A Private View

by Anita Brookner

  Patting his body dry, and anointing it with Eau Sauvage, he turned his attention to his face, one eye widening warily over the old-fashioned razor as he registered a slight hairiness about the ears, rather too much domed forehead, a few broken veins round the outer rim of the nostrils. He made the same inventory every day, but it never ceased to amaze him, this evidence of decay of which he otherwise had no notion. Clothed, he was once again in command, an urbane, tall, rather thin man, with an undistinguished face and large hands, who had on the whole made a success of his life but who was now perhaps at something of a loose end. He must make plans for the future, he thought, as he arranged glasses on a tray; he must learn how to fill his days. If this afternoon were anything to go by he was in danger of slipping downhill, and not only of slipping but of ending up rather nearer to his early beginnings than to his later achievements.

  When the doorbell rang, yet again—for it now seemed to him that it had been ringing all day—he hurried to answer it with some relief. Katy Gibb’s third manifestation took him by surprise. He had registered the sullen hippy of that morning, and the pink-cheeked wet-haired schoolgirl of the afternoon. Now the creature who stood before him was a sulphurous sophisticate, clad in black silk trousers, a black silk jacket, and a black silk camisole. The body thus revealed, as opposed to concealed, was seen to be small and agreeably rounded, perhaps a little heavy on the hips. But the face … Her lips were now a brilliant red, her cheeks a dark reddish pink; the eyes were enlarged and darkened with cosmetic, the lashes freighted with mascara. Mata Hari, he thought, then realised that the name would mean nothing to her. He was amused in spite of himself, but at the same time touched that she had taken so much trouble. She smelt not of strange essences but of shampoo and face powder. He was aware of the white flesh beneath the camisole but was more beguiled by the bold and artificial colours of the face. The picture that she presented to him was compounded of both childishness and calculation; he thought the calculation outweighed the childishness, for given the effort and application that had gone into her appearance he did not see how it could be otherwise.

  The effect was undeniably impressive. But more impressive even than all the colours, than the silent presentation of herself for his approval, and perhaps for his astonishment, was the evidence of amorous confidence, and of the self-knowledge and no doubt self-love that had inspired the whole performance—for that was what it was, a performance put on for his sole benefit. Everything that she wished to convey—her transition from girl to woman, the seductive power she had chosen to unveil—was present in the first sight of herself, as she stood on the landing outside his flat. He was amused, yes, but he was also intrigued, and if he was seduced it was by the picture she made and by the glimpse she afforded him of a world of pure femaleness that was almost a sacred mystery, like temple prostitution.

  He had had little contact with such a world, and like most men was somewhat wary of it. Louise had passed from shy and virtually unadorned girl to modest if expensively groomed widow almost without transition; these days all he knew of her was her back view as she combed and patted her hair in his mirror. Or so it seemed to him now, faced as he was with this evidence of decoration, of polishing, of burnishing, of transformation of raw material into a work of art. It was as a work of art that he contemplated her, as if he were an unworldly scholar in a gallery studying a portrait of a courtesan by Veronese or Palma Giovane. There was the same hieratic passivity, as if she were waiting for his response to complete the sequence. In a way this mitigated somewhat against her appeal, for it was impossible not to regard her as one of a species, and only just incidentally as an individual. She was evidently on display, and knew herself to be so, for she made no movement, waiting for him to express some wonderment or appreciation. But he felt no desire for her, felt in fact little connection with this strange creature who had metamorphosed so unpredictably from the anonymous girl, whose appearance he could now hardly remember, of the morning.

  His main emotion was one of gratification, of pleasure that he had been awarded an unusual and rather remarkable spectacle. It was a gratification quite devoid of intellectual substance. Somehow, despite the altogether enlightened effort that had gone into making her appearance what it was, he doubted if there were any evidence to suggest a mind of equal subtlety. He could not now remember anything she had said, which seemed sufficient indication that what she had said had not been memorable. A mind equal to her appearance would suggest a Queen of Sheba, a Cleopatra, and he doubted she would ever be in that category. Earlier he had registered something limited, almost obstinate. But he was ready to forgive her whatever character faults she might possess for her ability to confer on him an aesthetic surprise which he had surely not been led to expect from such a tedious morning. He thought of it as the Palma Giovane experience. He hoped that she would prove to be very silly. If not she would be formidable.

