Incidents in the Rue Laugier (24 page)

Then, as if in acknowledgment of this, Maud would go early to bed, and he with a sigh would eventually join her, only to stay awake, staring into the darkness, long after he could hear her quiet breathing. Yet in the morning, with their blue breakfast cups filled with excellent coffee, and the honey and the marmalade in their pottery dishes, they found it impossible not to feel mildly optimistic again. When Maud put his boiled egg in front of him, remembering that he liked the eggcup with the cockerel painted on it, it seemed to Edward that he was like every other married man, with no more than an average man’s wants and needs, and those largely satisfied. The pristine newspaper, the cheerful buttery smells, the consciousness
that he was leaving his home in the hands of an excellent housekeeper, all contrived to make a nonsense of his night-time fears. Even when he heard her sigh he knew that she would never be indiscreet enough to burst into tears, or indulge in public soul-searching, or reproach him with an occasional silence. He knew that he could trust her good breeding. He had little contact with women, had no idea what they did all day. Like most men he preferred to think of Maud devoting her solitary hours to considerations of his ease and comfort. He would not have been surprised to hear that she spent the whole day shopping for his food, preparing his meal. That logic might have told him that these activities took no more than an hour at the most made no difference. In his heart he knew that he could rely on her excellent care. What she did with the rest of her time did not concern him.

In fact she walked a lot, mostly in the mornings, mostly round the neighbourhood. She prepared her soups and purchased her breads and her cheeses largely before midday. In the afternoon she might visit a gallery, even if Jean Bell were not in town, or go round the shops with Bibi: this she found disheartening, but warmed as always to Bibi’s bright eyes and ingenuous conversation. She was out every day, but particularly appreciated the days when she was left entirely on her own. Solitude did not alarm her, nor did silence. Once she had greeted her downstairs neighbour, a fierce elderly woman with a little dog, whom she encountered at the entrance at the same time every morning, she was fully prepared not to utter a word until her husband came home. She found it natural to keep her thoughts to herself, to be studious, to commune with the characters in a picture or in a book. Every day, after her cup of tea, she would settle down with her book for a couple of hours, rather like Max Kroll’s ideal reader, until with a sigh she would realise that her day, her own particular day, was over,
would go into the bedroom, would put on her lapis necklace, brush her hair, and prepare for Edward’s return. She even found herself impatient for him; she thought he felt the same for her. Yet, their sight of each other satisfied, both lapsed into a silence. Paradoxically, it was only the sight of the other that made the silence bearable.

‘A letter from Dijon,’ she said one morning at breakfast. ‘Two pieces of news. Mother has broken her ankle, and Xavier is getting married.’

‘To one of those awful girls?’

She consulted the letter. ‘To a Pascale Lacombe. I don’t know her, neither does Mother. Germaine is very pleased, apparently. I shall have to go to France, Edward. I must go and see Mother and I shall have to go to the wedding. She says that she can’t move, and I must represent her. That’s what she says, not what I say. Can you do without me for a few days? Or do you want to come?’

‘No, I don’t. You’ll be all right on your own, won’t you?’

‘I shouldn’t be more than four or five days. If I go straight to Dijon …’

‘Where is the wedding?’

She consulted the letter again. ‘Paris. Saint-Philippe du Roule. I could catch a late plane back.’

‘I don’t want you travelling at night. You’d better stay in a hotel and take an early flight the next morning. You’d better go to the Washington.’ It was where they had spent the one night of their honeymoon. ‘Can you book it yourself, or do you want me to do it?’

‘I’ll do it.’

‘And you’d better have a new suit, or dress, whatever.’ No wife of his was going to appear less than perfect.

‘Thank you, Edward.’

She went to the dressmaker that morning, and together they
devised a dark red suit with a mandarin-collared jacket, and a small hat in the same dark red ribbed silk. She described this outfit with some enthusiasm to Edward, who only half listened. He liked her in any case in her usual clothes, the silk shirts and the tweed or tartan skirts she had learned to wear. He thought, when he saw her off the following week, that she looked cold, as she so often did, and wondered whether she would like a fur coat. He dismissed the idea after a few minutes, knowing how modest her tastes were. Nevertheless he noticed that she was wearing a different scent, not one he knew. She kissed him at the airport, as if fearful of seeing him go. When he looked back he saw her staring at him fixedly. He waved, she waved back. Then she turned to go.

