Hotel du Lac - Anita Brookner [58]
‘Oh, Christ,’ moaned Monica. ‘That does it. That’s all we need.’
Edith, raising her head and following the direction of Monica’s eyes, looked towards the doorway where Mrs Pusey, laughing, her arm through that of Mr Neville, was waiting for Jennifer to negotiate rights in a favourable table. The elderly man who had been sitting at the one she had chosen, and who had been about to light a cigarette, changed his mind, gathered his briefcase and shopping bag from the empty seat beside him, and retired to the cash desk to pay his bill, while at the same time attempting to put on his hat and coat. As he left, he raised his hat to Jennifer, who beamed. She had, in that instant, Edith noted, exactly the same expression as her mother.
Monica and Edith sat hunched, furtive, waiting for the inevitable summons. This, however, was not forthcoming. Instead, after a few minutes, they found themselves watching the Puseys and Mr Neville. Much sparkling laughter was in evidence, at least from Mrs Pusey; an anecdote was being recounted by Jennifer, and Mr Neville, his head inclined indulgently in her direction, was paying grave attention. He was not saying anything, Edith noted. It was Mrs Pusey who was supplying the recitative.
‘Well,’ said Monica. ‘I suppose we could make a move now.’
She seemed thoughtful. Edith sighed and called for the bill. They waited in silence for it to be delivered, then, cautiously, stood up and turned towards the door.
‘Why,’ said Mrs Pusey in surprise, as they edged past her table, ‘there are the girls!’ They stood awkwardly, smiling, as Jennifer and Mr Neville smiled back. ‘And what have you two been doing with yourselves all day?’ asked Mrs Pusey.
‘Having a rest,’ said Edith, rather uncertainly. ‘Are you feeling better, Mrs Pusey?’ She noted that Mrs Pusey’s appearance, so refulgent from a distance, could be seen, at closer quarters, to be subject to a certain degree of disintegration. The cheekbones were rosier, the eyelids bluer, and the mouth slightly more tremulous, more smudged, than usual. And yet the will was there, the indomitable will, the refusal to give up, give in, give way, stand down, stay behind. Admirable Mrs Pusey, thought Edith. Protected by the brilliance of her own réclame. She will outlive us all. But she repeated, ‘Are you feeling better?’
Mrs Pusey cast her eyes down, then cast them up again.
‘Yes, dear, thank you. Thanks to these two dear people, I’m almost myself again. Though when I think …’
‘Must go,’ said Monica. ‘Hair appointment. Coming, Edith?’ Edith mimed haste, regret, farewell into the upturned faces of the Puseys and Mr Neville, and followed Monica out into the street.
She scarcely remembered getting back to the hotel, although she shivered once more as the mist stole in from the lake. Back in her room, she ran a bath until the bathroom was dense with steam. She brushed her hair furiously and left it hanging loose on her shoulders. She studied her crimson face in the glass, then walked to the wardrobe and took out the new blue silk dress that Monica had made her buy and which she had never worn. She disappeared into the bathroom with a bottle of scent, and poured the entire contents into the water. Heat and rebellion and extravagance served her appearance well. An altogether different creature sat down at her writing table and uncapped her pen.
‘My dearest David’ (she wrote).
But caution warned her not to start her letter before dinner, because once started she could not be sure when she would stop.
She paced up and down in her room, unwilling to exchange her silence for the pleasantries of the evening. Eventually, with a sigh, she took up her bag and key and went downstairs.
In the salon, Mrs Pusey, in her black chiffon, was, as usual, accompanied by