Hotel du Lac - Anita Brookner [63]
‘Again you are paying me the tremendous compliment of assuming that no one else will want me, ever.’
‘I am paying you the compliment of assuming that you know the difference between flirtation and fidelity. I am paying you the compliment of assuming that you will never indulge in the sort of gossipy indiscretions that so discredit a man. I am paying you the compliment of believing that you will not shame me, will not ridicule me, will not hurt my feelings. Do you realize how hard it is for a man to own up to being hurt in that way? I simply cannot afford to let it happen again.’
‘And yet the other day you were preaching a doctrine of selfishness. Centrality was your word. How is that to be shared?’
‘Much more easily than you think. I am not asking you to lose all for love. I am asking you to recognize your own true self-interest. I am simply telling you what you may already have begun to suspect: that modesty and merit are very poor cards to hold. I am proposing a partnership of the most enlightened kind. A partnership based on esteem, if you like. Also out of fashion, by the way. If you wish to take a lover, that is your concern, so long as you arrange it in a civilized manner.’
‘And if you …’
‘The same applies, of course. For me, now, that would always be a trivial matter. You would not hear of it nor need you care about it. The union between us would be one of shared interests, of truthful discourse. Of companionship. To me, now, these are the important things. And for you they should be important. Think, Edith. Have you not, at some time in your well-behaved life, desired vindication? Are you not tired of being polite to rude people?’
Edith bowed her head.
‘You will be able to entertain your friends, of course. And you will find that they treat you quite differently. This comes back to what I was saying before. You will find that you can behave as badly as you like. As badly as everybody else likes, too. That is the way of the world. And you will be respected for it. People will at last feel comfortable with you. You are lonely, Edith.’
After a long pause she looked up and said, ‘It’s getting cold. Shall we go back?’
The lake steamer had taken on board a party of schoolchildren, very young, some of whose heads only reached to just above the guard rail. They were not given to excess or noise, and once the ship had left the shore they were summoned into the glassed-off observation lounge by their teacher for some sort of lesson. Obediently, they turned like swallows and left Edith and Mr Neville alone on deck.
It was colder now and the afternoon was fading. A little wind had blown up, forerunner of colder winds to come, bringing with it the thought of winter. Edith seemed to see her house, shut up, no fires lit, dust settling, letters unopened on the mat, the windows dirty, the rooms airless, neglected, old smells of food clinging to the curtains. And herself forgotten, the telephone not ringing. Crossed off the lists of invitations to publishers’ parties by brisk young secretaries impatient at not getting any response. Her agent, kind Harold, writing her off with a shake of the head. And of David, what news? If she went back, could she bear to find out how he felt, whether he would welcome her return? And if he were not there? Where would she find him? Anything might have happened to him in her absence; perhaps he was on holiday, was ill, was dead. Or perhaps he was quite happy with things as they were. The wind tore at her hair and with a gesture of anguish she pulled it loose from its pins and let it stream across her face. Is it true? she thought. Was I the sort of placid faithful woman who could not keep his interest? Was I simply unusual and discreet, the sort who can be relied upon not to make a fuss, such a rest from his tricky and fantastic and provocative wife? Was I simply a rather touching interlude for him, or did he think me far more practised than I was? Did he assume that I was doing the same thing, with