Yet she must at one time have protested that she too had a view on the matter in hand, which I now saw as cold in the extreme. Part of me railed against the loveless spectacle of those so gracious people acceding to a merger of two undisguised interests, and most of all at Françoise’s transformation from lawless adventurer to potential upholder of the established order. On what terms would we now be friends? I had witnessed too much of her previous behaviour to take her present persona on trust, was too used to her as rough guide to the real world to adjust my attitude to one of unrealistic acceptance. The only ray of hope, as I saw it, was the existence of the American lover, and the part he would have to play in this comedy of manners. Unthinkable though it might be, I hoped that he would have a voice in the proceedings, might reduce the comedy to farce by the sheer force of his democratic insistence. I remembered Françoise in her mother’s bedroom, watching that American soap opera with an unaccustomed expression of longing, subdued, impressed by the extravagant behaviour which her mother had so haughtily condemned. Was that what she really wanted, the freedom to indulge a lower nature that had been (and still was) subject to fierce correction? I hoped that she really loved this unknown lover, if only to introduce that touch of nature that had been so awfully lacking in her mother’s plans. That mother, seduced by the prospect of a flat in Paris and a new life, had had her own freedom to consider. It would be interesting, though not comfortable, to watch these two imperatives battling it out.
The train was filled with people reading the Sunday papers, the scene once again recognizably English. The man sitting next to me kindly handed me the Telegraph, seeing that I had nothing with me. I thanked him; I was in fact touched that I had been noticed, but hoped that no conversation would be necessary. I read studiously, without taking in a single word, regretting Sundays past, even regretting that laconic lunch at the Hyde Park Hotel, at which I had been allowed to speak my mind without damaging results. And those other Sundays, which were gone forever. I wondered whether I might ring Philip when I got back to the flat. I had a sudden desire to see him, but realized that it was late, and that his son might be there. As the train eased itself into Waterloo the man beside me retrieved his various possessions and said, ‘You’re travelling light, then.’ ‘Oh, yes,’ I replied. ‘I go back and forth a lot. I shall be back in Paris very soon.’ But that seemed a far cloudier prospect now than it had ever done in the past.
16
THERE WAS NO REPLY TO MY LETTER, WHICH DID NOT surprise me. What did surprise me was that there was no communication from Françoise, whose side of the story I longed to hear. But perhaps she had passed into another sphere, which took no account of earlier confessions. These were now cancelled by her apparently new status, one she had assumed confidently, in a manner which seemed to preclude intimacy. She was, after all, her mother’s daughter; and I, my own reclusive mother’s daughter, remained the recipient of what she chose to tell me, not quite happy in my role but resigned to it nonetheless.
Slightly more puzzling, though not in any sense disturbing, was the absence of Philip. We had made no arrangements to see each other, for the essence of the whole affair was an informality that verged on absentmindedness. I almost forgot about him until shocked into remembered pleasure when he turned up. I assumed that he felt the same. This was no love affair, but it was an acceptable union between two people whose feelings may not have been immediately available to them. I liked him: that was how I put it to myself, without pursuing the matter. I accepted the proposition that eternal vigilance is the price of liberty, and held myself in readiness for the time when that liberty, which I only partly enjoyed, should turn into something more compelling, should turn, in fact, into a fate that I should recognize as inevitable. I had only to wait. In the meantime I told myself that I was sufficiently comfortable with the situation to wish it to continue. It had taught me some valuable lessons, chief of which was not to ask too many questions. If this imposed a certain reserve, a certain formality, I saw that this was more acceptable than my initial forays into loquacity. In fact a degree of silence, while in no way restricting, suited us both. I felt I knew his tastes and habits well enough, and absolved myself from further study. This restful condition was almost homely, as if it had lasted for a very long time, as if it rested on established fact. I believe this condition of unwarranted confidence to be a mild mental disorder, but this did not at the time strike me as unusual.
It was the disappearance of the sun that ushered in a duller perspective. One always hopes, consciously or unconsciously, for a welcome, or at least an acknowledgement of one’s existence. Now the days were creeping towards the annual darkness; the mist, which had previously seemed only a prelude to a radiance, however brief, had thickened into a fog which blanketed the early mornings and did not lift until nearly midday. I went out grudgingly, with only a brief ‘Good morning’ to interrupt the silence that seemed to have settled even on this busy neighbourhood. My purchases seemed futile; the mild sense of ceremony had evaporated, and I could see myself as going through the motions of preparing for another’s presence. Also I disliked the false air of domesticity that I had assumed. I was out of character here, as if only displacement could bring out my carefully cultivated self-sufficiency. In the hotel, in the library, I was at one with all those famous exiles who had eventually triumphed over circumstances. It was, paradoxically, the knowledge that one had voluntarily cut oneself off from one’s roots that brought about the liberating courage to persist, to seek one’s continuity in those who followed a similar trajectory. I had few friends in London, even among those I had known all my life, but the librarian, the bartender, the concierge were people on whom I could count for a sense of permanence which reassured me. As the weather changed, the flat seemed to grow darker, more silent, and it was no longer comfortable to spend much time there. Even the streets failed me. Christmas decorations were already in evidence in shop windows, ‘seasonal’ delicacies already on the shelves of supermarkets. I longed for open country, where weather could be properly evaluated. I longed for a proper visit to L’Ermitage, and a long walk with Françoise through the woods. Short of that I missed the illusion of comfort bestowed by a visit from Philip and his ability to dispel the terrors of the night.