  Perhaps tired of his silence, and of her own—the first indication that her judgment might not be perfect—she stepped forward, as if to brush past him. He was grateful that the whine of the lift heralded the arrival of Mrs Lydiard.

  Mrs Lydiard too had made an effort, but unfortunately had also chosen to wear black, a black and white taffeta blouse under a black wool suit, which drained the colour from her pretty but slightly dissatisfied face. Mrs Lydiard, though decorative, though handsome for a woman of her age, and despite a very slight limp which he had not noticed before, having never before spent so much time in her company, was outclassed. She smelt strongly of scent, which he found disagreeable.

  ‘Oh, it is good to see you again,’ said Katy Gibb, giving her a kiss. Mrs Lydiard smiled and shook her too tight curls. ‘And to see you too, my dear.’

  ‘Sherry?’ offered Bland.

  Katy hesitated. ‘You’ll think me silly, but have you got any champagne?’

  He had. A dozen bottles of Moët et Chandon, given to him as a retirement present and almost forgotten.

  ‘Only whenever I start again in a new place I like to drink champagne.’

  ‘Then we will drink champagne,’ he said. ‘But tell me, is this place new to you? I gathered that you had been living in America, but I assumed that you were as English as I am. As Mrs Lydiard is,’ he added, remembering his manners.

  ‘I may stay here,’ she replied. ‘I may decide to start my own business.’

  This, he realised, was not quite what he had asked her.

  ‘Oh, really, how interesting,’ said Mrs Lydiard. ‘I am so in favour of women working. I always worked, you know, and I loved it …’

  ‘A woman nowadays can choose her own lifestyle,’ said Miss Gibb solemnly.

  He had been right, he thought; her utterances were not up to the level of her appearance. If anything, this pleased him: he was now able to sit back and relax. He looked forward to an evening which need have no aftermath. This suited him very well. Nothing more would be required of him. He asked her what her business might be, not really believing that she had any.

  ‘That’s under wraps at the moment,’ she said. ‘I’d need to form a company and find sponsors, of course.’

  ‘I had a most interesting working life,’ pursued Mrs Lydiard. ‘I was secretary for many years to a very important cancer specialist.’ She mentioned an eminent name. Bland was surprised, but on reflection decided that something must have occupied her time, since she had done such an effective job in disposing of her husband and children.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t hold with conventional medicine,’ said Miss Gibb. ‘And I’m glad to say it’s nearly had its day. In the future the accent will be on natural healing. That’s the area I’m interested in.’

  ‘My employer saved many lives,’ said Mrs Lydiard. She looked at the girl intently, as if wanting to tell her that wear and tear were also natural, that there is such a thing as stealthy degeneration, that the enemy might strike at any moment. She forbore to do so, from either good breeding or contempt for the girl’s youth. There was a very sl
ight alteration in the atmosphere. Bland sensed it, but also felt himself to be unaffected. The spectacle was too intriguing. He understood, in a brief illumination, the monstrous egotism, the pure solipsism of the artist.

  ‘More champagne?’ He saw that they had nearly finished the bottle, although Mrs Lydiard was still toying with hers. ‘Or shall we go? It’s only round the corner,’ he told Katy.

  ‘I hope so,’ she said. ‘I certainly can’t walk far in these.’ She indicated her frail black sandals.

  ‘Not far,’ he assured her, wondering if he would have to take her arm. The idea pleased him; he felt stimulated. ‘Not far,’ he repeated. Or was it the champagne? Not a bad idea to have a glass or two in the evening, but then one would have to finish the bottle. Unless one invited someone round, of course.