In Dijon she found her mother sitting comfortably, with her bandaged ankle on a footstool. Keeping her company was the concierge, Mme Fernandez, now referred to as Clarita. On a table by her mother’s side was a slightly dog-eared pile of women’s magazines, of no great pretension. It was clear that the hoped-for re-entry into society had not taken place, and that Mme Fernandez was Nadine’s constant visitor. It was also clear, after a slightly embarrassed half-hour, that Nadine had found a certain satisfaction in letting things slide, and herself with them. Maud noticed sadly that her mother’s hair was largely grey, that there was a new pair of spectacles on a cord round her neck, that her lipstick was worn away to the corners of her mouth. Yet despite this negligence she was fairly vividly made up, as if following the tips in those magazines which were now her favoured reading. Her eyelids were green, and a wavering pencil had accentuated her fading eyebrows. She gave a small smile in perceiving Maud’s worried expression. She was completely aware of the process by which she had been overtaken, but after a lifetime of unremitting effort had succumbed without protest. ‘You see,’ she said, with a resigned
gesture, indicating the far from immaculate room, ‘why I can’t go to the wedding.’ The gesture explained more than the broken ankle. ‘Germaine is on the telephone every evening. The girl is rich, apparently. They are pulling out all the stops.’

Maud reflected that she would never have used so vulgar an expression in the old days. ‘But who looks after you?’ she asked. ‘Do you want me to stay?’

‘Clarita looks in every day. We underestimated her, Maud. She really is a very interesting woman. Sometimes we go to the cinema together. You should have asked her to stay. It was not nice of you to be so high-handed, thanking her in that dismissive way.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t realise she was your friend.’

‘You’d better have a word with her when you go downstairs. Make yourself agreeable. How long are you staying?’

‘I don’t know.’

But after a night in her old room, now cold and dusty, she decided to leave the following day. It was clear that she was no longer wanted.

In the hotel in Paris she telephoned Edward, unpacked her bag, hung up her red suit, and laid the pink silk kimono on the bed. The weather was misty, wintry. She went out, walked down the Champs-Elysées, then, defeated, walked back again. All around her light streamed out from shops, cafés; crowds sauntered in the pre-Christmas euphoria. She felt isolated, conspicuous. She went into a bookshop and chose the current bestseller, knowing that she would not read it, then returned to the hotel. She ate in her room, feeling unequal to the restaurant, any restaurant. The next two days were spent in the same manner: the same walk, the same reclusive meals. She missed her flat and her peaceful habits. A slight feeling of horror dogged her footsteps on her solitary perambulations. She wondered whether she would have the courage ever to speak
to anyone again. It was with a feeling of relief, as well as of extreme nervousness, that she woke on the morning of the wedding. The nervousness was of the wedding itself, the relief at the realisation that she could soon go home.

In the church the first person she saw was Tyler, in a grey morning suit, looking far more resplendent than the bridegroom, whose best man he was to be. Of course, she thought, I knew this all along. Even his back, which was all that she could see of him, looked expensive. She hardly noticed Xavier, or the pale pretty little bride, or Germaine, whose colour was high and whose expression was triumphant. She sat through the service unthinking, and drifted in the wake of the exclamatory crowd to the cars waiting to take them to the reception at the Crillon. There, her colour as high as that of Germaine, who was mercifully too busy to pay her any attention, she took a glass of champagne and waited for Tyler to cross the room to her. She had no doubt that he would do this. Even if he made her wait, she had every faith in their inevitable encounter.