His eventual reappearance therefore was coloured by a certain awkwardness, even apprehension. I was not mistaken about this: I knew the signs too well, the preemptive smile that verged on jocularity, the solicitude, the excessive greeting. This was not the sort of behaviour I had come to expect from Philip, and I thought it diminished him slightly. But I put this reaction aside in the sheer relief I felt at his presence. I could not, however, help noticing his appearance, which had been amended, not altogether favourably. He wore a lightweight cream linen suit which was not appropriate and had subjected himself to a severe haircut. I preferred him in his usual off-duty uniform of nondescript twill trousers and a tweed jacket. Nevertheless I appreciated the fact that he had made an effort, though the effort did not entirely become him. He was more impressive in his usual role: abstracted, withdrawn, attentive but not indulgent. I wondered if I appeared to him as nervous as I suddenly felt. I poured the wine, which we both seemed to need.
‘You’re looking very smart,’ I said. The ‘smart’ seemed almost accusatory, containing more criticism than appreciation.
‘I’m taking my wife out to dinner.’
‘Ah. I see. I thought you were divorced.’
‘No, we never got divorced. There was always the possibility—or I hoped there was—that we might get back together again.’
‘I do so envy married couples. Even when they fall out they retain that possibility of retreating into safety.’
‘It is not always safety.’
‘No, of course not. But you are allowed to misbehave. It is even a convention.’
‘I thought we got along pretty well, you and I.’
‘That’s because I was always on my best behaviour.’
‘You on
ce said you didn’t have a best.’
‘This is as good as it gets.’
‘There’s no reason why we shouldn’t meet from time to time.’
‘Oh, I think there is. I no longer like the position I’m in.’
‘I gave you no reason to hope. . . .’
‘No, you didn’t. Maybe that was the worst of it.’
‘You are an attractive woman, Emma.’
‘Woman? I felt like a girl, waiting to be chosen. Grateful when I thought I was. There’s nothing anyone can do about this: it must be inbred in the female condition. All the brave talk that women have learned to spout doesn’t alter this.’
‘I’m sorry if you thought otherwise.’
‘It has almost nothing to do with you.’
There was a pause.
‘I always hoped that we might be a family again.’
‘I can understand that perfectly well. I too should have liked to be a family. Which is rather difficult if you are on your own.’
‘Yes, I feel for you there. But we were never on those terms. I too have felt lonely.’
‘I think that was the most attractive thing about you. I thought that we were keeping each other company.’
‘We were.’
‘But you have better company now. Or might have. That will be your priority now.’
‘As I say, there is no reason why we shouldn’t . . .’
‘You are making a poor job of this, Philip. Or no, it is I who am making a poor job of it. I should have behaved well, as people are supposed to do in these circumstances, offered only polite comments, poured you another glass of wine. Wished you luck. Assured you of my distinguished sentiments, as they say in France.’
‘Well, I know where you are. I’ll keep in touch. As a friend.’
‘You have always known where to find me. That perhaps was reassuring for both of us. But I can’t promise to be here anymore. I’ll go back to Paris, of course. There’s no reason why I shouldn’t stay there.’
‘You have your work, of course.’
‘My alibi. It’s what I say I do when people ask me. It’s a question I’m always having to answer. That’s another reason to envy married couples. There is no question mark over them, as there is over people like myself. They are their own alibi. I see every reason why you and your wife should get together again.’
‘She may not want me.’
‘Then she is a very foolish woman.’
There was another pause.
‘As I say, I made no promises. We were not on those terms, you and I.’
‘No, you are in the clear, technically at least. I have enjoyed your company.’
‘And I yours.’
‘Goodbye, Philip. You will be late for your dinner.’
‘You are going too far. My wife may not agree to this. She always found me rather dull.’
‘You are not dull. A little secretive, perhaps.’
‘I’m sorry, Emma. As I say, we can always see each other from time to time.’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘When will you go back to Paris?’
