Hotel du Lac - Anita Brookner [15]
Edith found herself thinking about this conversation at various moments in the night when the Spartan firmness of her mattress made her normally light sleep more intermittent than usual. She thought too of the Aladdin’s cave she had perceived in the Puseys’ suite, with its careless deployment of pleasurable attributes. But most of all she thought of the charming tableau of mother and daughter entwined, their arms locked about each other, their rosy faces turned to Edith. Seeing her, they had taken the full measure of her solitariness, and the implication of this condition showed in their expressions which had become quite innocent with surprise and pity. She had felt almost apologetic as, with a stiff little bow (and that was an association and a reminiscence in itself), she had bid them goodnight and made her way thoughtfully to her room. And had resolved to learn and to do better, so that this particular complex of feelings might not be activated again.
The next morning, dressed in her tweed skirt and her long cardigan, Edith reflected that she had perhaps been a little lax in presenting an appearance to the world. And that if the world had not shown much interest in her appearance (‘And what are you working on now?’ people asked her at parties) then it was perhaps her fault. She had failed to scale the heights of consumerism that were apparently as open to her as they were to anyone else; this could now be remedied. If a woman feels good she looks good, she said to herself, as she stepped out into the corridor. And as she crossed the foyer and went out through the revolving door, steadying herself with a deep breath before going out into the world, she reminded herself once again of this dictum. Of course, I have everything delivered, she added.
But it was clear after about ten minutes that abroad for her, even a small resort out of season, was not the same as it was for Iris Pusey or even for Jennifer. Where they saw luxury goods, she saw only houses of detention. ‘Pension Lartigue (Dir. Mme Vve. Lartigue)’ was followed by ‘Clinique Les Mimosas (Dr Privat)’. A small railed garden contained two men playing chess on a collapsible table, watched by six totally silent onlookers. Disappointed, but still calm, she walked on until she came to a large café, its glass windows half covered with steam. She went in and sat down, taking a notebook out of her bag to give herself a countenance. But the sight before her was more reassuring. A low buzz of conversation emanated from a number of sturdy-looking women; flushed waitresses carried plates of cakes from a counter to the tables; coffee was ordered and reordered. Somewhere in the distance Edith could hear a familiar little whine; looking up, she saw the tall woman break off a piece of macaroon and poke it into Kiki’s mouth. Catching sight of Edith, the tall woman raised her small silver fork in brief and silent greeting. Edith nodded and smiled. What on earth was this woman doing here? Mrs Pusey would no doubt know. And what am I doing here myself, she thought, but quelled that thought, paid her bill, and left.
The rest of her walk yielded no further evidence of the sybaritic life. A small corner shop, evidently a grocery of some sort, displayed on its pavement three perfectly unadorned baskets of string beans. Outside the station she bought a three days old copy of The Times. And returning to the hotel she was just in time to see Mrs Pusey and Jennifer being ceremoniously installed in the back of an old-fashioned limousine. Off to Montreux, no doubt, to get Jennifer fitted out like a queen. Edith turned slowly back into the hotel, went up in the lift, met a fresh effusion of scent in the corridor, and sat down thoughtfully at the little table in her room.
‘My dearest David,’ she wrote,
‘Well, it is all go here, a veritable whirl of activity. And an unworldly creature like myself might well have shrunk back in alarm from the sophistication of the smart set, had I not been kindly taken in hand by a respectable