Authors: Anita Brookner
For this reason the doorbell, when it rang again, was almost welcome, although he wished he were in a better condition to answer it. Stumbling into his shoes, aware of his dishevelled state, he limped down the corridor, switching on the lights as he went. On the landing, and waiting patiently, stood Katy Gibb, looking considerably more amenable than when she had first appeared earlier that day. She had shed her jacket and trainers: indeed her feet were bare, and he had time to notice how beautiful they were, slim, white, and unmarked. He remembered her hand in his, and the agreeable impression that had made. Her cheeks were now a healthy pink; her pale rather small eyes regarded him in a manner which conveyed both shyness and frankness. The only odd thing about her appearance, apart from her feet, was the fact that her hair was streaming wet.
‘Hallo,’ he said. ‘Are you feeling better?’ Though I am the one who feels ill, he thought.
‘I came to thank you,’ she replied, ‘for being so kind to me this morning, and to ask if you could lend me some tea. There doesn’t seem to be any in the flat.’
‘The shops are probably still open,’ he said.
‘Oh, it’s hardly worth going out now. And besides, my hair’s wet.’
Conscious that he was not at his best, he was not anxious to ask her in, but as he turned towards the kitchen she quite naturally followed him.
‘This is a nice flat,’ she said. ‘Do you live here alone?’
‘Yes, I do,’ he replied, rather shortly. ‘Here’s your tea.’ He noticed that it was his last packet. He would have to do some serious shopping in the morning; it was, as she had said, too late to bother with now, and in any case he wanted to wash and change, feeling shabby after his long sleep.
‘Thank you so much. And I was wondering, is there anywhere to eat round here? I’m not very domesticated, I’m afraid. Could you put me in the picture? I don’t want to be a nuisance, or anything. Only all my friends seem to be away for the weekend.’
This could have been put more tactfully, he thought. But he was ashamed of his ruffled temper, which he feared may have been apparent to her, and conscious of the waif-like picture she made, with her bare feet and her wet hair.
‘Why don’t I give you dinner?’ he said. ‘We’ll ask Mrs Lydiard to join us, and you can tell us all about yourself.’
‘Lovely,’ she said, all but clapping her hands. Don’t overdo it, he thought, and smiled sourly at his own crabbed reaction. At the same time he felt a vague disquiet that he had descended the slope to misanthropy so quickly—he thought of it as misanthropy rather than misogyny, for he desired to see no one at all on this particular evening, neither man nor woman—and he felt balky and unattractive.
‘What time shall I pick you up?’ enquired Katy Gibb.
This too seemed tactless, but he put his irritation down to the fact that he had not yet managed to have his bath and had eaten nothing for what now seemed a very long time. And this morning I was in Nice, he realised with surprise.
‘Shall we say seven-thirty?’ he said. ‘There’s quite a good Italian restaurant round the corner. And we’ll all meet up here first for a glass of sherry.’
He telephoned Mrs Lydiard, who expressed herself to be delighted at the prospect of this rather random invitation. Then he made himself a cup of tea with what was left in the caddy, wondered if he had time to slip downstairs to the shops, realised that he was cutting his arrangements pretty fine (his bag still unpacked) and resigned himself to coffee in the morning. He thought of hiding the coffee, in case Katy Gibb came back for it, then had the grace to laugh at himself and at last ran his bath.
As usual he contemplated himself sombrely. The body, he thought, was no longer good for much as an object of pleasure, or even as a subject of pleasure, yet it had served him well, and, more important, gave no warning of hidden illness, of imminent breakdown. There might be some anomaly waiting its time beneath the pale skin, behind the bony ribs, but for the moment it was leaving him in peace. If meagre, it was not altogether disgraceful; a little stooped, perhaps, but he could make an effort in that direction. He was powerless only with that which lay outside his normal competence, which might account for the fact that he had chosen so unexciting a partner as Louise. Yet even Louise had surprised him, and thus he had surprised himself. Nevertheless, he still felt somewhat ashamed of his constancy. It had never occurred to him to question hers.