  The walk to the restaurant was accomplished hesitantly, as if the two women were in need of his support. They walked slowly, more slowly than was necessary, out of deference to the girl’s clattering sandals. Yet she was sturdily built, he had noticed, was surely no stranger to exercise. He thought the performance exaggerated, yet he remained amused by it. What she expected to gain from this unimportant evening, apart from a decent meal, he had no idea; her preparations had seemed excessive, but perhaps she looked beyond her two companions to further adventitious acquaintance. Perhaps all young women today did this, as if to show themselves, suitably attired, in a public place were enough. Women were different now, he knew, no longer sitting with downcast eyes, like Louise when he first knew her, no longer attentive to what men had to offer. Indeed the roles were reversed; men now had to prove themselves worthy of attention. At least he did not have to take her seriously. The whole evening had been wished on him, or had he wished it on himself? He no longer knew. He found himself keeping an eye on her, turning back from time to time to Mrs Lydiard, who was having to manage as best she could. He felt he did not have enough energy to contain them both, and wished there were another man in the party, as perhaps the girl had hoped there might be.

  Seated, Miss Gibb thrust her hands into her hair and shook it back from her face. The movement revealed a little more of the white flesh. ‘What would you like to eat?’ he asked. The look of unself-conscious greed on her face was reward enough for any host, he thought. ‘Moira?’ For, if only by Katy’s decree, they were to be Moira and George.

  ‘Oh, I think a grilled sole,’ said Mrs Lydiard. ‘I rarely eat much in the evening.’

  ‘I’ll join you. Katy?’

  ‘Snails,’ she said. ‘And king prawns al forno.’

  They looked at her with respect; clearly an adventurous eater. ‘And to drink?’ murmured Bland.

  ‘More champagne, I think, don’t you?’

  ‘Moira?’

  ‘Nothing for me, George, I rarely …’

  ‘But it’s a celebration, Moira!’ said the girl. ‘And it’s terribly exciting! I might be on the verge of a new life! That’s something to celebrate, isn’t it?’

  ‘As you like, my dear,’ said Mrs Lydiard, suddenly looking old and tired.

  ‘We’ll drink to your new venture,’ said Bland. ‘And you must tell us more about it.’ For he still had an almost professional interest in her history.

  ‘I told you. It’s under wraps at the moment. But I’m hoping to build on my American experience.’

  ‘And what was that exactly?’

  ‘I was with Howard Singer,’ she said simply, putting down her glass as if to mark the significance of the declaration.

  Bland searched his memory, but found no record of Howard Singer Enterprises, or the Howard Singer Corporation.

  ‘Who is Howard Singer?’ queried Mrs Lydiard.

  Katy made a gesture of comical despair, as if she could not credit their ignorance.

  ‘I’m surprised you’ve never heard of him,’ she said. ‘He’s very well known in the States. He has one of the most famous stress workshops on the West Coast.’ Her eyes were modestly lowered, as if in anticipation of their reverence. An aromatic plate of snails was put in front of her.

  ‘What does he do?’ asked Mrs Lydiard bluntly.

  The eyes flew up again. ‘What doesn’t he do? Shiatsu, Vibrasound, Tantric Massage, Reflexology, Chakra, Crystal Therapy, Essential Oils—that’s my particular speciality—Flower Remedies, Colour Counselling—you name it.’

  ‘Sex therapy?’ suggested Bland.

  ‘Of course. An enormous number of people are on the wrong track, you know.’ Most of them, it was implied; possibly all of them, in Singer’s estimation.

  Bland could see this man, this Singer, clearly a charlatan, bronzed and smiling, with very white teeth, and a Hawaiian shirt disclosing abundant grey fuzz. He added a ponytail and an elephant hair bracelet, as he neatly dissected his fish. Waves of garlic drifted across the table. Mrs Lydiard, he surmised, was not enjoying her dinner. He on the other hand was having a better time than he had anticipated. He refilled Katy’s glass, and said, ‘And that’s what you’d like to do, is it?’

  ‘I’ve heard of those things,’ said Mrs Lydiard. ‘It’s what they call New Age, isn’t it?’

  ‘Brilliant, Moira! I knew you’d be open to ideas. I think it’s wonderful when people like yourself keep up with the times.’ She meant old people, clearly. For a moment or two her temper seemed uncertain; anger, it appeared, was never very far from the surface. But Bland was more interested in the voice, which had again become patrician, although it had previously been a hybrid mixture of English and American.

