‘I seem to have taken up a good part of your afternoon,’ I said, when he returned with a tray.
‘Not at all. I have enjoyed your company.’
This sounded so final that I took it as a sign for me to leave. But I was sufficiently afflicted by the gloom of the room to wonder how he would spend the rest of the day.
‘Will you go to the hospital this afternoon?’ I asked. ‘Or what’s left of it.’
‘No, not if Mark is here. Though I expect he’ll go and visit his mother this evening.’
‘Does she live near here?’
‘St John’s Wood.’ This was offered curtly, as if her place should be kept concealed.
Here was a man wounded by love and not knowing how to recover. He was also angry, but thought it a matter of honour to conceal this too. I thought him intriguing, rather admirable, though that glimpse of sore feelings—the flat in St John’s Wood—did not do him justice. I preferred him stoical, calm, world-weary; presumably this was easier to achieve in the Hyde Park Hotel than in this room which signalled his abandonment. He seemed to feel this too, and may have wished me out of the way.
‘I’ll leave you now,’ I said. ‘Thank you so much for lunch. I really enjoyed seeing you again.’ We both rose. ‘If I might just use your bathroom . . .’
‘Upstairs. Second door on the left.’
I walked up the stairs as unobtrusively as I could. The doors on the right were open. Through one I caught sight of a rumpled bed, and on it the body of a young man. Unable to prevent myself from doing so I tiptoed in. He—Mark, presumably—was fast asleep. His sleep seemed to me exceptional, total, his arms flung out, his face classical in its emptiness. For a moment I contemplated him, as Psyche once contemplated Cupid, raising her lamp, willing him not to wake and witness her transgression. At the sight of his surrendered nakedness I saw what had been missing from my life. It was another coup de foudre, information received, though not knowingly given. My shock was unwitnessed, but perhaps all the more profound for that reason. I would have welcomed some sign of comprehension, even of willingness to talk, but I was alone in this discovery, and perhaps one always is. I could appreciate the virtues of taciturnity, as I could with Michael, but now I had seen what was infinitely more desirable: the arms flung out, the expression of satiety. It was only sleep, I reminded myself, but I did not see how anyone could have enough of it. I walked steadily down the stairs and back into the room, where Philip Hudson stood, waiting for me to leave.
‘Do you want a cab?’ he asked.
‘No, no, I’ll walk. I hope you have a pleasant evening.’
He handed me a card. ‘I hope you’ll get in touch. If you’d write your telephone number down for me?’
As I did I could hear sounds of stirring, of footsteps, from the upper room.
‘Ah,’ he said, with a smile that made his heavy features briefly attractive. ‘He’s awake.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Just time to discuss his plans before he goes off.’
‘His plans?’
‘He intends to join Médecins sans Frontières. As I should have done at his age. Live all you can, as Henry James said.’
‘Oh, yes. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye. I hope we may meet again?’
‘I hope so too.’
This was an alliance to which any sensible woman might consent, had she not experienced the sudden illumination of understanding what would be missed, and if she were exceptionally sensible, in spite of that. He felt it too; I knew that, though I scarcely knew him. It would be an alliance in which only basic information would be shared, in which concealment would be taken for granted. It was the sort of alliance I enjoyed with Michael, precious in itself, but no longer adequate. In a bleak world, a world deprived of emotional comfort, this might suffice. It would be calm, undemanding, like those Sunday afternoons at Malmaison, at Saint-Cloud. We had been planning to see the roses at Bagatelle before I had had to come away. Now it seemed to me that I had been away too long, had let a fatal interval elapse since our last meeting. He must have got used to my absence. I should have to get in touch, telephone the hotel, leave a message if he were not there. He was my defence against loneliness. Yet at the same time I thought back to the figure on the bed and acknowledged my lack of joy.
I had tried to live my life according to the classical ideal, that of order and control and self-mastery. That was the principle that imposed itself on the unruliness of nature in the shape of paths, parterres, rigorous right angles. Now I saw that such symmetry was only temporary, and that at some point nature would resume the upper hand. For nature I should henceforth understand the body. To faint, to weep, however briefly, was to be under the command of the body. And this was dangerous. I thought with horror of my instinctive, almost automatic desire to touch that sleeper. I had not done so. But I had walked into his room . . . Now, once again, I saw the virtue in those classical principles. In the end only restraint stood up to scrutiny. An alliance based on friendship was more reliable than love. Yet love remains the ideal. Live all you can.
I had reached the bottom of Baker Street without knowing how I had got there. I thought I should walk home, or rather ‘home’. The evenings were light now, though darkness might have been more appropriate. I walked in a straight line through the park, which was now emptying; few couples lingered, though those that did so were intent on each other, invulnerable in each other’s company. I continued walking. I was not anxious for the day to end. The very real pleasure of the occasion, the meal, the visit, had been mitigated by what I had seen, and felt. From that, I knew, there was no going back. Our minds, our feelings can be altered by the most random circumstance, symmetry and order reduced to a dull pattern by the display of an alternative, after which hard work will be needed to put the original values back in place.
