Hotel du Lac - Anita Brookner [26]
‘The one I can’t make out’, said Edith shamelessly, as Monica leaned back and sucked smoke hungrily from yet another cigarette, ‘is Jennifer.’
Monica’s fine oval eyes emptied of all expression. ‘Jennifer,’ she pronounced. And after a pause. ‘Jennifer, I asure you, is entirely straightforward.’
Edith, glancing at her watch, saw that it was nearly one o’clock, and, ‘We must go,’ she said firmly. Monica’s face dropped into its habitual lines of obstinate gloom. No dramatics, please, thought Edith. ‘Come,’ she said, stretching out her hand as the other sat there immobile, shoulders hunched. ‘You are much more beautiful when you smile. And it’s such a lovely day. Won’t you walk back with me?’ Slowly, reluctantly, Monica allowed herself to be led to the door, a small smile not quite brought to birth. A mystery here, thought Edith.
When they got back to the Hotel du Lac they found Mrs Pusey and Jennifer sitting on the terrace with the unknown man in the panama hat. A bottle of champagne lolled in a bucket on the table.
‘There she is,’ called Mrs Pusey in a musical voice. ‘Come and join us, dear. We’ve been looking for you.’ She ignored Monica who pursed her lips, donned her glasses, and flung herself disdainfully on to her chaise longue.
Edith, annoyed on behalf of her new friend, hesitated, but was saved by the appearance of waiters, napkins over their arms, in the doorways. Mrs Pusey (who was indeed in white) saw them and became intent on the business of levering herself out of her chair. The man in the panama hat offered his arm and, with Jennifer holding her mother’s jacket, they processed into the dining room.
‘Come on, Monica,’ urged Edith. But Monica pulled down the corners of her mouth, raised a limp hand again, and then to all intents and purposes fell asleep.
The afternoon continued golden and mellow. The beauty of this perfect day brought them all back to the terrace where Edith, to whom Monica presented a stony profile and tightly shut eyes, joined the Puseys and the man with the panama hat, who was introduced as Mr Neville. An hour passed quietly, for Mr Neville had procured English Sunday newspapers from some unknown source and had kindly passed them round. But Mrs Pusey, after flicking distractedly through the pages of the colour supplements, gave a sigh and said, ‘Such an ugly world. Greed and sensationalism. Cheap sex. And no taste. Not a sign. Run upstairs and get my book, would you, darling?’
‘Yes,’ she went on, as Edith and Mr Neville made polite but sustained efforts to ignore this interruption. ‘I’m afraid I’m a romantic’ With this pronouncement she smiled at them, as, reluctantly, they surrendered the Observer, the Sunday Times, the Sunday Telegraph. ‘You see, I was brought up to believe in the right values.’ Here we go, thought Edith, swallowing a tiny yawn. ‘Love means marriage to me,’ pursued Mrs Pusey. ‘Romance and courtship go together. A woman should be able to make a man worship her.’ Mr Neville inclined his head, giving polite consideration to this view. ‘Well, perhaps I’ve been fortunate,’ Mrs Pusey added with a little laugh, looking down to rearrange the bow of her silk blouse. ‘My husband worshipped me. Thank you, darling,’ she said, as Jennifer handed her a paperback with a straining Art Nouveau profile on the cover. ‘This is the sort of story I enjoy,’ she went on. She was able to talk even when she was reading, Edith noted.
‘The Sun at Midnight,’ pronounced Mr Neville gravely. ‘By Vanessa Wilde. Not a writer known to me,’ he said to Edith, watching her profile as she gazed distantly over the lake.
‘Although I don’t think this is one of her best,’ said Mrs Pusey.
Edith felt an author’s pang. I was actually quite pleased with that one, she thought. David was on his summer holiday, she remembered, lying fretfully on a Greek beach with his wife. I imagined him to be having a marvellous time and I wrote for ten hours a day to stop myself thinking of him. I was rather proud of myself.