Hotel du Lac - Anita Brookner [24]
The beautiful day had within it the seeds of its own fragility: it was the last day of summer. Sun burned out of a cloudless blue sky: asters and dahlias stood immobile in the clear light, a light without glare, without brilliance. Trees had already lost the dark heavy foliage of what had been an exceptional August and early September and were all the more poignant for the dryness of their yellowing leaves which floated noiselessly down from time to time. Stepping out from the salon, M. Huber rubbed his hands with pleasure. There would be many occasional visitors for lunch and tea today. But at the moment all was quiet. Nobody spoke. The only sound was the occasional fall of a chestnut.
The man in grey, dressed today in something paler and even more elegant, with, Edith was delighted to note, a panama hat in his hand, stepped out into the garden and surveyed the scene. Catching sight of the woman with the dog, he went across to her, bent over her supine body, and made some apparently jocular enquiry: a weak raising of a very white arm and a long limp hand were his answer. Nodding to Edith and also to Mme de Bonneuil, the man in grey departed on business of his own, his occasional and secret smile once again in evidence.
As he rounded the corner the woman with the dog shot upright, leaned in Edith’s direction, and whispered urgently, ‘I say! I say! I’m sorry, I don’t know your name. Could you be an angel and come and sit with me? I don’t want that man round me again today and I simply can’t put him off without making a scene, which I’ve half a mind to do, I can assure you.’
Obediently, and with only the mildest of lingering regrets, Edith closed her book and moved along the terrace, placing herself on a small chair at the head of the chaise longue. Such a lovely peaceful day, she thought. Oh, well. At least she hasn’t got the dog with her.
‘Monica,’ said the woman, extending her narrow, boneless hand.
‘Edith,’ said Edith, shaking it cautiously. Better not get in too far, she said to herself.
‘I’ve been wondering about you,’ said Monica. ‘I’ve wanted to talk to you but you’ve always been with Ma Pusey and I can’t stand the sight of her.’
‘Where is she?’ asked Edith, wishing that the other would lower her voice. She half expected Mrs Pusey to materialize, clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, to restore her own sense of order and hierarchy, and also to inaugurate the day’s legitimate distractions.
‘God knows. At least they can’t be out buying knickers today. Oh, I beg your pardon. Lingerie.’ She pronounced the word with an exaggeratedly French accent. ‘Although I wouldn’t put it past her to wake someone up and get them to open the shop just because she happened to have a couple of thousand spare francs about her.’
‘There does seem to be a great deal of money,’ murmured Edith, in what she hoped was a neutral tone. Servants must feel like this, she reflected, gossiping below stairs.
‘Loaded,’ said the other. ‘Trade, of course. Darling Daddy left them a packet. Wine,’ she added, responding to Edith’s curiosity. ‘He was a sherry importer. And the funny thing is, the old girl can’t stand the taste of it. She only likes champagne. Well, who doesn’t?’
Edith, remembering the last occasion on which she had drunk champagne, shuddered.
‘Anything wrong?’ asked Monica.
I am tired, thought Edith. I must be careful. I am not going to confide in this languid and luxurious woman, who would in any case be bored if I did. Light conversation is all that is called for.
‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘But where is Kiki?’
Monica’s face fell. ‘In disgrace. Locked in the bathroom. Well, you can’t expect