Fraud Page 15

  They parted resolutely, each striding off with great purpose in response to apparently ineluctable demands. For the first time in their lives they were embarrassed with each other. Anna thought with shame of the coy letter she had written about her encounter with Nick Marsh. It had been a way of saving her face, although everything about it had been false. This would have been apparent to Marie-France in her newly awakened state. Yet she was not as yet quite comfortable in that state, could commit errors of taste while under the influence of her so recent excitement, had had to let her friend know that she and Philippe were lovers. Anna struggled with the knowledge that their friendship would now end, for what place could she occupy? Their understanding was fragmented, an imbalance revealed that had not been there before.

  She realized that she had a great deal of time on her hands. She walked down to St Germain des Près, and caught a bus across the river to the Louvre. She would look at the portraits of Ingres, calm, replete, satisfied with their immensely enviable situation in this world, and careless of the world to come. She wandered through the rooms, deserted at this time of day, past the great discordant machines of the Romantics, to those effortlessly authoritative presences: Mme Rivière, reclining fatly on her blue velvet cushions, the charming Mme Pancoucke in her white satin dress, Mme Marcotte, in unbecoming brown, her large sad eyes speaking of a physical rather than a metaphysical unease. For it was impossible to think of metaphysics in the face of such overwhelming bodily reality. Life on this earth, they seemed to say, is fulfilling: who could imagine anything being added to it? She remembered Baudelaire’s remark that he found it difficult to breathe when faced with a portrait by Ingres: he felt as though the oxygen had been sucked out of the atmosphere. So insistent were the candid oval eyes that she could almost sense the processes behind them: discreet gurglings and shiftings in those flawless bodies, and in the minds an almost innocent sexual knowledge. Almost innocent … She turned away, to the window, and looked out on the Tuileries, empty now in the cold but unfriendly light. Viewed through a misty window from an upper floor, the perspective of the flower beds seemed rigorous, almost painful.

  She walked back through the echoing galleries, down the great stone steps into an oncoming rush of schoolchildren. Outside, in the cold air, she shivered slightly. The sun had gone, and the sky was now hazy. She made her way to the bus stop, wondering how she was to fill the ensuing days. But I need not stay, she thought. After tomorrow there will be no need for me to stay, and indeed there will be no grounds on which I can comfortably be expected to stay. Slightly cheered, and with the thought of her flat quite vividly in her mind, she made her way back to St Germain, looked at the titles of the new books in the windows of La Hune and Le Divan, and with a sigh sat down in the Deux Magots and ordered coffee.

  The afternoon passed slowly. At four o’clock precisely Bertrand Forestier made his entrance, one palm briefly uplifted to signal his presence to the waiter. Seated, he gave his contemptuous attention to the day’s news, visibly sneering when a particularly obtuse report displeased him. Please don’t last much longer, thought Anna. Please enter a rapid and painless decline, so that Marie-France can be free. For it now seemed to her monstrous that her friend’s happiness should be impeded in any way, and she could see that the old man would be implacable, that the flat in the rue Huysmans, and the inheritance, would be theirs only in the teeth of an immoderate resistance. Nothing stated, of course, nothing out in the open, but an assumption that the situation could only exist if he gave it permission to exist, and that the permission so far granted might be the only arrangement to which they could lay claim. She watched him drink his two cups of coffee and his three glasses of water, watched the manicured hands flick the newspaper back into shape, then place his hat securely on his head, and, the palm again upturned for the benefit of the waiter, he was finally gone. And so upright, she thought disconsolately: from the back he looks a mere seventy.

  The following day passed meaninglessly, though not as unpleasantly as she had feared. Looking back afterwards she remembered walking a great deal, though in no fixed direction. She remembered eating lunch, which was unusual, and, even more unusual, ordering a glass of wine. Her very real sadness she now accepted as a natural accompaniment, almost a companion. She spent the afternoon in the hotel, which was hushed and silent, and lay on her bed, trying unsuccessfully to sleep. Then, with a sigh, she got up, took a bath, and dressed in the brown corded silk suit which she had worn to Mrs Marsh’s party. She looked at herself blankly in the mirror, seeing only a shadowy evanescent figure. At five forty-five she took a cab to the rue Huysmans.

