Look at Me (19 page)

At the door I turned to Olivia and said, ‘Are you quite sure the grey dress isn’t too plain?’ She said that it fitted me perfectly and that I might as well settle for something in which I was comfortable instead of spending the entire afternoon trying on things and discarding them. I nodded, but my smile must have been half-hearted, for at this point she became very decisive and severe. ‘Climb every mountain, girls,’ she cried, in a passable imitation of Mrs Halloran, ‘Dream the impossible dream’, after which we looked at each other, and I said, ‘That’s it, then’, and she said, ‘Right’, and I went off feeling a little relieved.

I walked home, trying to spin out the afternoon. Christmas was in three days’ time, on the Thursday, but most people seemed to have stopped work already. I always hated this cessation of work and the empty streets and the desolation of Christmas. I hated the madness of the people in the supermarkets, buying half a dozen loaves of bread, and the aftermath of office parties, with
girls hanging on to each other on the pavements, giggling, and hitching up the straps of their evening sandals. I hated men roaring outside pubs; I hated cars driving away with crates from off-licences; I hated the shop windows, especially in the Edgware Road, where extreme cynicism expressed itself in placing a sprig of mistletoe in the corsage of the same wax nurse, wearing the same white nylon overall and cap that she had worn for the last six months, or where identical tired garlands of coloured bulbs winked on and off in the window of the Asian take-away and the television rental company. Above all, I hated the launderette. On Christmas Day Nancy served a full Christmas dinner, which we ate together in the dining room. When we had watched the Queen, it was time for her to go to her room and rest until much later in the afternoon, when she would join me for tea and Christmas cake. While she was resting I would go out for some much needed air, for on that particular day of the year I found my surroundings oppressive, and it was on one of those walks, when it was so quiet that I could hear the sound of my own heels ringing out on the pavement, that I passed the launderette, and saw inside the steamy window three men and one woman, quite well-dressed, reduced to spending their day like this, and finding what company the desperation of others afforded them. I never wanted to see that again.

We had had only two Christmases alone together, Nancy and I. One was immediately after my mother died and we ignored it, both too aware of her bedroom, the door closed for ever, the bed still stripped, and eternal emptiness within. Last year we had managed a little better, and it was really quite peaceful until I went for that walk. I saw, through lighted windows, all sorts of noisy jubilation, in which I wished most strenuously to join, and then, at the end of my walk, I saw that
launderette with its hopeless and respectable inmates. The day was ruined. I could not wait for Nancy to retire to her television, and I even went to my mother’s bathroom cabinet and took two of her sleeping pills from the bottle. I did not need them; I simply wanted to kill the day. And then I wanted to get through Boxing Day and get it all over and done with, and after that to get back to work and not ever have to think about Christmas again.

This year, of course, had promised to be different. It was in the late spring of the present year that I had become friendly with the Frasers and eaten so many dinners with them that I had succeeded in breaking out of the straitjacket that Nancy’s expectations seemed to impose on me. And after the summer holiday, at Plaxtol, I had returned to the Library and the Frasers together. At the time of the year when Christmas is the next thing to look forward to had begun my knowledge of James. Or perhaps my lack of knowledge.

I wanted this year to be different, I wanted it to be decisive. However nebulous the events of the past two months, and however little I understood them, I wanted a resolution, and a resolution in my favour. And I wanted that friendship back and with it the expectation of more. I wanted it all to come out right; I wanted to see myself in mirrors, in windows, as I had seen myself in the photograph that Nick had taken that day we had all driven down to Bray. I wanted a future for myself that would be totally unlike the past, and I wanted that future to include not only James but Nick and Alix as well. I wanted there to be four of us again, but within that four I wanted the two of us to be regarded as a couple. This did not seem to me to be too much to expect. I had harmed no one; I had not protested. I had not reproached, said anything drastic or irreparable. What had happened, I told myself, was that I had become a little tired and over-sensitive to nuances of
behaviour that might not even be intended. But that would change. I had only to take a pull at myself and be tactful and light-hearted (yes, light-hearted; that was essential) and all these misunderstandings would lift like morning mists at the beginning of a perfect day.

