Incidents in the Rue Laugier (22 page)

Yet she was mature enough even now to know that what Tyler had in fact offered her was only a brief liaison, not enough to build a life on. They had been lovers for only a few weeks: fate had seen to it that they were perfectly matched—that was all there was to it. He had not offered marriage or even continuity. It was Edward who offered both. If she could not accept him as a lover she had little difficulty in perceiving his qualities as a husband. He had stood by her; Tyler had not. Tyler had made no move to detain her when she had been told by Edward to leave the flat. Worse, she had seen on his face a fleeting expression of violent relief. It was that expression that had given her the courage, or the desperation, to construct her future. With Edward. Some primitive instinct, some archaic longing for security, had dictated all that had followed. And now she was left with this uncomfortable dichotomy: she could think either of Tyler’s expression when he made love to her, or the expression that denoted a fundamental lifting of the spirits when he was sure that she was to be taken off his hands.

She must have slept, because she became slowly aware that Edward was in the room, and he had not been there before.

‘I’ve brought you a cup of tea,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think you’d want to go downstairs for a bit.’ His eyes were on her naked shoulders and on the cleft between her breasts. She was wearing
a pale pink lace-trimmed slip, part of her trousseau. She made no move to cover herself. Insignificant, perhaps, but this was in its way a meritorious act, for which he was grateful.

‘I’m afraid I’m not what they expected,’ she said, sipping the tea. They don’t like me, was what she meant. That she did not say this was her own concession to the new proprieties.

‘My father is entirely won over. Mother is simply reluctant to see me go. She’s not a woman who can give words to what she feels. Be a little kinder to her. She thinks you’re too sophisticated for us. Whereas I know that you’re finding this very difficult.’

She digested this. ‘And Bibi? I had hoped to have Bibi as a friend.’

He laughed. ‘Bibi is jealous. We’ve always been very close, exceptionally close, perhaps. She doesn’t want to let me go either.’

‘How they must love you,’ she said wonderingly.

‘Yes, they do. They love me as they loved me when I was a child, and when they thought I’d never grow up. They loved me in the least helpful way, incuriously.’

‘Yes, I see.’

‘And now I bring home a beautiful girl, whom I’ve chosen without their assistance, and they don’t quite know how to react. They would have been the same with anyone.’

‘They don’t find me lovable.’

‘Of course not. Not yet.’

‘You are very sensitive, Edward.’

‘It’s because I love you that I know what you’re feeling.’

Not all of it, she thought, but reaching out her hand, she said, ‘How on earth are we to manage?’

‘By telling the truth, I think. Even when it hurts … For instance I know you don’t love me.’

‘Of course not. Not yet,’ she said, echoing his words.

He smiled, recognising the allusion. ‘And no doubt you find me very kind—I think you said so. I may not be kind all the time, Maud. I may have regrets too, you know.’

She looked at him, startled.

‘I may quite seriously regret that you don’t love me,’ he said.

There was a silence.

‘I will be good, Edward.’

‘That’s what Queen Victoria said to Prince Albert.’

‘I know how she felt.’ They both laughed briefly. ‘Tell me about the flat.’

‘It’s rather pleasant, I think. You’ll see it on Sunday. It looks out onto a little square, and it gets the morning sun. Bibi found it. She and Mother have already filled the place with towels and saucepans and things. Do you want to get up now? I’m afraid Mother’s asked a few people in for drinks, to meet you and so on. Do you feel up to that?’

‘I can hardly not be.’

‘Quite. What will you wear?’

‘Don’t worry. I brought a silk dress; it’s hanging in the cupboard.’

‘Very nice,’ he said, after inspecting it. ‘And will you do something for me?’

‘Yes?’

‘Grow your hair. I’d like to see it longer.’

‘Why not?’ She was bored with this suggestion, which seemed to her inconsequential. It had never occurred to her to make herself beautiful for Edward. She had no seductive purpose in mind. Nevertheless she took care with her appearance, added a touch of colour, smoothed her bronze eyebrows, looked carefully in the mirror before leaving the room and going downstairs.

‘And this is Maud,’ said her future father-in-law, his arm round her waist.

