Falling Slowly Read online

  10

  ‘You’re looking well,’ they both lied.

  ‘There are three stages in life,’ said Max, rubbing his hands and following Beatrice into the drawing-room. ‘Youth, middle age and “You’re looking well.” Margaret not here?’

  ‘Miriam. No, she’s got her own flat now.’

  She was grateful for Miriam’s absence, for the absence of her usual sardonic gaze. Max, in this new incarnation, was hardly a flattering acquisition, although he had come back, she reminded herself. But he had come back diminished, and moreover wearing an ill-fitting pair of blue jeans, which, together with the Tyrolean hat, had filled her with dismay when she had opened the door to him. Nor did she think he looked well. His face, which bore only a vestige of his habitual crowd-pleasing manner, was both seamed and rubbery, the brownish circles under his eyes more pronounced. Deprived of his official functions he seemed unimportant, as if only work had lent him distinction. But had it been distinction? He had been a fixer, an operator, running between disparate parties like a matchmaker, with only the dignity of office lending him a certain eminence. He had been immaculate, scented always with eau-de-Cologne, persuasive, but what had been truly persuasive about him was his sudden sweet smile of pleasure when the deal was finalized.

  She knew that she had not ranked high in his own professional hierarchy, had accepted her removal with surprising fortitude, a fortitude that was apparently denied him – but then he had so clearly thought of himself as irreplaceable. He was following hard on her heels, anxious to forgo the preliminaries, to be seated, with a drink in his hand and the olives within reach, so that he could start to tell her about his immense disappointment, the disappointment of a homecoming from which all signs of welcome had been missing. From there he would pass lovingly to reminiscences of his young years, of his happy home, of his life before the exodus, and even of the house in Kentish Town, where they had all been so united, his family against the world. That was what was lost: unity. During the past weeks, once he was installed in an adequate but unsympathetic service flat in Chelsea, he had thought of Beatrice not as a woman but as the ideal person to whom he might recount his life story. He had thought he might write an account of it, had even bought a loose-leaf notebook at Ryman’s, but then it occurred to him that what the world expected from him was a fully fledged biography, with details of the illustrious persons he had known, whereas he desired to recall sweet small incidents, family dignity, unassuming love. No publisher would be interested in such a thing; refugees’ stories were all too common. The notebook was empty, although he had thought of a title: The Statue of Beethoven. But on the whole it was too much trouble, and probably too late. Besides, it was easier simply to talk, and Chelsea was so close. He could now walk to Wilbraham Place, and did so frequently, sometimes bringing a bottle of champagne, although he had never known Beatrice to drink anything stronger than Perrier water. He enjoyed the champagne, enjoyed his comfortable chair (the chairs in his flat were all too small), enjoyed the undemanding female company. It was often quite late when he left, but Beatrice did not seem to mind.

  But he did not think she looked well. She looked as though some fundamental alteration had taken place, one of those significant shifts that mark the passage from one age to another. She had put on weight; that at least was evident, and her legs, which had been so elegant, were now thickened. But it was her face that was different, he concluded, eyeing her covertly. The china white complexion was now unclear, even slightly suffused, the round innocent eyes held a hint of judgement, of some withheld amusement. Momentarily he felt ashamed of his frequent visits, as if she might have guessed that he had few friends left. His bottle of champagne, of which he drank two glasses, was a propitiatory gift, to allay suspicion that he was not being universally fêted. He supposed that she threw the rest away, gave no thought to the bottles piling up by her innocent dustbin.

  On the face of it they were two old friends who had once had much in common and who even now understood each other perfectly. He discounted the discrepancy in their ages; once past a certain point he considered women ageless. He really considered them sexless. If they had not married, if they were not known to have lovers, they might as well, he thought, be old women. Beyond desire and its complications there stretched a limitless plateau which would know no accidents until death supervened. His eyes, still practised in these matters, discerned that Beatrice was a woman without a man in her life, although she displayed none of the signs of deprivation which had always offended him. She was expertly made up – perhaps a little too much so, but, he reminded himself, the skin altered with age – expertly coiffed, and smelling of some light lemony scent which pleased him. If a woman wore too much scent he deduced that she was trying too hard. Over the years he had learned to identify all the major brands, but never offered any, thinking a woman’s adornment her own business. Beatrice, now plump, pleased him by her almost familial resemblance to a German woman. The hair was still blonde, though considerably helped now, he supposed, the expression discreet, worldly. Surely he remembered it as more naïve, unprotected? That had been her most charming attribute, but of course naïveté was out of place in one of her years. How old was she? Fifty, or thereabouts, he supposed. That shocked him slightly. He had known her as a girl, an innocent, had never made love to her for that reason. His experience would have removed her innocence, and something had held him back, some respect, that and the younger sister’s watchful eye. He congratulated Beatrice silently on her maturity, congratulated himself for having left her intact all those years ago, when she had been so much more enticing. Those expectant eyes might have attracted men, but not for long. He supposed that a number of men, like himself, had shaken their heads, and had walked away.

