‘You sound quite regretful,’ he said with surprise, bringing his attention to bear on her for a moment. ‘But of course you are joking. I’m sure you have nothing to regret!’ He laughed comfortably, thinking he was paying her a compliment.
‘I know women better than you do, Max. Do help yourself, by the way,’ she said, indicating the three-quarters empty dish of olives.
‘Thank you. I know women too, Beatrice. Don’t forget …’
‘Oh, of course, you are a man,’ she said negligently. It was as if she had said that she had momentarily forgotten that he was a man. He refused to meet her eye, suspecting that he might discover something inimical there. He had no intention of entering into a discussion about men and women, having discovered from past experience that this usually led to hostilities. It was a pity that she still had views on such matters, when she was past the age when such views could be stimulating.
Beatrice rather wished that he would leave. She was tired now; indeed she was always tired by his reminiscences, which served to reduce her to his audience. She would be better off in bed, reading Jane Eyre for the eighth or ninth time, and urging Jane silently not to settle for St John Rivers, when she was so clearly imprinted for life with the image of another man. Not that Mr Rochester was a better man, far from it; he was worse in every respect. That was the point. Jane clearly knew the value of a reprobate in a woman’s life, and thus won the approbation of every woman reader. She had never known one herself, although she suspected that like Miriam she would succumb immediately if one were ever to be drawn into her orbit. Or rather she into his. She hoped there was a way out for Miriam, who might turn her back on feeling if things went wrong, as they surely would. She telephoned as frequently as ever, but gave little news of herself. Beatrice suspected that there was little to give. Curiously enough she had mentioned someone called Rivers, the man in the park, as she thought of him. He had asked her out for a drink, for lunch, but so far she had heard nothing more. If Miriam could be persuaded to look on him more kindly than Jane had looked on her Mr Rivers then something might be saved. But Beatrice knew that in this matter Miriam was like herself, though she denied it. Mr Rochester, preferably undamaged, would be the one she would seek out, would not even have to seek out, for men of Mr Rochester’s stamp arrange matters to their own satisfaction. That, in a world of half-hearted pursuits, was their particular virtue.
Apart from her necessary participation in urging Jane on to her apotheosis there was the little matter of her health to be considered, which she could only do safely when she was in bed. Feeling quite well now, aided no doubt by a rush of impatience and practicality, she dismissed that strange brief attack as a moment of inattention, or rather of disorientation. There was no need to panic; it had only lasted a few minutes. This was an additional reason to make changes, to put her health into someone else’s care. Her gift to Miriam would be to keep her in ignorance. Maybe she too would die in Monaco, which would spare Miriam the tiresome necessity of having to take charge. Monaco might be an unsympathetic setting for such an eventuality; she would insist that they move to Nice, where there was a British library. She could see herself quite clearly walking down the rue de France, with Max trailing glumly behind her. She would become another sort of woman there, demanding, self-indulgent, making up for all the polite eager days when she had asked for nothing but to be overwhelmed and taken into somebody’s care. No man had answered the challenge, though she had never seen herself as a challenge, leaving that role to the sparky cruel women she read about in the magazines at the hairdresser’s. How they honed their skills, these women, knew what to do both in and out of bed, were told what to wear, where to go, how to proceed, in short! She had never had these skills, had simply turned beseeching eyes on one unavailable lover or another. Her innocent expectations had been the challenge, one to which few were likely to respond. And she was no longer young, when her eyes had been at their best. She reminded men of their mothers, their sisters, as indeed she was doing at this very moment.
‘Why did you never marry?’ she asked, bringing matters back to the present.
He reflected. ‘I lived for pleasure,’ he said finally. ‘I had a young man’s urges well into middle age. I loved the start of the thing, hated the thought of denying myself. And I knew how to please. I discovered that my looks were no handicap. I felt like a king,’ he said, soberly now. ‘I felt I had carte blanche.’