Patting his body dry, and anointing it with Eau Sauvage, he turned his attention to his face, one eye widening warily over the old-fashioned razor as he registered a slight hairiness about the ears, rather too much domed forehead, a few broken veins round the outer rim of the nostrils. He made the same inventory every day, but it never ceased to amaze him, this evidence of decay of which he otherwise had no notion. Clothed, he was once again in command, an urbane, tall, rather thin man, with an undistinguished face and large hands, who had on the whole made a success of his life but who was now perhaps at something of a loose end. He must make plans for the future, he thought, as he arranged glasses on a tray; he must learn how to fill his days. If this afternoon were anything to go by he was in danger of slipping downhill, and not only of slipping but of ending up rather nearer to his early beginnings than to his later achievements.
When the doorbell rang, yet again—for it now seemed to him that it had been ringing all day—he hurried to answer it with some relief. Katy Gibb’s third manifestation took him by surprise. He had registered the sullen hippy of that morning, and the pink-cheeked wet-haired schoolgirl of the afternoon. Now the creature who stood before him was a sulphurous sophisticate, clad in black silk trousers, a black silk jacket, and a black silk camisole. The body thus revealed, as opposed to concealed, was seen to be small and agreeably rounded, perhaps a little heavy on the hips. But the face … Her lips were now a brilliant red, her cheeks a dark reddish pink; the eyes were enlarged and darkened with cosmetic, the lashes freighted with mascara. Mata Hari, he thought, then realised that the name would mean nothing to her. He was amused in spite of himself, but at the same time
touched that she had taken so much trouble. She smelt not of strange essences but of shampoo and face powder. He was aware of the white flesh beneath the camisole but was more beguiled by the bold and artificial colours of the face. The picture that she presented to him was compounded of both childishness and calculation; he thought the calculation outweighed the childishness, for given the effort and application that had gone into her appearance he did not see how it could be otherwise.
The effect was undeniably impressive. But more impressive even than all the colours, than the silent presentation of herself for his approval, and perhaps for his astonishment, was the evidence of amorous confidence, and of the self-knowledge and no doubt self-love that had inspired the whole performance—for that was what it was, a performance put on for his sole benefit. Everything that she wished to convey—her transition from girl to woman, the seductive power she had chosen to unveil—was present in the first sight of herself, as she stood on the landing outside his flat. He was amused, yes, but he was also intrigued, and if he was seduced it was by the picture she made and by the glimpse she afforded him of a world of pure femaleness that was almost a sacred mystery, like temple prostitution.
He had had little contact with such a world, and like most men was somewhat wary of it. Louise had passed from shy and virtually unadorned girl to modest if expensively groomed widow almost without transition; these days all he knew of her was her back view as she combed and patted her hair in his mirror. Or so it seemed to him now, faced as he was with this evidence of decoration, of polishing, of burnishing, of transformation of raw material into a work of art. It was as a work of art that he contemplated her, as if he were
an unworldly scholar in a gallery studying a portrait of a courtesan by Veronese or Palma Giovane. There was the same hieratic passivity, as if she were waiting for his response to complete the sequence. In a way this mitigated somewhat against her appeal, for it was impossible not to regard her as one of a species, and only just incidentally as an individual. She was evidently on display, and knew herself to be so, for she made no movement, waiting for him to express some wonderment or appreciation. But he felt no desire for her, felt in fact little connection with this strange creature who had metamorphosed so unpredictably from the anonymous girl, whose appearance he could now hardly remember, of the morning.
His main emotion was one of gratification, of pleasure that he had been awarded an unusual and rather remarkable spectacle. It was a gratification quite devoid of intellectual substance. Somehow, despite the altogether enlightened effort that had gone into making her appearance what it was, he doubted if there were any evidence to suggest a mind of equal subtlety. He could not now remember anything she had said, which seemed sufficient indication that what she had said had not been memorable. A mind equal to her appearance would suggest a Queen of Sheba, a Cleopatra, and he doubted she would ever be in that category. Earlier he had registered something limited, almost obstinate. But he was ready to forgive her whatever character faults she might possess for her ability to confer on him an aesthetic surprise which he had surely not been led to expect from such a tedious morning. He thought of it as the Palma Giovane experience. He hoped that she would prove to be very silly. If not she would be formidable.
Perhaps tired of his silence, and of her own—the first
indication that her judgment might not be perfect—she stepped forward, as if to brush past him. He was grateful that the whine of the lift heralded the arrival of Mrs Lydiard.
