butter wouldn’t melt, thought Edith.
Yet she was forced to follow them out, a humble and often stalled attendant in their rosy and perfumed wake (for this, she now realized, was the source of the scent she had smelt in the corridor) and as they took their seats in the salon, she sat near them, as if to gain some bravery, some confidence, from their utterly assured presence. Waiting for coffee to be brought, they surveyed their faces sternly in the mirrors of their respective compacts; adjustments were made, lips gleamed anew, and the ash blonde lady lifted her head to smile at the elderly pianist who had now returned, with further selections from indeterminate sources. ‘Ah, Noel,’ the ash blonde lady exclaimed indulgently, as the mild and conscientious sound arose. ‘What a genius that boy was.’
That boy? Edith realized that ages would have to be revised once more, but before she could do this she saw the daughter rise to her feet, smooth her black dress down over her abundant hips, and advance in her direction. Her rather large, flushed, blonde face was lowered quizzically towards Edith, and she said, ‘Mummy was wondering if you would like to join us for coffee?’
And of course it was deliverance, deliverance from the evening that lay ahead, and Edith rose joyfully to her feet, followed the daughter, bowed her head slightly to the mother, and said, ‘How kind of you. My name is Edith Hope and I only arrived today. I …’
‘I am Mrs Pusey,’ said the lady. ‘Iris Pusey.’
‘How do you do? Have you been here …’
‘And this is my daughter, Jennifer.’
They sat down, smiling at each other expectantly. Coffee arrived. Mrs Pusey leaned forward and took her cup. ‘I said to Jennifer, do go and ask that lady to join us. I hate to see anyone on their own. Especially in the evening.’ She settled back in her chair. Edith smiled again.
‘I said, she has such sad eyes.’
3
The next morning, flat calm.
Edith awoke to a mild pinkish dusk. Levering herself up cautiously in the unfamiliar bed, she peered at her watch to try to see the time. She had supposed it to be very early; she remembered waking some time before and hearing a door close quietly some little way down the corridor, but she saw to her surprise that it was nearly eight o’clock, and a finger of light, appearing through the veal-coloured curtains, seemed to contain the promise of a fine day. She rang for breakfast, then got up and pulled the curtains; in her long white nightgown she stepped out onto the little balcony and shivered in the cold air. But the mist was