Hotel du Lac - Anita Brookner [31]
They thought of her as an old maid, or at least a maiden lady. Randy spinsters of her acquaintance turned their eyes heavenward in despair when she answered, no, there was no one in her life, and never guessed that she lied. She lied well, unpretentiously: she sometimes thought that the time spent working out the plots of her novels had prepared her for this, her final adventure, her story come to life. David, she knew, lied not quite so well, even dropped hints to his wife, in one of those dangerous quarrels of theirs, that he might look elsewhere. His wife laughed scornfully, knowing him to be burdened with responsibilities – houses, children, professional standing – that he could not shed. His friends were indulgent towards him: he was attractive and they granted him licence to enjoy himself a little. But they suspected that he enjoyed himself with a succession of tough young secretaries, or with other men’s wives. Never with her.
She knew his wife, of course, but contrived never to see her. Naturally reclusive, she found it unsurprising that people left her to her fate. There had once been a dinner party, which she had urged herself to attend as a matter of social duty, not knowing that he was to be there. Yet outside the drawing room, she had heard that triumphant laugh, and did not quite know, in that moment of confusion, whether it would take more courage to leave or to continue. In the event, her steps continued without her, and she found herself sitting, with a glass in her hand, and to all intents and purposes entirely normal. She behaved well, as she knew she was expected to behave: quietly, politely, venturing little. While she listened to the pleasant middle-aged man on her left (and as her hostess observed them with a pleased and proprietorial eye) she looked across the table and saw his wife, highly coloured, drinking rather a lot, argumentative. Sexy, she thought painfully. But discontented, nevertheless. Her neighbour held out a lighter for the cigarette she had taken and she turned to him with her usual grave smile. Later, as the evening was coming to an end, she saw that David was sitting with an arm on the back of his wife’s chair, and that she, her eyes vague now, her face very pink, had become silent. She saw that they would make love that night and, getting up rather abruptly, thanked her hostess for a delightful evening.
‘My dear, must you go? It’s still quite early.’
‘You must excuse me,’ she said. ‘I have something I rather want to finish …’
‘Poor Edith. Burning the midnight oil. But such lovely books. We are all such fans, my dear. Now, how are you going to get home?’
Her neighbour offered his car and they left together. On the journey back from Chesham Place, she was rather silent. The man, who had been introduced as Geoffrey Long, was also silent, but she was vaguely aware of him as an affable and comforting presence. She told him not to get out of the car, but that he must come and have a drink with her one evening, exchanged telephone numbers with him, and waved him goodbye from her tiny front garden. Then she picked a sprig of lavender, crushed it between her fingers, and sniffed the aromatic leaf. And finally she went indoors. Oh David, David, she thought.
She knew that he was a man who could not deny himself anything. And that she had a part in his self-indulgence. That she must remember this.
When she telephoned her hostess the following morning, she learned that the evening had rather foundered after she had left. Or so she was given to believe. ‘Priscilla is rather naughty. Poor David has his hands full at times. But of course they are absolutely devoted to each other.’ She imagined scenes, conflagrations, accusations. But her hostess was saying, ‘I’m so glad you got on with Geoffrey. He has been quite at a loss since his mother died. You must both come again, very soon.