She saw him for the first time as an eager ugly young man, refining on his expertise, hardly able to believe his luck. And having been lucky, unwilling to renounce a gift that must have seemed innate, as if at any minute his looks might reclaim him, relegate him to the ranks of the unsought. He had learned to supplement his gifts with extravagance, with generosity, and always with naked impetuosity. Now he was an old man, with an old man’s consideration for his health, his welfare. But just as she was now unlikely to benefit from any man’s impetuosity she felt at last that she was able to envisage the way ahead.
‘So you settled for a series of affairs,’ she said.
He smiled. ‘I didn’t settle for anything, Beatrice. I took what I wanted.’
‘Were you never lonely?’
‘Oh, of course I was lonely. Sometimes I went back to my house and wondered about that. But then I would get on the telephone and sooner or later the game was on again.’
‘You never missed anyone?’
‘What I missed was all in the past.’
There was a brief silence. ‘And you? You never married either.’
‘No I never married. I was too needy. I wanted love.’
‘Ah, yes. Love.’ His tone was polite, as if they were discussing an illness. ‘And now?’
‘Now I am much more sensible,’ she said briskly. ‘Now I too live in the present. It’s not a bad life, I suppose. Dull, of course. But at least I’m free. That is quite an advantage.’
‘It is,’ he agreed, ignoring the desolation that was part of his own freedom. ‘You can always count on me, Beatrice,’ he said, perceiving her sadness.
‘I know I can. Dear Max.’
They were back in their roles, after having come dangerously near to self-exposure. He was devoted, and she was susceptible. That was the way to proceed, unless both wished to go deeper, as they so nearly had this evening. This way was better. He stood up, took both her hands.
‘We’ve had a good talk, haven’t we?’
‘Very good.’
‘I’ll look in again, shall I? What are your plans?’
‘Oh, I’m fairly flexible. Give me a ring. What is it?’
‘My hat. What did you do with my hat?’
‘It’s in the hall. But surely you don’t need it? It’s nearly May, after all.’
‘I shall buy myself a panama. Father had one. Did I tell you?’
‘Yes, you did.’
‘Goodnight then, dear.’
‘You must have a meal next time you come.’
His face brightened. ‘I’d like that.’
‘I’ll roast a chicken. We can eat it cold.’
‘How will you cook it?’ he asked hungrily, being condemned to eating out.
‘I’ll stuff it with lemons. And make a rice salad with lemon juice and herbs.’
He kissed her fingers. ‘I shall look forward to that.’
It was a terrible thing to deprive a man of his work, his contacts, she thought, as she washed up the glasses, even worse than it was for a woman. Max, whom she liked to remember as prestigious, was now futile, living the life of any old age pensioner. She imagined him trotting out in the morning, in his now dreadful clothes, and after breakfast wondering how to fill the day. As she did. And yet her life, unlike his, had a strange consistency, perhaps because she did not dwell on the past. She could hardly imagine herself now, in her black dress, smiling discreetly behind the piano. Now she thought of the future, of that absurd vision of sauntering through the streets of Nice, with Max at her side. Yet something united them: the urge
to disappear, as if in disgrace. To judge from Max’s experience this did not work. At least it had not worked for him. But she too had tired of her empty days, grateful to them only for submitting her to no future tests. She had surrendered entirely to changed circumstances, been written off by her friends. Indignation, long buried, struggled to the surface. She did not hold Max responsible for this, but rather the audience, that unseen audience whose criticisms – unheard, totally imaginary – had for so long existed at the back of her mind. It would be no bad thing to spring a surprise. And maybe respect would come at last. Respect: that was the thing, and she now knew how to acquire it.