She was introduced to eight people whom she would never see again, four husbands and four wives, the wives well built, combative, who gave the appearance of having put on all their jewellery for the occasion, the husbands shy, smelling already of whisky, two of them wearing blazers with an identical crest on the breast-pocket. She offered her hand, mustered a smile, and accepted a glass of white wine. She thought she would be subjected to scrutiny; instead she was ignored. It was Edward who was pressed for details. Her own part in the arrangements was reduced to her appearance, which was found to be adequate, more than adequate, to judge from the husbands’ wavering glances, until sharply summoned to attention by their wives. She began to feel something more dangerous than irritation, went up to Edward, took his arm, smiled into his face, and began answering in his stead. Everyone relaxed: this was how brides were supposed to behave. A ghost of a smile remained on Edward’s face as the guests took their leave. Polly Harrison was flushed and joyful. Her evening had been a success.

For dinner they had cold meat and salad; as a concession to her foreignness there was cheese to follow, but no wine to accompany it. The cheese was acceptable, thought Maud, but it called out for a good Fleurie, such as her aunt served. At home they drank an undistinguished but perfectly good Beaujolais. Wine would have provided the necessary tonic: she was still feeling rather angry.

‘I expect your mother will miss you, won’t she, Maud?’

‘She will replace me with a television set,’ said Maud.

Not knowing what to make of this, they chose to regard it as a witticism, and laughed immoderately.

The following morning Polly Harrison announced that she was going to do a ‘big shop.’ Maud offered to walk with her, anxious to see round the town. But they were to go by car,
which Mrs Harrison drove decisively, wearing a special pair of gloves. In the supermarket she seized a trolley, which she loaded with unattractive items such as washing powder, a bag of green apples, a pair of rubber gloves, a bunch of bananas, a packet of bacon, and a box of soap-filled scouring pads. Maud did not see how the household was to subsist on this. At home shopping was brief and to the point: one shop for meat, another for salad leaves, a third for cheese. Twice a day Maud went out for bread; she always carried the wine. She had no idea where washing powder came from; in any event it entered the house discreetly, more discreetly than this. Mrs Harrison added two packets of digestive biscuits to her load and wheeled her purchases to the till. Maud was then allowed to carry the bags to the car. She suspected that this was something of a Saturday morning ritual. But why? These people lived well; they were even, compared to her mother and herself, in easy circumstances. Yet everything was turned into a chore. They needed hours of sleep to recover from eating a meal. They drew the curtains at nightfall, as if fearful of what they might see if they looked out. They lived by the sea, yet never seemed to leave the house. She could understand that Edward needed to leave home, had indeed already left. It was more for his sake than for hers, she supposed, that he had sought and found this flat. She would merely be a visitor. Because of this, and because of the boredom of the morning, she said to Mrs Harrison, ‘You won’t mind if I keep Edward to myself this afternoon, will you?’

‘No, of course not, dear.’ This line was obviously found to be appropriate.

‘Get Edward to take you on one of his walks,’ said Mr Harrison after lunch, his eyes already rosy. ‘We shan’t expect you back until teatime.’

But in fact she kept him out for longer than that, so that
they had time for a drink when the pubs opened. Their high colour and shining eyes were remarked upon when they got home. They gave the appearance of happiness. In fact they had surrendered totally to the sound of the waves and had hardly exchanged a word. But there was something peaceful in their silence, so the afternoon was thought to be a success.

As they drove off on the following morning—the three Harrisons massing at the front door to wave—Maud felt so relieved that she was almost happy. They drove straight to London, where they had lunch in another pub: it was to be all pubs from now on, she thought. Yet when he ushered her into the flat she almost forgave him for everything. ‘I could live here’ was her first impression, as she followed him into a room with coral-coloured walls and ceiling and a coral-coloured carpet on the floor. It was like entering a warm cave, from which the rest of life was excluded. ‘This was all
in situ
,’ said Edward, feeling the radiators, switching on the wall lights. ‘I bought the carpet and the curtains as well.’ He demonstrated the curtains by drawing them: they were in an expensive dark chintz, expertly made. She noted the black iron fireplace with the wooden overmantel, the sofa, armchair and
chaise longue
upholstered in more chintz, and the two small tables covered with circular floor-length coral taffeta, to match the coral taffeta cushions. She saw herself at once on the
chaise longue
, reading, dreaming.