  From behind the door of the apartment she could hear Marie-France’s excited laughter. She rang the bell, waited, heard more laughter, and was finally greeted by Marie-France, looking flushed. She was wearing a red and white printed silk dress: despite the cold of the late January night she seemed to give off warmth. She took Anna fondly by the hand and led her into the salon, which was brown, as she herself had once been. Anna had time to wonder whether she would make any changes when the time came before being presented to Monsieur Forestier, majestic and all too upright in a grey suit, the jacket buttoned over a camel-hair waistcoat, the rosette of the Legion of Honour in place.

  ‘Papa, you remember Anna, don’t you?’

  He gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  ‘Mademoiselle.’

  ‘And this is Philippe. Philippe, this is my dear friend Anna Durrant.’

  Philippe Dunoyer bowed from the waist, said, ‘Enchanté, Mademoiselle,’ and raised his eyes to hers. She found herself looking at a man who bore an uncanny resemblance to George Ainsworth. Unfortunate, she thought, her heart beating uncomfortably. Perhaps all men of that age have the same well-brushed hair, the same full frank gaze, the same glossy joviality. Yet there was something speculative in his expression that gave her pause. Yes, there was a certain resemblance, but only a faint one. She moved to the side of the room, leaving Philippe to various cousins. She supposed that this was a more or less official engagement party. Marie-France looked very happy.

  Yet on two occasions she found herself being examined by Dunoyer, as if he feared a hostile witness and was waiting to disarm her. Unable to bear this, and the clash of personalities represented by the relentless father, the opportunist fiancé—for she now saw him as entirely venal, on no evidence better than the way his gaze hardened to meet her own—she waved goodbye, promising to write at length once she was back in London, and went to fetch her coat. As she made her way to the door she was aware of Dunoyer heading in her direction.

  ‘Not going already?’ he said, smiling steadily.

  ‘Yes, I must. Good-night.’

  ‘Good-night, Anna.’

  The hand which he had placed in the small of her back slipped lower.

  ‘Good-night,’ he said again, giving her a little pat.

  That night, in her hotel, she thought sadly of Marie-France. There would be no more brave civilized letters, for life had broken in to rescue her. The intimacy of their friendship must be sacrificed. They would meet again, but as acquaintances rather than as friends. She doubted whether Dunoyer would encourage close friendship between them; in any event, Dunoyer was dubious, and was better avoided. Those portraits in the Louvre, speaking of the sexual battle fought and won … How strange that art and life should coalesce like this, in the space of a single day!

  There was much material for reflection here, although that reflection might prove disheartening. She slept little that night, and the following morning, as if this had been planned all along, left for home.

  13

  MRS MARSH WAS taking tea with her friend Phyllis Martin, in Lady Martin’s overfurnished flat two floors above her own in Cranmer Court. Lady Martin, as she so frequently reminded her visitors, was fond of colour. ‘I have always loved colour. Colour means so much to me. I am particularly sensitive to strong vibrant colours—I love to have them about me.’ In spite of these assertions she ha
d chosen a harsh cold petrol-blue fabric to cover the sofa and armchairs in her sitting-room: the carpet was flowered, pink and grey, and the curtains were again petrol blue, with a suggestion of pink, and also green, in a complicated frieze motif which ran round their borders. Many lamps, in equally strong butter yellow parchment shades, shed an eager light. Further evidence of Lady Martin’s sensitivity was to be found in various pieces of faux bambou furniture, and a tea trolley, in fake brass, bearing a plate of buttered scones and a silver teapot under a scarlet tea cosy patterned with white hearts.

