Hotel du Lac - Anita Brookner [14]
She dabbed the corners of her mouth again. ‘Of course, I have everything delivered,’ she added.
Having assured Edith of her comfortable circumstances at home, she went on to describe to her the tenor of their life abroad. It was clear that as travelling companions, Mrs Pusey and Jennifer were entirely compatible. Abroad was seen mainly as a repository for luxury goods. They were extensively familiar with the kind of resort which had recently but definitively gone out of fashion; hence their presence here, although that was also explained by the bank account and the fact that Mr and Mrs Pusey had known M. Huber when they motored over from Montreux ‘in the old days’. But it became clear that Mr Pusey had frequently been left at home to do whatever he did while Jennifer and her mother took off for restorative trips to Cadenabbia or Lucerne or Amalfi or Deauville or Menton or Bordighera or Estoril. Once, only once, to Palma, but that was apparently a mistake. ‘I never could stand the heat. After that, my husband said he wouldn’t risk the Mediterranean again, not in the high season. Of course, that was before all these package tours. Pretty place. But the heat was terrible. I spent all my time in the cathedral, trying to cool down. Never again.’
No, Mrs Pusey went on, she preferred the cooler weather. And they hated crowds. And M. Huber made them so welcome. Of course, they always had the same suite. The one on the third floor, overlooking the lake.
‘Then I think we must be on the same corridor,’ ventured Edith. ‘My room is 307.’
‘Why, yes,’ said Mrs Pusey. ‘That little room at the end. Of course, there are very few single rooms in a place like this.’ She looked speculatively at Edith. ‘If we go up together, you can look in and see where we are,’ she said. Then, urging herself effortfully to the edge of her chair, she attempted to rise, and after two false starts heaved herself upright, shaking off Jennifer’s arm and steadying herself on her fine ankles. This woman is getting on for seventy, thought Edith.
But it did not seem so, as she followed the shapely midnight blue back and the wake of rosy scent into the lift and out again and along the corridor. While Jennifer was allowed forward to open the door, Mrs Pusey made herself ready to do the honours. They did indeed have a suite: their two bedrooms could be entered separately from the corridor, but, Mrs Pusey implied, they were invariably to be found in the small salon that connected them and which was agreeably filled with the amenities which confident people accord themselves in strange places: a colour television, a basket of fruit, flowers, several splits of champagne. And leading the way into her bedroom, Mrs Pusey gestured with a smile to a négligé in oyster-coloured satin, thickly encrusted with lace, which was laid out over the back of a chair. ‘My weakness,’ she confided. ‘I do love nice things. And there’s such a good shop in Montreux. That’s why we come back here every year.’
She eyed Edith again and smiled. ‘You should buy yourself something pretty while you’re here, dear. A woman owes it to herself to have pretty things. And if she feels good she looks good. That’s what I tell Jennifer. I always see to it that she’s fitted out like a queen. Don’t I, darling?’
And she held out her arms to Jennifer who walked into them and snuggled her face against her mother’s. ‘Ah,’ laughed Mrs Pusey. ‘She loves her silly mother, don’t you, darling?’ And they embraced lovingly and walked to the door, still entwined, to see Edith out. ‘Don’t be alone, dear,