‘You mean all this was here?’ she queried, incredulous.

‘Yep. The owner went back to America, sold the lot.’

‘So in fact you had nothing to buy?’

‘Only the beds.’

He showed her into a pale green bedroom, with green and white linen curtains. The two twin beds were made up with new white sheets and pale green blankets.

‘You can get around to organising bedspreads later, when
we’ve settled in. I thought you’d prefer twin beds,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Actually I prefer them myself.’ He thought wistfully of his dreams, which must now be consigned to the past, along with other fantasies. ‘Do you like it?’ he asked.

‘I love it,’ said Maud.

Which was more than she could offer in the way of assurance when she saw the shop. In the dark, with half the stock on the floor, the place looked what it was, a poor thing, a mess. She was handed a mug of tea by the youth who purported to be Edward’s assistant: the three of them stood thoughtfully in the gloaming. It is lower class, she thought. He saw her expression, and his own tightened. It was as if at that moment she had measured the distance between them and their respective aspirations. He handed his mug back to Cook; he was obscurely glad that the gold-rimmed cups had not been produced. ‘Come along,’ he said quietly, and to Cook, ‘We’re staying at the flat tonight, if you want us. Otherwise I’ll see you tomorrow, after I’ve taken Maud to Heathrow.’

‘Goodbye,’ she said, holding out her hand to Cook. She did not think she would ever have to see him again: another face to be consigned to limbo.

They made love that night, as Edward intended. Her response was polite, and might have been convincing to anyone who was half asleep, as they were not. The morning was a rush, and there was no time to discuss this, nor were they ready to do so. Maud knew that she would never be able to be open with him on this matter. In the plane despair descended again, as she reflected that this part of her life was over, and over before it had begun. It was of Tyler that she thought, not in the act of making love with Edward, an act from which she removed herself, willing her mind to remain dead, but walking with her through the night-time city, during which time she had been so attuned to him that all other thoughts were absent.
As they were now. In a brief and unwelcome moment of lucidity she thought how ironic it was that the balance of her life had been destroyed by so banal an episode; then something strangely resembling her conscience told her that what might appear to others to be no more than an episode was to her an experience so seamless that she might well spend the rest of her life contemplating the memory of it. It was unfortunate that that particular memory should have set up such a barrier to what was to be her married life. For all its difficulties marriage now seemed inevitable. Despite her indifference she could not disappoint Edward, who, in his calmer moments, was or might be a genuine friend. She supposed that many women marry in just such a spirit. And she was tired, tired of keeping her thoughts to herself, tired of living up to her mother’s pretensions, tired of having no home to return to—for the flat in the rue des Dames Blances, filled as it was with preparations for her departure, was no longer home—tired of life without Tyler. Deprived of Tyler she could think of nothing better to do than to marry Edward. If this was mercenary she did not care. She would make it up to him, would be a good wife, would be dutiful, as she had always been dutiful. Only in one respect might she fail him, yet she thought that men did not retain a memory of lovemaking as women do. That morning, drinking his coffee, he had borne her no grudge, had expressed no disappointment, had even seemed indifferent. She knew that these matters did not affect men so profoundly. That Tyler might have been less profoundly affected than herself was a thought that had occurred to her but been dismissed. There was a perfection about the whole encounter that no amount of objective thinking could destroy. She knew that if ever Tyler entered her life again she would forsake everything and go to him.

Nevertheless she crossed Paris fearfully. Now that summer
had gone and the weather was chill and misty the city seemed closed to her, even hostile. She endured the train journey, lulled by a repetition that would soon no longer be familiar. At the station her mother was waiting to take her into custody. Incurious, she listened to the news being given to her in her mother’s new animated voice. Avid for details of the flat, Nadine was at least satisfied on that score. ‘And the parents?’ To Maud, in Dijon, the memory of that weekend was almost parodic; she longed to serve it up for her mother’s amusement; she longed to give her mother an easy victory. But she found to her surprise that loyalty to Edward forbade this. ‘Very pleasant,’ she replied to her mother’s questions. ‘Very kind. You will see for yourself at the wedding.’