Mrs Lydiard too had made an effort, but unfortunately had also chosen to wear black, a black and white taffeta blouse under a black wool suit, which drained the colour from her pretty but slightly dissatisfied face. Mrs Lydiard, though decorative, though handsome for a woman of her age, and despite a very slight limp which he had not noticed before, having never before spent so much time in her company, was outclassed. She smelt strongly of scent, which he found disagreeable.
‘Oh, it is good to see you again,’ said Katy Gibb, giving her a kiss. Mrs Lydiard smiled and shook her too tight curls. ‘And to see you too, my dear.’
‘Sherry?’ offered Bland.
Katy hesitated. ‘You’ll think me silly, but have you got any champagne?’
He had. A dozen bottles of Moët et Chandon, given to him as a retirement present and almost forgotten.
‘Only whenever I start again in a new place I like to drink champagne.’
‘Then we will drink champagne,’ he said. ‘But tell me, is this place new to you? I gathered that you had been living in America, but I assumed that you were as English as I am. As Mrs Lydiard is,’ he added, remembering his manners.
‘I may stay here,’ she replied. ‘I may decide to start my own business.’
This, he realised, was not quite what he had asked her.
‘Oh, really, how interesting,’ said Mrs Lydiard. ‘I am so in favour of women working. I always worked, you know, and I loved it …’
‘A woman nowadays can choose her own lifestyle,’ said Miss Gibb solemnly.
He had been right, he thought; her utterances were not up to the level of her appearance. If anything, this pleased him: he was now able to sit back and relax. He looked forward to an evening which need have no aftermath. This suited him very well. Nothing more would be required of him. He asked her what her business might be, not really believing that she had any.
‘That’s under wraps at the moment,’ she said. ‘I’d need to form a company and find sponsors, of course.’
‘I had a most interesting working life,’ pursued Mrs Lydiard. ‘I was secretary for many years to a very important cancer specialist.’ She mentioned an eminent name. Bland was surprised, but on reflection decided that something must have occupied her time, since she had done such an effective job in disposing of her husband and children.
‘I’m afraid I don’t hold with conventional medicine,’ said Miss Gibb. ‘And I’m glad to say it’s nearly had its day. In the future the accent will be on natural healing. That’s the area I’m interested in.’
‘My employer saved many lives,’ said Mrs Lydiard. She looked at the girl intently, as if wanting to tell her that wear and tear were also natural, that there is such a thing as stealthy degeneration, that the enemy might strike at any moment. She forbore to do so, from either good breeding or contempt for the girl’s youth. There was a very slight alteration in the atmosphere. Bland sensed it, but also felt himself to be unaffected. The spectacle was too intriguing. He understood, in a brief illumination, the monstrous egotism, the pure solipsism of the artist.
‘More champagne?’ He saw that they had nearly finished
the bottle, although Mrs Lydiard was still toying with hers. ‘Or shall we go? It’s only round the corner,’ he told Katy.
‘I hope so,’ she said. ‘I certainly can’t walk far in these.’ She indicated her frail black sandals.
‘Not far,’ he assured her, wondering if he would have to take her arm. The idea pleased him; he felt stimulated. ‘Not far,’ he repeated. Or was it the champagne? Not a bad idea to have a glass or two in the evening, but then one would have to finish the bottle. Unless one invited someone round, of course.
The walk to the restaurant was accomplished hesitantly, as if the two women were in need of his support. They walked slowly, more slowly than was necessary, out of deference to the girl’s clattering sandals. Yet she was sturdily built, he had noticed, was surely no stranger to exercise. He thought the performance exaggerated, yet he remained amused by it. What she expected to gain from this unimportant evening, apart from a decent meal, he had no idea; her preparations had seemed excessive, but perhaps she looked beyond her two companions to further adventitious acquaintance. Perhaps all young women today did this, as if to show themselves, suitably attired, in a public place were enough. Women were different now, he knew, no longer sitting with downcast eyes, like Louise when he first knew her, no longer attentive to what men had to offer. Indeed the roles were reversed; men now had to prove themselves worthy of attention. At least he did not have to take her seriously. The whole evening had been wished on him, or had he wished it on himself? He no longer knew. He found himself keeping an eye on her, turning back from time to time to Mrs Lydiard, who was having to manage as best she could. He felt he did not have enough energy to contain
them both, and wished there were another man in the party, as perhaps the girl had hoped there might be.