  ‘I think I’d rather trust my doctor …’

  ‘Yes, I do too,’ said Bland, thinking of his cache of sleeping pills.

  ‘You’d be wrong! Massage could help that leg of yours, Moira, and I’m sure all your pills haven’t.’

  Yes, he thought, she was clearly angry, although they had gone out of their way to humour her. Feeling reckless, he suggested, ‘And I suppose the first step is to get in touch with the child inside you?’

  ‘Within. We say within.’

  ‘Within,’ he concurred.

  He was beginning to enjoy himself, although all appetite had left him. Mrs Lydiard too seemed depressed by her fish. However, Mrs Lydiard’s expression of otherworldliness, and her apparent decision to rise above whatever she deemed unworthy of her notice, could, he decided, be put down to a feeling of exclusion. It was clear from Katy’s animation, her self-absorption, her very greed, that she had little time for elderly ladies beyond the sudden absent-minded smiles she aimed in Mrs Lydiard’s direction. Mrs Lydiard, possibly not a good judge of character, was not as foolish as she seemed, he thought. Simply, she had rejoiced in his invitation, had enjoyed adorning herself, and was now as disconcerted as a girl to be relegated to the sidelines, when the evening had promised nothing but pleasure. There was indeed something combative in the atmosphere. Maybe women always felt like this about other women, he thought, particularly when a man, however negligible, manifested a degree of interest. Not that he was interested. Amused, rather. He smiled to himself. At least he had the good sense not to feel smug.

  He found the girl beguiling, largely for her adroit shrewdness and for her very genuine silliness, of which she was unaware. As to her ‘work’, Bland reflected that to be very good at something inherently stupid was not necessarily a mark of high intelligence. On the other hand, to make a living out of it, as he did not doubt that she might, would be no mean achievement, would, in addition, argue superior business sense. He wondered about her relationship to the prestigious Singer, of whom he had never heard. Acolyte, clearly, since the man was evidently something of a guru, and possibly, no, probably, more. Despite her relative youth she was obviously experienced, more experienced than either of her fellow diners. He had not forgotten the sudden shock of her appearance, when she had manifested herself—there was no other word for it—at his door. Now that a range of natural expressions had taken over, her appearance was less decisive, although the manner in which she had ingested her terrible meal compelled the a
ttention. She ate daintily, but with ruthless efficiency, the moisture glistening on her mouth. He put her age at about twenty-nine or thirty. When she reached middle age the plumpness round her waist and hips would be difficult to shift, particularly if she ate as undiscriminatingly as she was doing this evening.

  ‘You are so right,’ pursued Mrs Lydiard, who was nothing if not socially responsible, ‘to want to start your own business. The future belongs to the self-employed. Otherwise one gets such a shock when one is obliged to retire. Didn’t you feel that, George?’

  ‘I’ve hardly had time to get used to it,’ Bland replied.

  ‘I was bereft,’ she added. ‘Positively bereft.’

  He was beginning to understand Mrs Lydiard. She did not miss her children, let alone her husband. She missed her employer, who had seen her through so many happy days in Harley Street, for whom she had dressed so carefully for so long, and whose presence at her side on such an evening as this would have made her impervious to any slight. She was not entirely baffled by the turn things had taken; she could see that on this particular occasion she was being treated as a makeweight. At the same time she was as fascinated as was Bland, whom she clearly thought ought to know better, by the girl’s crude charm, and longed to be included in what Katy termed her celebration. If the occasion warranted it—and she still had some doubts about this—she wanted to join in. Bland, watching her, when he could spare some attention from Katy, reflected that the girl possessed an unusual gift: she brought everyone to the brink of bad behaviour, simply by dint of behaving rather badly herself. One vied for her attention; one raised one’s voice; one exaggerated one’s own presence. However much one longed to maintain one’s usual standards, within a few minutes—half an hour at the most—this was mysteriously no longer possible. Mrs Lydiard, he could see, was eager to make amends for her momentary disloyalty, if not quite ready to desert her other convictions, conventional medicine retaining the priority. He himself was feeling imprudent, largely because he had discerned that the girl was dissembling. He felt quite kindly towards her, but his judgment, he thought, was intact.