Bathed, and neat in my grey dress, I went over to the mirror to see how I looked. I looked … odd. I looked, in fact, rather chic but rather plain: not a hair out of place (it rarely was), round eyes watchful. My appearance, which I had accepted ever since I decided that I could only get by on style, no longer pleased me. I looked, I thought, like some beady Victorian child. I moved to the cupboard to search for something more interesting to wear and when I glanced back I saw a more flattering side of myself in the glass, a small waist, a long back, a full and flattering skirt. And it was getting late, so I took a deep breath and tried to look more interesting, and willed my face into a softer, less critical expression.

I no longer liked that room, in which things had gone so wrong. I picked up a nail file and smoothed out a rough nail and tried to be rational about it, but I found myself trembling and the nail file skidded. There was, I told myself, no need to stay in that room; there were, after all, three other bedrooms. Nancy pottered in with some clean sheets, and, on an impulse, I said, ‘Don’t change the bed, Nancy. I think I might move to one of the other rooms. I’ll decide tomorrow.’ Tomorrow would be a day of decisions. And before she could start worrying about this, I took my coat, kissed her goodnight, and left the flat.

In the streets it was office party fall-out time: groups of girls hanging on to each other and collapsing with mirth, flushed young trainee managers banding together to exchange boasts and resist further onslaughts from their secretaries. I threaded my way cautiously between
these knots of people, who were straying all over the pavement, and then I was past the main crowds and under Marble Arch, and at last in the park. The weather had turned mild again, as it so often does just before Christmas, and there was rain in the air. It was the sort of weather that encourages one to walk miles, and I wondered if I should be accompanied home, through the park, later that evening. I did not think beyond this, but far away beneath my reserve and my careful monitoring of my expression, there was the most agitated hope.

In the course of this walk, which I knew so well, my thoughts became clearer and less worrying. I decided that whatever had happened – and I still did not know or understand what had happened – I would behave as if everything were normal, regular, above board. I tried to take some comfort from the fact that I had given no indication of hurt, had uttered no words of blame, had made no confession to anyone. I must, I thought, simply hope against hope that the serious business of my life would be proof against those strange events that had appeared to turn it off course. I made all sorts of sensible resolutions: I would be cheerful and good-hearted and straightforward, and if, at any point, I became aware of what I suspected to be mischief, then I would quite naturally question it, ask for an explanation. I had been too subtle, I thought. I had tried to deal with this on my own, without looking to others for the truth. I had judged it a matter of pride to behave as if nothing were amiss. I had probably been insufferably smug; no wonder my friends had thought me tedious and disappointing. I determined to change all that. By the time I had come out into the lights of Knightsbridge, I was smiling, firm in my new resolve.

I knew that I had to be light-hearted, and I brightened my smile before I had even rung the Frasers’ doorbell. The door was in fact open. ‘In here,’ shouted Alix. ‘In
the bedroom.’ Still smiling, I went into the bedroom to find Nick and James in conclave, standing behind Alix, all of them facing the glass of her dressing table. ‘I think definitely up,’ said James, referring to the perennial question of her hair. As I had bought her some antique tortoiseshell combs for Christmas, I echoed his approval. She, turning her head from side to side, and smoothing the wisps at the back of her neck, arched her back, and said, ‘H’m. What do you think, Nick?’ I saw that she was wearing a very tight black jersey dress, cut low at the front, and I said, ‘Goodness, how smart you look!’ But she was still turning her head critically from side to side and there did not seem to be any way of securing anyone’s attention until this scrutiny had run its natural course. James and Nick were as grave as if they were discussing a serious case, and their rigid frontality, their three faces staring into the glass, left me peering uncomfortably behind them, addressing their backs. ‘You know what I think, darling,’ murmured Nick, and after a minute’s pause, she suddenly pulled out the pins and released her hair. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘It never suited me,’ and James and I chorused eagerly, ‘Oh, but it did.’ ‘No, no,’ she said, brushing and brushing away. ‘My husband is always right.’ And she smiled up at him and gave her throaty giggle. By that very action she seemed to be alluding to areas of intimacy, while at the same time reaffirming the exclusive bond she had with her husband.