One or two of the guests attempted to speak to her but soon gave up as she gazed at them without, it was obvious, responding to their presence or listening to their words. At one point Germaine, noticing her at last, insisted on introducing her to the bride’s mother, a tall vaguely smiling woman who shook her hand with a polite lack of interest. Maud went back to her place by the buffet, where she was determined Tyler should see her. She suspected that he had already seen her, had made a note of her presence, was reserving her for later. Either that or he had decided to treat her as just another wedding guest. She drank a third glass of champagne, willing him to join her; her eyes never left him. She saw once again his superiority to every other man in the room, saw the glances of women, saw a speculative look cross several faces: hands
caught at his arm, attempts were made on all sides to detain him. It was not merely that he was handsome, absurdly so, or that he was performing his duties with a great deal of charm. It was that he aroused, in that largely middle-aged assembly, old atavistic longings for the perfect son, the perfect brother, the perfect lover, the archetypal man who would take care of a woman’s desire not only for love but for protection. It was quite clear that many women among the guests felt a languor at his approach, longed to reach out to him, oblivious to what faults of character he might display. Those faults were automatically forgiven, or if not forgiven, excused. The aura of his great glamour was made available to all. It was largely owing to Tyler, thought Xavier, suddenly depressed, that his wedding was such a success.

At last, his eyes steady, his mouth rueful, he stood in front of Maud.

‘Well, Maud. Do you remember me?’

‘Of course I remember you, Tyler.’

‘You’re looking splendid. Your hair is longer. At least I think it is; I can’t see under the hat. How’s married life?’

She ignored this. ‘And you? Are you married?’

‘Engaged,’ he said briefly. Then with a smile, ‘Well, what did you expect? Since you wouldn’t wait for me, Maud.’

She registered this without flinching. ‘And will you marry her, this girl of yours.’

‘Probably not. Where are you staying?’ he said, in a lower voice.

She told him.

‘I should be free about seven. Wait for me there.’

He drifted away. Composed, she fought her way through to Xavier and wished him every happiness. Then she embraced her aunt, who looked surprised.

‘Lovely to see you, Maud, and looking so well. How long
are you in Paris? We must have a talk about Nadine. I am not at all happy about her. How did you find her?’

‘I am leaving tomorrow, Aunt. And I’m sure Mother will be perfectly fine. I know you will make it your business to keep an eye on her.’

She thought how easy it was to assert herself after all the years of being submissive, how even arrogance excites a certain respect, while modesty brings few rewards, calls forth few tributes. Having delegated her aunt to look after her mother, she felt free of all old ties, her life her own at last, her wishes paramount. Escaping from the heat and noise of the Crillon into the starry dark of the Place de la Concorde, she felt inside herself a steadily beating pulse that signified intent. Too impatient to wait for a cab she walked up the Champs-Elysées, anxious now for the hot scented bath she would take. After that she was not quite sure. She only knew that they had met, that they would at last have that conversation that should have taken place long before. She looked back on the quiet years of her marriage with incredulity. How could she so have scaled down her life? She had denied herself, or had been denied, the play of instinct, and instinct was now what was awake in her. She could imagine herself pulling Tyler down with her on to the bed, could imagine it vividly, even scabrously, yet at the same time she knew that that was not what she wanted. All these years she had been over-prepared for her eventual meeting with Tyler. Now she knew that she desired him only as he had appeared to her that summer, and later in the dusk of that room, naked, his head lowered, his desire made plain. The prestigious charmer in the grey morning suit had irritated her, and the irritation had increased her own new feeling of selfworth. Above all she thought that her excitement had less to do with arousal than with anger. She wanted to attack Tyler, to ravish him, but knew that in doing so she would destroy the
perfect memory of his own desire that was her most precious possession.

She had changed, and was brushing her hair when the telephone call came from the reception desk informing her that a gentleman was asking for her.

‘Please ask him to come up,’ she said carelessly, and also knew, from the tone of her voice, that she was behaving out of character, and that if by any chance he remembered her it would not be like this, in this clichéd setting for a seduction. In that moment she knew she would deny herself her dearest wish, and in that way keep her image distinct in his mind, so that if possible it might stay that way through all the receding summers of his life.

He had changed into an open-necked shirt and pullover: his overcoat, the collar turned up, brought with it all the cold of the December evening.