  Lady Martin herself, in contrast, was a small pretty woman who must once have been a small and exceedingly-pretty girl. Even now she opened her round blue eyes wide at every remark addressed to her, as if she were being fêted or courted, as she had been in the old days. Her extremely narrow figure, in child-sized clothes, was always fashionably dressed: in the teeth of grave discomfort she wore tight high-heeled boots with her little fur coat and cossack hat, even though this necessitated her carrying a stick. Even today she wore them, as if to demonstrate her relative youthfulness, which she saw as thrown into relief by Mrs Marsh’s large humble brown shoes. She gave off an air of dusty sparkle, all that was left of a career of effortless and successful flirtation. Her nails were a confident crimson, to match her red wool suit, although the knuckles of her small hands were now slightly swollen with arthritis. She bore her age well, largely by dint of ignoring it altogether; as far as she was concerned she was still the girl who delighted in scandals, who was interested in the love affairs of others, who was a high-spirited gossip, an intimate and confidante, a best friend who could easily pretend surprise when betrayal was on the cards, as it so often was throughout her life.

  She liked women, but men were her business. She had been engaged many times, but to everyone’s surprise had married only once. Yet even now she commandeered other women’s husbands, led them off at parties, asked their advice about her investments, although she was a shrewd woman and capable of dealing with them quite well by herself, would lay her crimson-nailed hand upon their arms as if alluding to past intimacy, would arch her brows and widen her eyes if anyone expressed the mildest annoyance at these tactics. Women tended to mistrust her, but she was hard to dislike. She was artless, decorative, almost a period piece, dating back to the era of the flapper, of cupid’s bow mouths, and eyelashes as symmetrical and perfect as the petals of a daisy. She managed a pleasant enough little life, although it was greatly reduced: her audience now consisted of the husbands of other elderly women like herself. She was seventy-nine, two years younger than Mrs Marsh, who appeared to be decades older, as both of them realized. This was a great consolation to Lady Martin. ‘But then I’ve always looked after myself,’ was her first thought, as she contemplated Mrs Marsh’s looming figure and iron-grey hair. Her own hair was a mass of elaborate blue-white curls. ‘Poor Phyllis, she has no dignity,’ thought Mrs Marsh, who had learnt long ago, as a clumsy girl, not to set great store by outward appearance. ‘And those arm rests could do with a wash. Maybe she doesn’t notice.’

  They sat at ease. It was something of a relief to each of them to be with a companion of her own age. All references would be easily understood; nothing need be explained, and no excuses need be offered for the sticks which lay beside each armchair, although allusions to bodily ills remained cautious. They took a certain comfort from each other, and it was necessary for them to meet fairly regularly. Not that either of them would be much good in a crisis, Mrs Marsh reflected: Phyllis Martin was the kind of woman who turns up with an armful of flowers when the illness or the accident is nearly forgotten, while she herself, though never a party to such stratagems, considered herself too bleak to offer much in the way of reassurance. But they could telephone the doctor for each other, a fact which remained close to the surface of both their minds. Out of a strange superstition Mrs Marsh had not told her friend of her accident until it was safely in the past. After all, she thought, I dealt with it myself. And there was something symbolic about a fall: Phyllis would probably wonder aloud whether it might not have been a slight stroke. So she had merely indicated the bandage under her thick stocking, and murmured in explanation, ‘Took a bit of a toss at Philippa’s. My own fault. But that cottage of hers is a menace.’ The thought of Philippa was an odd comfort to her in these circumstances, for Lady Martin had no children.

  ‘You always give one such a good tea, Phyllis,’ she said, accepting another thickly buttered scone. They ate rapidly, greedily, recognizing this pleasure as one of the consolations of old age. Mrs Marsh took a long drink of tea from a frail flowered cup, and, her hunger and thirst slaked, prepared to put up with Phyllis’s reminiscences, which had to do largely with her own gallant past and the men who had fallen in love with her and who had threatened to abandon their girlfriends and fiancées until she had laid a fragrant hand on a masculine arm and made them promise to do nothing of the sort. Many elderly men, married for years, remembered her fondly: should she encounter them again, after all those years, as she sometimes did, she told her friend she would be shocked at how they had let themselves go: heavy stomachs, liver spots on the hands—here she spread her own hands prettily—baldness … How right she had been, all those years ago, to talk them back into a belated recognition of their duty! But they still thought about her, she averred: one or two of them wrote to her, quite affecting letters, which of course she never answered. This monologue ran its usual course until the ultimate sentence was reached, the signal for Mrs Marsh to come out of her dream and attend once more to the conversation in hand, for at this point Lady Martin’s flippancy concealed a very real regret.