I had always known that Alix had unusual abilities, but I had never seen them in action until this moment. With one tiny concession, on a matter of inconsiderable importance, she had succeeded in annihilating the thought of transgression in our minds and had reestablished the image of Nick and herself as the perfect couple. And yet I could see from the way that James was following her with his eyes that in spite of this little
performance, or indeed because of it, he still sought her approval. She looked older, more powerful, in her tight black dress; the curves of her figure seemed more opulent than usual, reducing my dwindling confidence still further. Blameless and understated in my grey dress, I could capture no one’s eye. Look at me, I urged silently. Look at me.

And indeed it seemed as if there were only the three of them present, and as I followed them down the stairs, I felt, in a curious way, outclassed. I was still smiling brightly, but all to myself; the three of them seemed to move as a unit, all tall, all handsome, physically linked. I did not permit myself any judgment, but I could feel rage and terror gathering, and I had to exert myself to keep these emotions at bay. This made me very silent, but as no one addressed a question or even a remark to me, my silence was not noticed. Or perhaps there was a tacit agreement not to notice me at all. In this way, still smiling, but as alert and wary as an animal, I sat down with them at their favourite table.

Maria was already there, looking equally dressed up in satin trousers and a white ruffled shirt. She sauntered, almost swaggered, through the crowded space, and clapped Alix on the back. ‘Wretch!’ she shouted. ‘You said you’d telephone this afternoon,’ and soon they were arguing strenuously about who had said what. I had always found Maria a slight embarrassment: her low hoarse voice and her haughty physical presence had made me feel uneasy in some non-specific way. But she had always been very kind, and if I regarded her perpetual sparring with Alix as a sort of bad manners, I recognized that they shared a boldness which I simply could not match. My appeal, I had thought complacently, when I was happy, was precisely that I never overstepped the bounds, never caused social anxiety. I still thought that, even now.

While we ate I found myself trying to place remarks and failing, reduced to exclamations of ‘Really!’, ‘Oh, I’m sure you did’. Even these did not manage to meet their mark. As on that occasion with James, I somehow failed to catch the drift of what was being said. There seemed to be an argument, which was half serious, half joking, between Alix and Maria and the two men looked on enthralled. As all this referred to something that had taken place when I was not there, I could neither join in nor understand what it was about, and my smiling exclamations appeared ridiculous even to myself. I became quite silent. I looked at James and saw that he was enjoying himself; his face was highly coloured, and although he was seated next to me he was half turned away, as if to face Maria. The thought that he could not even bear to look at me was so terrible that it did not occur to me that he was being very impolite. And anyway, what sort of a half-baked, old-fashioned notion was impoliteness in the midst of this avid crowd, their eyes glistening with mockery and pleasure, their extraordinary conversation now so allusive that I felt a touch of nightmare, as if this could not possibly be happening except in a bad dream?

Maria clapped Nick on the back, and said, or rather shouted, ‘How do you deal with this bitch?’

‘You be nice to me,’ Alix countered. ‘Everyone has to be nice to me this evening.’

‘Why?’ I asked, really for something to say.

She sighed dramatically, laid her head on one side, lowered her eyelids, and whispered sadly, ‘Because I’ve come down in the world.’

They collapsed with laughter, and James and Nick chorused, ‘She’s come
down
in the world’, and they both leaned forward and kissed her. Nick kept his arm round her, and she looked at him, her eyes alight. ‘Ho, ho,’ said Maria. ‘Christmas has started. But not here, please,’ she
cried, flinging out an arm. ‘You are embarrassing Fanny.’ And they all laughed again. And I, of course, smiled.

At other tables people were turning round, grinning, shaking their heads in amused indulgence at these antics. It was very hot and there was an atmosphere of excitement. Alix lit a cigarette. ‘Not yet, not yet,’ cried Maria. ‘Not before the pudding’, at which point a waiter approached our table with a huge, towering concoction largely composed, as far as I could see, of whipped cream. There was a roar of delight, and Maria seized a spoon and doled out large portions on to our plates. The sight of the yellow and white mass gave me a momentary pang of nausea, but the others were exclaiming with delight, and soon the sweet liquefying mixture was being attacked, devoured. ‘More, more,’ shouted Maria, piling spoonfuls on to my plate, and ignoring my protest. ‘More, more’, and she bent over James, who was laughing, and said, ‘More, darling. I want you to be good and strong tonight. More.’