In the flat a slight disturbance in the atmosphere, a vase moved from its place, alerted me to the fact that Rob had made one of his unscheduled visits. He obviously considered himself entitled to do this, even considered it to be a place that was rightfully his. He was justified in so doing by virtue of the fact that he had contributed to its upkeep over the years. It was entirely possible that he might want to move in, to take over, in which case I should have to find a flat of my own. This might be preferable in any case; it could be presented as a fait accompli, and moreover could be attributed to my disappointing character and history. I should give him my address, and our relations would henceforth be purely nominal. This, I saw, was the way to resolve our mutual antagonism. Leaving would be difficult; staying would be worse. I resolved to start looking as soon as possible. Once truly on my own I might have a greater sense of possibilities. The prospect was not pleasant, but the activity would be useful. And I need not fear dispossession, which, though not a real threat, would, I knew, make me restless if I did nothing to cancel it.
I had expected others to take care of my life. Now I saw how trusting and how profoundly wrong this had been. The trust could be put down to youth, and inexperience. And maybe there was no longer that limitless time in which those benevolent others would step forward and point the way. It was even possible that others might not have my best interests at heart, might prove as intent on their own destiny as I had thought to be on mine.
The message of most days, when scrutinized, was that nothing is as it seems, that events are unexpected, that people are surprising in ways one had not anticipated, and, most of all, that there are limits to one’s knowledge. Philip Hudson was kind, a proud father, and a man whom melancholy had not rendered unsociable. Michael had not followed me, despite our closeness, and his image was fading even as I tried to recapture it. It had been a pleasant day, but the pleasure was low-key, unemotional. Then there had been that sighting of a truth that was not negotiable, a revelation from which I could take no comfort. When I went to lock the front door I saw a slip of paper in the letter box. I unfolded it. ‘Emma,’ said the tiny cautious handwriting. ‘I came but you were not here. Sorry to miss you. M
ichael.’
11
A LETTER FROM FRANÇOISE BROUGHT NEWS OF A SORT: I could no longer write to her flat in the Boulevard Diderot because it had been repossessed and she could not trust the landlord (in effect the repossessor) to forward her mail. For the moment she was at her mother’s house, on holiday, but this situation could not continue. She wondered whether I intended to retain my hotel room, for which I paid by the month, or whether she might use it until she found an alternative. Perhaps, if I were coming to Paris, she could meet me and discuss this. Also, she added, almost as an afterthought, could I keep the last weekend in September free? Her mother was giving a small lunch party, and they would both like me to be present.
This letter struck me as odd for several reasons. It heralded a redistribution of living space with which I had barely come to terms on my own account, almost forcing me to decide whether or not to return to Paris. I did not see why Françoise should not make her own arrangements, until I remembered how fatalistic she was in some respects, always preferring the quick and easy solution. This had been the case in the Boulevard Diderot: the flat had been borrowed from a departing friend, and she had simply stayed on until the friend stopped paying the rent. She may or may not have had the money to put this haphazard arrangement on to a proper basis; this was always a difficult matter to discuss. Clearly my hotel room would present the same rent-free advantages, particularly if I took my time in coming to a decision. And to be fair I had given no sign of forward planning, although she knew that I should have to collect my remaining possessions at some point. My immediate priority was to find a flat in London, but I had not entirely renounced my hotel room, keeping it as a useful pied-à-terre, at least for the foreseeable future, until I had checked all my references and had more or less finished my work.
As the Ancients knew, luxury weakens both the body and the resolve. The flat in which I had grown up, and which I knew so well, was by no means luxurious but its comforts were insidious and in any case habitual; I took for granted the fact that everything was in place and that if I moved out I should have to start again from nothing. At the same time there was the threat of a permanent invasion from Rob, in comparison with which bare floorboards and uncurtained windows would be a small price to pay. My room in Paris was after all only a temporary expedient. What had begun as a romantic adventure (but had never become one) was no longer invested with its original aura. By this reckoning there was no reason why Françoise should not move in, at least until she had decided what to do. I could not avoid the knowledge that I should be subsidizing her, any more than I could avoid the knowledge that she was obliging me to do something that she should be doing for herself, but this reasoning seemed so petty that I managed to discard it. Besides, I missed the sort of friend that Françoise had been to me, decisive, hospitable . . . I was by no means her equal. The fact that we did not fully understand one another was of little importance. I had much to learn from her, and indeed this was my opportunity to do so. We should have to share that room, for some remnant of common sense told me that it would be ungracious to prevaricate, and I should simply let her know if I would be needing it for an extended period.
Besides, I reminded myself, there were other hotel rooms, although that line of thought led back to Françoise, and what I knew of her other activities, and I let it go. I should write asking her how she was, how her mother was, and tell her how much I looked forward to that lunch party. A resolution would surely come about through the simple agency of our friendship. I reminded myself that it was time to abandon the sort of assumptions I had always made about characters and situations and become more pragmatic. In the end I wrote fondly to her, sending my best wishes to her mother, and said that I should be in Paris the following week and looked forward to seeing her at our usual café. Then I went out to post the letter before I changed my mind.