  He thought that she must possess some experience, otherwise she would not be surveying him with such scepticism. At least he supposed that it was scepticism; it might have been amusement, but he did not want to think about that. Her lovers would have been undistinguished, he assumed, not dangerous like himself, and therefore compromised. Whoever they had been, and he was convinced that they all belonged in the past, they had not conquered her, had not left their mark on her. He remembered her as a girl who loved love stories, and who had only been offered simulacra. At least that was what he deduced. He had always had sympathy for women, knowing how hard it was for men to take them seriously. Taking them seriously meant sacrificing one’s liberty, even one’s thoughts, which would henceforth be anxious. He had taken walks in London since his return to England (there was little else to do) and on Sundays had witnessed family outings with amazement. These people were young, yet they were complacent, as if the main part of their lives were concluded, and the badly behaved children accompanying them were their certificate of good behaviour. Beatrice, at least, had never succumbed to that vulgar temptation, although there could have been few inducements to remain unpartnered. A woman like that, vulnerable, would suffer on her own; she would miss a man’s attentions, miss everything about a man except his sexual curiosity. In fact with such a woman a man would feel little curiosity, knowing that beneath the obedience and the flattery lay something rueful, untouched. She had conquered her disappointment, for he did not doubt that she was disappointed. Soon, if she were not very careful, she would reflect some of the younger sister’s cynicism. He did not want that to happen.

  Appreciatively he looked round the drawing-room, which she had made so attractive. The pale yellow walls, the darker yellow silk curtains, the Indian red of their armchairs, were a pleasant contrast to his pallid service flat, with its slit of a kitchen and damp bathroom. At least his towels were always damp, as, he feared, were some of his clothes. He had taken the flat in a hurry, maddened by his brother’s minimal interest in any sort of comfort. He had been hungry for days, until he had discovered a small café which did breakfasts. After muesli and weak tea with Michael he could tuck in to croissants and coffee as warm and sweet as mother’s milk, before emerging reluctant
ly to face the day. Looking for a flat had been a form of tourism; he had settled on one rather than on any of the others because of a moment of discouragement, and because his feet were tired. He had always had it in mind to move on, to find something more permanent. The advantage of his present horrible flat was that there was furniture of a rudimentary kind and a porter behind a desk at the entrance.

  Any thought he may have had of looking up old friends was quickly abandoned; no one should see how he was now living. In fact the unwelcome thought struck him that he was now more of an exile than he had been in any of his previous manifestations. Whereas this flat, on the other hand, would suit him perfectly. He thought he might even manage with Beatrice there, unless of course she could be persuaded to go and live with her sister. If not they might be able to come to some arrangement. He wondered whether he could avoid marrying her. He was not a marrying man, considered his family background as celibate, despite the arrangements that he and Michael and Addie had enjoyed. But that was because no one had measured up … At his age he felt a mild distaste for sex, felt returned to a prelapsarian inactivity which did not displease him. Marriage would have no meaning unless it were a contract thoroughly understood by both parties. He thought that he might make Beatrice amenable to this, explaining that he would offer his protection in return for her services. He rather regretted the necessity for this, but his surroundings were so pleasant that he thought the difficulties could be overcome.

  And the sister had moved out. That was the major difficulty removed, though he did not doubt that he could have relocated her himself. She could have had his service flat, he thought, until he remembered that she had already found a flat of her own. Surprising, that: obviously a man involved. He had always suspected her of arrangements similar to his own. Similar, that is, to his past arrangements. Now, he reminded himself, he was on the verge of quite another.

  Beatrice was quite aware of what was passing through Max’s mind. He intended her to take the place of his sister Addie, of whose sad deterioration she had heard rather too much. She did not care for stories of other people’s illnesses these days, being slightly preoccupied with her own health. She had had another of those frightening absences this very evening, shortly before Max’s arrival. She had been at her dressing-table, looking into the glass, when for a moment she had seen two reflections. She had carefully put down the earring in her right hand but had misjudged the distance; the earring had fallen onto the floor. She had sat still as a stone until her vision cleared. Then, with a great effort (but her heart was beating strongly, too strongly), she had stayed there until she saw her familiar face again, not noticeably altered. She had blushed, a dark burning blush, as if she had been caught out in some agonizing misdemeanour.

  It had even been quite reassuring to know that Max was coming. If she were ill he would know what to do, as she did not. She did not particularly want to see him, least of all to listen to his reminiscences. But she had to admit that there was some prestige in having him as a regular visitor. ‘Celebrating again,’ had observed the ever-vigilant but otherwise disappointing Mrs Anstruther, as she deposited yet another empty champagne bottle. That was Max’s only value to her these days, although like most women of her old-fashioned type she liked to think of a man’s presence, however inattentive he may have been, as an advantage. She had noted his eyes appraising the flat, knew that he found it to his liking, wondered what it would be like if he were to move in. She could hardly suggest it, nor did she really desire it. It was simply that she had come to realize and to understand the lure of convention, of turning the tables on Mrs Anstruther and her kind, for she would of course insist on marriage, which had always eluded her. She had once considered her life to be too picturesque for any routine coupling, such as that which her sister had known with her unlamented husband, had thought she was destined for some kind of stardom, until reality had put in a late appearance in her life. But latterly she had understood that women such as herself, brooding, unschooled, did not have too many choices, that clever women saw compromise as reasonable, unless they were fortunate enough to marry when they were young and ardent.