11
Miriam had a terrible dream. She dreamt that she had offended Simon in so naked, so direct, so personal a manner that he would never speak to her again. As proof of this she was presented with a book which opened at a photograph of him looking noble and disapproving. The book was written in praise of his achievements, of which she knew nothing. She supposed that these achievements had to do with his life in Oxford. She was working in some kind of office in which she was markedly unpopular. So unpopular was she that from time to time it was decreed by her fellow workers that she go to France for the day. This she did, choosing not one of the Channel ports but a small town in the centre of France which was unfamiliar to her. Its name, which she saw on a signpost, was Colombier something: Colombier le Neuf, or even Colombier le Vieux. As soon as she was there she had to make the return journey in order to get back to the office, but there were no trains. The area was somehow cordoned off, owing to the presence of national television studios: she could see vast cranes and banks of lights, but no people. She supposed that this was because she had arrived on a Monday, when everything was closed.
She knew that she had to get back because some kind of office party was due to take place in the evening, and for which she was already dressed, in a white rayon suit with a cumbersome skirt. Arriving too early for the party she was met with the usual disapproval. Silently, tight-lipped, one of her colleagues placed the book containing Simon’s photograph in front of her. She spent the rest of the dream, and what seemed like the rest of the night, contemplating his severe handsome face. The face now seemed to radiate a look of disdain, but from time to time someone would sidle up, look over her shoulder, and express admiration. She alone did not know him in this guise. When she woke up she wondered how much she had ever known him, whether he were in fact some sort of hero. This seemed likely. In that case her own status was, and always had been, that of a lowly office worker who would not naturally come into contact with so exalted a being. This impression, together with the dream, of which she remembered every detail, persisted into the following day.
She knew why this was. She had heard nothing from him for three, no, she reminded herself, nearly four weeks. From this she deduced that Mary was seriously ill, was bleeding to death, had cancer, that Simon was devotedly at her bedside, was consoling the children. Perhaps she was already dead – but there had been no notice in The Times, which she scrutinized every day. Death seemed so normal, so routine in those columns, that she lingered over them, fascinated by the children, grandchildren, sisters and brothers the deceased left behind. Always there was reference to the devoted wife or husband, now bereft, and details of the funeral, ‘at which all are welcome’. Through Directory Enquiries she had obtained the number of the house in Norham Gardens, but knew that she would never use it. The most she could do was leave a message on his answering machine in Bryanston Square. The problem was what sort of a message to leave. Her own anxiety would seem out of place compared to what his must be. The idea came to her that it would be in order for her to signal her own absence, and, perhaps guided by the dream, she resolved to go to Paris for a few days.
There was no reason for her to do this. She had had no work tor the past few weeks and would have none until November, when the literary prizes were announced. On the other hand she kept a room there, in the Avenue des Ternes, and might just as well while away time in the Avenue des Ternes as in Lower Sloane Street, along which the buses seemed to grind more noisily than ever in this dusty undecided summer. But in fact the whole reason for going to Paris, in which she would be equally unoccupied, was so that she could leave an airy but sober message on Simon’s answering machine, as if there had been no silence, merely mutual preoccupation which had kept them out of contact for a while. That preoccupation would, of course, be soon ended.
She took some time composing this message. In the end all she said was: ‘In Paris. Back on the 28th.’ Even to her own ears the message sounded unconvincing. To give it some validity she would indeed have to absent herself, maybe bring back something typical, cheese or wine, signal some sort of cosmopolitanism, with droll stories of her neighbours in the Avenue des Ternes. He would be amused, as always, would lose the severe look he had had in the imaginary photograph and which she had never seen in real life, and they would have recaptured their original intimacy through the sole agency of her having gone to Paris. This seemed to her eminently reasonable.
It did not seem so to Beatrice, whom she was obliged to attend the following day. Beatrice was at her dressing-table, trying on and discarding necklaces and earrings, peering forward to smooth her eyebrows, stretching her mouth to apply a swathe of lipstick. Beatrice appeared to be rehearsing for some sort of audition, as if she were being called upon to play a part, even a leading role, in some scenario which she was improvising, as it were, in her dressing-room.
‘You’re going with St John Rivers, I take it,’ she said finally, capping her lipstick.
