Hotel du Lac - Anita Brookner [55]
‘Monica,’ she said suddenly. ‘Are you fond of your mother?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said the other, surprised. ‘Though she’s mad as a hatter. Small doses are quite sufficient. But, yes, of course, I adore her. Why?’
‘I just occasionally get the feeling that I must be an unnatural daughter. My mother is dead and yet I find that I hardly ever think of her. And when I do, it is with a wistfulness that I never felt for her in real life. Pain. And I think that that is probably how she thought of me. But I only miss her in the sense that I wish she could have lived long enough to see that I am like her in the only way she valued: we both preferred men to women.’
‘Well, who doesn’t?’ said Monica, her brows arching to their fullest extent.
‘It occurs to me – and possibly that silly incident this morning may have brought it home to me – that some women close ranks because they hate men and fear them. Oh, I know that this is obvious. What I’m really trying to say is that I dread such women’s attempts to recruit me, to make me their accomplice. I’m not talking about the feminists. I can understand their position, although I’m not all that sympathetic to it. I’m talking about the ultra-feminine. I’m talking about the complacent consumers of men with their complicated but unwritten rules of what is due to them. Treats. Indulgences. Privileges. The right to make illogical fusses. The cult of themselves. Such women strike me as dishonourable. And terrifying. I think perhaps that men are an easier target. I think perhaps the feminists should take a fresh look at the situation.’
She stopped. What she was trying to say, although deeply felt, did not make much sense. It is I who am at fault, she thought. It is because I am so meek that people fail to notice my demands. Or it is, even more simply, that I fail to make them. So much for honour. Honour is what David would call a busted flush. And nobody seems to notice when it has gone.
‘Above my head, I’m afraid,’ said Monica, putting an end to her meditations. ‘Anyway, you’ve got nothing to worry about, I should have thought. Our Mr Neville has taken quite a shine to you.’
‘Oh, nonsense,’ protested Edith. ‘Just because we went for a walk …’.
‘Well, he hasn’t gone for a walk with anyone else, has he? No, I reckon that if you played your cards right you could have him. And he’s worth quite a bit, I gather. Trade, of course.’ This statement was accompanied by a particularly disdainful exhalation of smoke. It was not clear how Monica had gathered that Mr Neville was worth quite a bit; what was clear was that Edith had not.
‘Monica,’ said Edith wearily. ‘That is not what I meant at all. I am not after Mr Neville or his money. I earn my own money. Money is what you earn when you grow up. I loathe the idea of women prospecting in this way.’
‘I can’t see anything wrong with it,’ retorted Monica, but without much heat. ‘Men do it too,’ she added, after a pause. They both drooped, their spirits low, dimly aware that any remark would fail to elicit the expected response. They sat moodily, contemplating their exile. After a few moments, Monica signalled to the waitress and ordered cakes for both of them. Why not? thought Edith. At least we needn’t go back for lunch. And I am not hungry anyway.
They ate in silence, feeling exposed and guilty, graceless, as women eating alone without enjoyment do feel. The sweetness burst in Edith’s mouth, cloying quickly; sated, she passed her plate over to Monica, who fed the remaining crumbs to Kiki.
‘I wonder that dog isn’t monstrously fat,’ remarked Edith, ‘with the amount you give him to eat.’
‘He sicks up most of it,’ said Monica thoughtfully, in the voice of one who is on the brink of discovering the connection between effect and cause. Through a dense fringe of hair, Kiki stared up at her with infinite trust. And who am I to come between them, thought Edith.
‘Anyway, he’s not bad looking,’ said Monica, lighting one of her immense cigarettes. ‘Neville, I mean. And you’re not bad looking, Edith, when you