  She had been ardent herself, until she was rather forcibly reminded that she was no longer young, had sought to ally herself with the heroines of novels rather than with the practical business of finding a partner, still preferred stories in which a long ordeal is crowned with a happy outcome. Of her failed expectations only her sister knew, and characteristically blamed her choice of reading. But Miriam’s face had remained closed, weary, throughout the years of her marriage (five! How had she lasted that long? thought Beatrice, with an access of sympathy), which merely confirmed her suspicion that a loveless marriage was worth exactly as much or as little as her own hopes, failed, certainly, but still intact.

  And if anything were to go wrong Max would certainly look after her. He would be forced to, but in addition he had a background of genuine family obligations, a sort of family decency which would win through, however reluctantly. As against this there was a certain peace in living alone, in not having to conceal or subdue certain intimate noises, in walking about without shoes when her mysteriously swollen feet pained her … She would be condemned to keeping up appearances, when appearances even now were a burden. On the other hand they could go on holiday. She had never felt comfortable when travelling alone, thought it unfair that she should have to carry a bag, stand in queues, conduct all the wearisome business unassisted, and in the end so desolate that fine buildings, majestic scenery were as nothing compared with her discomfort at sitting at a table for two and explaining that she was on her own, while the extra covers were removed and the exaggeratedly long wait for food condemned her to polite inactivity.

  He could take her back to France. Maybe he could take another flat, might even be able to relieve the film producer of the original flat in Monaco. He might not want to do any of this, of course, but perhaps it was time that her own wishes were to prevail. She had seen women of her physical type, still impressive, become even more decorative when they were in a position to issue orders, to voice desires. She had a distinct vision of them both, whiling away idle days in the south of France, Max old, gloomy, but resigned, herself cynical, frivolous, and – at last – unfeeling.

  She longed to be relieved of the burden of feeling she had carried for so many years, her hopes of love all gone, manhandled or ignored by men with whom she had been timidly obsessed, and who had passed her over for some other woman, or rather girl, for she had been a girl herself then. She still could not believe her lack of success, though she had participated obediently in many minor adventures. But she had never deluded herself, and at last she knew that she would have to fall into the compromise that she was beginning to glimpse. It would be fairly unbecoming, like all compromises, but she would gain dignity in the eyes of the world.

  They would live abroad, she decided; she had had enough of filling the days in London. And he was her only hope. No matter that he would want to settle down here, in Wilbraham Place. Miriam could move back, and so could she, when she a widow, as she had no doubt she would be. That was another attraction. Max could fulfil his masculine function by providing her with an escort, a status. And then she could leave his body behind, in Monaco, if necessary, and come home to a chorus of approval, the approval that she had been used to at the beginning of her career and which was now so conspicuously lacking. And he knew her, that was an added advantage, had known her when she was young. Now was the time for him to enact the devotion he had always protested he felt for her, and which she had never taken seriously.

  ‘Addie was such a lovely girl,’ he was saying, having dealt with the matter of Beatrice, or rather having postponed it for future consideration. Time was on his side; there was no need to rush matters. It was not as if either of them were going anywhere. He would simply get her into the habit of looking forward to his visits, which he would increase, until he looked in (he still thought of it as ‘looking in’) every
evening. Then he would stay away for a week or two, a tactic which had always proved successful in the past. He did not doubt that she would miss him, would become alarmed, would wonder if she had paid him too little attention, for women of Beatrice’s type always blamed themselves. Then he would press his advantage, would suggest a merger of some kind, an amalgamation of both their assets. And no need to look for a place to live, or to discuss money, of which, presumably, they both had enough. Since his travelling days were over he would fill his time agreeably in this city which had long been his home, would take reminiscent walks, while Beatrice occupied her days with the hairdresser or the dressmaker, might start to invite a few friends again, since he knew that she would always be an excellent hostess. And when the time came (but not yet!) she would undoubtedly nurse him with care, would see that he never lacked comfort, would not deteriorate. His health was good; he felt like a young man. And almost gleeful, as if he had glimpsed the solution to all his problems.

  ‘My uncle August, our uncle I should say, kept an apartment here, you know, in George Street, for when he came over on business. He was a family hero, or rather legend, because he lived in such a lordly manner, servants and such. And a white silk scarf with his dinner jacket. Many ladies. August Gruber was a famous ladies’ man. And yet I think he was in love with my mother, who smilingly kept him at arms’ length. Women how to do that in those days. They seem to have lost the art.’

  ‘Maybe they were glad to lose it,’ said Beatrice sombrely.

  ‘You’re not serious?’

  ‘Quite serious. Women employ other arts these days, Max. They take what they want.’