  ‘… and after all that Archie was the one I married.’

  There was a moment of silence as they contemplated their dead husbands. Phyllis Martin’s glance strayed to the large silver-framed photograph of Archie, in Air Force uniform, as if wondering ruefully where he had gone. So must she have looked at him when he tormented her in this life, for he had been beset by girls when, as a Flight Lieutenant, he had led dangerous missions over Germany in World War II, to emerge unscathed from his plane, and ready at once to relax with whomever came to hand. One was not supposed to know about his infidelities, which was why Mrs Marsh kept silent at this point. He had matured into a likeable man, bluff, good-natured, not particularly interesting, much as he had been when younger: indifference to danger had been his most glowing attribute. The two couples had dined together a few times, when Archie was at the Air Ministry, and Bill Marsh was still alive. Bill had died first, leaving his widow marked in inconspicuous ways. Archie had survived him by a bare two years, when he succumbed to a fatal heart attack.

  The two wives had kept in touch, although they had little in common, and Phyllis Martin had taken Mrs Marsh’s advice and moved into the empty flat two floors above her own, when her house in Markham Square had got too much for her. Now, she supposed, they would never move out again, until death came for them in their turn. Death was never mentioned between them. If they spoke of their husbands it was as if they were referring to men they had once known, men who had inexplicably passed out of their lives. Only the brief seriousness accorded to the subject, and the regret that they took care to banish from their expressions as soon as they could manage this, indicated that much could be said, that much was being withheld. For it would have been the height of vulgarity to weep in public. Even Lady Martin’s famed sensitivity took second place to the rules of behaviour, which had always governed those to whom she still referred as ‘our sort of people’. The trouble was that there were so few of them left.

  Both had been presented at Court, Mrs Marsh gloomy in white satin, with feathers in her hair, Lady Martin, predictably, the most beautiful debutante of two seasons. Both had married the man of their choice. That these men happened to be entirely suitable was, in their view, only to be expected: if broken hearts were mentioned they raised eyebrows in well-bred dismay. Love was embarrassing, unless crowned by a wedding, and of
course no-one in their set had a breakdown or an illegitimate child. They supposed such matters to be confined to the lower classes, with whom they were on excellent terms when the latter were employed as servants. Feelings were never much discussed, although with the advent of old age—of real age—they were diverted by the tricks which memory played on them, and trembled on the brink of discovery, of real information, after the years of well-bred subterfuge. ‘Do you remember so-and-so?’ one of them would suddenly ask, only to have the other reply, incredulously, ‘Why, I was thinking of her only the other day. She died, of course.’ But again, when death came into the equation, they turned resolutely to other matters.

  For the moment, their appetites satisfied, they relapsed into silence. This was always welcome to Mrs Marsh, who found silence sympathetic these days, who chose silence above noise, and who was developing a special affinity with the night hours, when all the world, or as much of it as she could imagine, was silent. But she remembered her manners, knew how Phyllis loved to chatter, and pulled herself together.

  ‘Do you get out much these days, Phyllis?’ she asked politely.

  The question seemed to call Lady Martin to order.

  ‘As much as I can,’ she replied. ‘Bridge twice a week, of course: that keeps one in touch. And I still get to the shops every day. But I find I don’t like to be out in the evenings, apart from the bridge. I’m quite glad to get home these days.’

  ‘You used to be out every night.’

  ‘Not any more. When I think of all the clothes hanging in my wardrobe, things I shall never wear again! I suppose my clothes will see me out now,’ she said wistfully. ‘No need to buy anything more. But then I don’t like shopping either—I can’t cope with crowded stores, and I used to love them.’ She sighed.

  Mrs Marsh looked down at her grey tweeds. ‘No,’ she agreed. ‘No need to buy anything more.’