On my way to the bank to pick up more currency I passed a couple of estate agents, went in and registered my modest requirements, and was immediately presented with a list of what was available. I had not thought this would be easy: I had in mind a hopeless quest, as if I were applying for a visa. Instead there were photographs of palatial interiors, all desirable, all expensive, too expensive for me. My mother had left me a surprising amount of money, but this would have to last me until I found proper work, which might take some time. ‘I really only want something quite small,’ I apologized. The two girls who had been looking after me exchanged a glance. The one who had introduced herself as Alexandra said, ‘Actually, I’m selling my flat.’
‘She’s getting married,’ said the other one gleefully.
Alexandra raised her eyes to heaven. ‘Jane, please. It’s only one bedroom,’ she said, ‘but it’s in a good area. I’ve been very happy there. Would you want to rent or buy?’
‘Oh, buy,’ I said firmly. ‘As soon as possible.’
I could see it on Monday, she said. Not today, unfortunately ; she was going straight down to the country after work, to stay with her fiancé’s parents. Monday was cutting things fine; I had intended to leave for Paris, but another day or two would not hurt. And I should feel easier in my mind if I had made at least one decision, and such a vital one. Strangely enough I felt confident that this one flat, which I might not have time to properly examine, would provide the answer to my problem.
‘Are you leaving any furniture?’ I heard myself asking.
Another quick glance was exchanged with the other girl. ‘That could be arranged. If you’d like to call in on Monday?’
‘Monday morning?’
‘Not before eleven, if that’s okay.’
‘I’ll see you on Monday, then. I thought I’d have to wait weeks.’
‘It’s because everyone’s away. We’re usually frightfully busy.’
They were nice girls, rather like nurses, and about my age, twenty-six or twenty-seven. I looked respectfully at their desks, their names displayed on small plaques, at their computers and telephones. Not only did I want Alexandra’s flat, I wanted her share of this office, and the exuberant company of her friend and colleague. No harm could come to me in such an environment. My other arrangements suddenly seemed almost illusory, fictitious, fabricated in a different context at a different time, too ambitious, too difficult for one of my cautious temperament. I was ready, indeed anxious, to retreat to the safe haven of modest conformity, and to leave French gardens where they belonged, their mute elegance in no need of my intervention. Those gardens now appeared hermetic, mysterious, not willing to divulge their secrets to the merely earnest. I wanted to be like those girls, or to have friends like those girls, uncritical, undemanding, undamaged by the scepticism that animates the French. To get married, like Alexandra, suddenly seemed to me highly desirable. The protection I had always longed for— that most people long for—would, if I managed to abandon a way of life I now saw as false, be within my grasp. At the same time I knew it was a matter of honour to complete what I had started and to accept the difficulties inherent in that task. Those difficulties encompassed Françoise and her demands, the absent Michael, and Rob, who would undoubtedly blame me for this further show of independence, an independence which might become ever more burdensome. I determined to take the flat, even sight unseen. In the absence of any other sign of protection it would have to do.
I passed the weekend in a fever of speculation, almost desperate to make the time pass, and was at the estate agent’s well before eleven o’clock on Monday morning. ‘She’s not here yet,’ said Jane, whom I thought of as the other girl. ‘Would you like a coffee?’ Through the windows, between the photographs of all those desirable properties, the sun shone hot and brilliant. ‘She’s very lucky,’ said Jane. ‘She’s marrying a client. She met him here. And she sold him a house, exactly the one she wanted to live in. If that’s not salesmanship I don’t know what is. Ah, here’s her car. Don’t you want your coffee?’
‘Actually, I’m rather anxious to get on,’ I said. ‘I’ll no doubt be back l
ater.’
‘Good weekend?’ I enquired of Alexandra, since that appeared to strike the right casual note. I longed to question her not only about the flat but about her way of life. I knew it was a mistake to let my eagerness show, that my approach was all wrong, that my growing restlessness might falsify the entire transaction, that she might be, almost certainly would be, used to a different sort of client. ‘I have to go back to France next week, or rather this week,’ I explained. ‘That’s why I seem in rather a hurry.’
‘That’s okay,’ she said. ‘We’re here.’
‘Here’ was a small street off the King’s Road: Jubilee Place. I liked the name, which seemed quirky and endearing, rather like Coronation Street, a programme my mother and I watched with grave attention, thinking it contained pointers to modern life. The flat, on the first floor, looked out on to the windows of the opposite building; it was small and undistinguished, but no more so than my hotel room. What furniture there was—a bed, two armchairs, and a large dining table which had clearly come from parental stock—was shabby. On a small shelf in the bedroom stood a row of children’s classics: Black Beauty, Little Women, The Secret Garden. She saw me looking at them and smiled. ‘I read them all the time,’ she said. As I should. ‘Will you leave them?’ I asked.
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