‘Tomorrow morning.’ I held out my hand. I felt he wanted me to wish him luck. ‘Good luck,’ I said. I hated the plucky words. I really did wish him well, but could think of no more sensible way of saying so. I had said too much already, and I knew that my own words would haunt me. Although I could not have suppressed them I saw with hideous clarity how I could have saved the day, agreed to a compromise, acquiesced in whatever arrangements he cared to propose. Quite simply I had not done so, and thus had sealed my own fate. I was not even pleased with myself for showing a modicum of moral courage, for moral cowardice would have served me better. It would also have been more welcome in the circumstances, or whatever the circumstances turned out to be. It was my isolation that had so unwisely spoken, when isolation is never a good card to play. And perhaps I had perceived an insult where none was intended. I had no experience to guide me. Even this particular experience was of little use.
I heard his footsteps going down the street but did not go to the window for a last look at his retreating back. I sat where I was for perhaps half an hour and then went into the bedroom to pack my bag. Once again I should leave at dawn, but this time with the knowledge that I might not return.
The journey was peaceful, my arrival unnoticed. I was grateful to the hotel people for not enquiring how long I intended to stay; by now it was taken for granted that the current arrangements, for both myself and Françoise, would continue indefinitely. I knew that she would not question this, and that too was a comfort. We could revert to our former friendship without the need for further discussion. I was conscious of a feeling of failure which threatened to become endemic. I should pay dearly for my flash of resentment, which now seemed to be entirely unjustified. Outside my window I could hear confident footsteps, cheerful exchanges. This was the matrix into which I should have to embed myself. But a change had taken place. Although always circumspect, obedient to established codes of conduct, I felt anxious to experience more intimacy than I had previously been allowed. Maybe that was the reason for my frank speaking; maybe the liberty afforded by such words had been irresistible. If Philip and I were to resume our former relationship I should probably have to renounce such transparency. I felt like someone who has impulsively resigned from a job and wonders how to reapply without losing face. For the moment there was nothing to be done. The best tactic was to let time pass. This now felt like true exile, in comparison with which former fantasies disintegrated.
Françoise’s eyes widened when I entered the library. There had been a change there too. She seemed unduly thoughtful, limiting her cheerful enquiries to a subdued murmur which may have been a disappointment to those who secretly cherished her rallying scorn. On her second round of the desks she tapped her watch and nodded slightly in the direction of the door. This meant midday at the Café des Amis. There was little point in settling down. I went round the corner to wait for her, relieved that this custom at least had not changed. This was homecoming of a sort, and the relief was almost palpable. Yet I knew, by osmosis, perhaps, by telepathy, that she was as distracted as I was. That she was genuinely glad to see me was also clear.
She sat down heavily, like a much older woman. ‘I shall miss this,’ she said. ‘I’m glad you came.’
‘Has something happened?’
‘I’ve given in my notice. I said I’d stay until they appointed someone else. I shall miss that too.’
‘The room is paid for until the end of the year. After that . . .’
‘After that I shall be married.’
‘It’s all settled, then?’
She took a packet of cigarettes from her bag, but left it on the table. ‘Not quite. Bill—my friend—wants me to go back to America with him. He won’t accept the fact that this is impossible. There is no point in trying to explain. They do things differently in America.’
‘What will you do?’
‘I shall be with him as much as I can.’
‘You love him.’ It was not a question.
‘Yes. I was not prepared for this. I thought the future would take care of itself.’
‘Will you tell your mother that you have resigned?’
‘No, of course not. I must have a reason for staying in Paris. Though she needs me. She is not well, Emma; the party was too much for her. She was successful in what she set out to do, but she has paid the price. She had a mild attack after they had all gone, but being my mother she managed to wait until we were alone together.’
‘What sort of an attack?’
She smiled faintly. ‘You will see for yourself when you come down. You will come, won’t you? This weekend?’
‘But if she is not well . . .’
‘She is very fond of you, you know. It will do her good to see you. She is alone with the servants most of the time, and they are finding it difficult. But she knows that she must do nothing to annoy them.’
‘She too has changed, then.’
‘Most of all. More than anyone. But we hope that she will make a full recovery.’
‘Why not tell her about Bill?’
‘It would be too dangerous. She needs to know that everything will go ahead as planned. Besides, I have never confided in her. That is not our way.’
‘Are you sure I won’t be a nuisance?’
‘Quite sure. It may not be as comfortable as usual, but I should be glad of your company. She keeps to her room most of the time. We are all under strain, the servants most of all. They are not young, and Fernand finds the stairs difficult.’
‘If I can help in any way . . .’
‘Just talk to her. Be cheerful. And we can have a long walk: I need that. I need to be away from the house for a bit.’
‘You must resign yourself to being there a great deal in the future. Unless . . .’
‘Unless. Will you be free to leave on Friday? Or sooner, perhaps. They owe me some time at the library. They have been very good. Could you go tomorrow?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then I’ll see you in the morning.’ The sardonic boldness which had formerly defined her features had dissolved into a mature sadness. She was marked by love, in a way that I had not been. It had not made her happy. ‘I have no friends, you see,’ she said suddenly. ‘No women friends, that is. I never thought I should need them.’
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