A Start in Life by Anita Brookner Page B

pan of water again, stood over it until it boiled, and with a gesture of supreme recklessness poured in the rice. She then added more water to the casserole, splashing her blouse in the process, and made herself another cup of coffee. She noted in passing that the apple tart was leaking through the pastry crust in the heat. Downstairs she could hear Miss Mackendrick scraping out the cat’s litter into the dustbin.
    At nine o’clock she felt so ill that she thought she must go to bed. The rice had cooked, stuck, and been thrown away. Wearily she refilled the pan with water and set it to boil. Her dismay was so intense that it was no longer measurable. All she knew was that he did not want to come. He did not want to see her. She did not matter. ‘
Je suis trop laide, il ne fera pas attention à moi.
’ She sat on the sofa in the greyish light, her face as tragic as Helen’s when she had played Madame Ranevskaya in
The Cherry Orchard:
her one excursion into serious theatre, and not a success. Ruth thought of her grandmother. She thought of her kind father and her beautiful mother. She had not valued them enough. The following day they would ask how her party had gone. Mrs Cutler would enquire over the outcome of her recipe. Anthea would have to be faced. Accounts must always be rendered, if only to oneself. The effort of holding back her tears blurred and wearied her features. She looked as if she might faint.
    At half past nine Miss Howe shuffled out of her basement, the television blaring through her open door, and began her ritual locking up for the night. This involved wrestling with the bolt on the front door, and it would take a great deal of courage to ask her not to do it. Ruth did not bother. She went into the kitchen and poured the water away, switched off the oven, and walked out without clearing up. She turned down her bed and kicked off
her shoes. She was beyond feeling anything but relief that the hideous day was over.
    At nine thirty five, Richard rang the doorbell.
    Miss Howe shot out of her basement, more outraged than frightened. Miss Mackendrick opened her door very slightly, and Ruth could see her small elderly eye through the crack as she ran down the stairs. The blood surged up into her face again; she felt like someone saved from drowning or from a major street accident. The fact that she still had her slippers on, that the dinner was ruined, and that she was so tired that she doubted if she could stay awake much longer did not seem to matter. She would deal with these facts later, after she had appeased Miss Howe.
    But she need not have bothered. Richard was already in the hall, stroking Miss Howe’s cat, Tiger, and being treated to a confidential report on the state of Tiger’s worms. Miss Howe, her thin silver plait of hair undone for the night and hanging down her back, could scarcely afford Ruth a moment’s attention.
    ‘You think I should take him to the vet then, do you? I’ve tried the powders, but he’s ailing, you can see it in his eyes.’
    Richard draped the cat round his shoulders; Ruth and Miss Howe watched in fascination as he unleashed the full glory of his smile.
    ‘He’ll be all right, won’t you, old chap?’ he said, bringing Tiger down like a scarf until he could rub his cheek on the cat’s neck. Tiger was his slave. Miss Howe waited patiently, until he rewarded her with a friendly pat on the shoulder.
    Richard being charming again, thought Ruth. Anthea, she knew, would have been less complimentary.
    But he was so splendid! Ruth, brought up by parents who did not always hide their exasperation at her inability to grow faster or put on weight, felt inadequate. She did not doubt that the essence of physical attraction lay in
a superior degree of beauty, and she knew that she could only wait and wonder that he was there at all. For he had a choice; she had none.
    Richard unwound the cat from his neck, bestowed it on Miss Howe, then, raising each foot in a classic gesture,