‘Please don’t call him that, Beatrice. His name is Tom, and I hardly know him.’
‘ Pity,’ said Beatrice, glancing approvingly at her three-quarter profile. ‘Have you time for coffee?’
Humbly she followed Beatrice into the kitchen, humbly accepted a cup of coffee. She felt as if she were back in that imaginary office, with those disapproving colleagues. She had never worked in an office, had often wished to do so, thinking they must be convivial places, filled with pot plants and collegiate female chatter, though the only office she knew was that of her agency in Paris, staffed by disdainful immaculate girls who rarely met her eye because they were staring at their computer screens, and displaying few signs of conviviality. She imagined these girls, who must have been born adult, sweeping out to lunch, to dinner, on the arms of ever-changing escorts and complaining about their domestic obligations while downing glass after glass of wine and never getting drunk. Although her work was by all accounts excellent she always felt timid when handing it over, largely for some extraneous reason, such as a sudden realization that her skirt was too long or that her hair needed cutting. Catherine or Eliane would appraise her in one swift scan, say, ‘Chic. On va être content,’ take the manuscript from her, and the exchange would be completed. She realized that the cumbersome white skirt she had worn in the dream was a reflection of all the garments suddenly perceived as unsuitable under the searchlight of the French gaze, although when she had left home she had been quite content with her appearance, and indeed, once out in the street, she met with glances which were far from actively disapproving. She resolved, as always, to do better, but was, as always, unsure as to how this improvement might be effected.
She was still unsure. She had spent her few weeks of inactivity in searching for new clothes, renewing herself in some more modish image. This too had proved unsatisfactory. She had bought a jacket and two light dresses, neither of which found favour with Beatrice. Even now she tried to hide as much of herself as possible behind the kitchen table, aware that her new olive green shift would be creased when she stood up. She would travel in it, she supposed; if she could get the creases out. In time she might look in to the office in the rue Soufflot, just to wish them a cheery ‘Bonjour’, and to remind them of her existence. This was otiose, she knew; she would be met with blank looks from behind the computers, to which eyes would return a second later. She would then be free to sp
end the time exactly as she wished, which was to count the hours until returning home. Her loveless marriage had had one advantage: it had made her meticulous in the exercise of her duties. It now seemed to her that her life had been all duty, that even this artificial journey to Paris was a duty, and the reason she was undertaking it was simply that she would feel uncomfortable if caught out in a lie, though it would be a harmless lie and would cause confusion to no one but herself.
‘That colour doesn’t suit you,’ said Beatrice. ‘You need something light, white or cream.’
But the skirt in the dream had been white, and had impeded her walk. Her legs, she saw now, as if she were unrolling a film of her dream, had been covered in unbecoming dark stockings, with several snagged threads. On her feet she had worn an old pair of black shoes, like those kept in the hall cupboard by Mrs Kinsella. All attempts to persuade her to carry these with her in her holdall had failed, and they remained in the hall cupboard, together with her spare cardigan and headscarf. Beatrice had had to remove certain articles of her own, as if they might be affronted – as she herself certainly was – by possible identification with Mrs Kinsella’s effects. Visitors’ overcoats now had to be laid on Beatrice’s bed. Hats (but nobody but Max wore a hat these days) could be left on the hall table.
‘So tell me about your Mr Rivers,’ she was now saying. ‘Is he – how shall I put it? – courting you? Favouring you with his attentions?’ Miriam, glumly, supposed that he was. Twice he had nonchalantly entered the Reading Room and taken her off to lunch. Obeying an impulse dating from her early adolescence, when their mother had schooled both girls in the arts of discouragement, she had tried to dissuade him, but was forced to follow him outside the Reading Room in order to do this. A slight twitch of a newspaper had informed her that silence was in order.
‘I am really grateful to you for this lunch,’ she had said on the last occasion. ‘I was awfully hungry. But I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.’
Falling Slowly Page 13
