buy meals for. They just don’t notice.’
‘Not even when someone looks like Simone?’
‘Apparently not. Though she can deal with people much more quickly than me. If they start anything she just spits. With real old aristocratic vehemence. There’s class for you. I’m too bourgeois, I wouldn’t know how to spit. Usually I daren’t even protest.’
‘Poor little Sarah. She lets people lift up her skirts on the Metro because she’s too well-bred to object.’
‘That’s just about it. But you should have seen Simone. She looked so extraordinary. She made poor Linda look like a schoolgirl. You know what, she gives me such a sense of tradition and
salons
and Henry James. And yet she doesn’t belong anywhere. Or perhaps she belongs everywhere. I’d like to be irresponsible like that. To be able to go on like that for ever.’
He looked at me, sharply. I was sorry I’d said what I had said, or at least those last two phrases of it: I know that Tony despises people who don’t like being exactly what they are and in many ways I sympathize, though one does need more of a tension than he will admit. And I didn’t want to be Simone, or only at times.
And I didn’t want to leave him, but I felt I should, and said so. The speeches and cake-cutting were due to start before long and I had to get back to Daphne and Louise for the photographs. So we parted, but before we did so Tony asked me if I’d like to spend the following day with him in Stratford. I was delighted and said yes, without thinking of Gill at all: she had dropped out of my mind. Then, feeling pleased with myself for having fixed up this infinitesimal bit of my future, I rejoined the family side of the affair. We had lots and lots of photographs and speeches, all very witty and tedious, and we drank healths: I was feeling a little hazy by this time, and full of goodwill. After that I had an impression that the etiquette book thought I ought to help Louise to change, so I followed her when she tripped off to do so. I found her giggling to herself as she struggled with her row of little buttons: ‘Oh, Sally, what a joke,’ she said. ‘What a ghastly joke, I’ve drunk pints and Stephen’s been on orange juice all day long.’
She trampled the dress to pieces as she was getting out of it, and she left it all heaped on the floor. Then she dressed up again in lilac; lilac to the eyeshadow: as she was standing in her skirt and bra, just about to put on her jacket, there was a knock at the door.
‘Who’s that?’ she said.
‘John,’ was the reply.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, dropping the jacket on the back of the chair. ‘Come in.’
‘May I?’
‘Oh yes, go along, come in.’
He came in, and stood in the doorway staring at her. He looked as if he too had had too much to drink. She stared back. ‘Hello,’ she said, after a moment. ‘What d’you want?’
‘Oh, I just wanted to know if your case was ready to put in the car.’
‘Trying to get rid of me?’
‘You know I am.’
‘All right, all right, you can have it. The white one. You’ve got the others.’
‘Yes. I’ve got them.’
He picked up the case and started to go, but she suddenly said, ‘Wait, wait, I’ve forgotten to pack my hairbrush. Wait while I do my hair.’
And then she took every single pin out of her hair and let it all down, out of its immaculately tidy arrangement, and started to brush it. She brushed it with long sweeping movements, throwing her head back at the end of each stroke, so that she showed an appalling white expanse of neck and underchin and bosom. He watched her while she did it. When she had finished brushing it she threw me the brush to pack, and started putting it all up again. When she had put it up, she put on the jacket of her suit and smiled at him, blinking and sweet. He took the suitcase and went out without a word. I thought to myself that I had never witnessed such crude and awful vanity in my life.
They got off in the end,
‘Not even when someone looks like Simone?’
‘Apparently not. Though she can deal with people much more quickly than me. If they start anything she just spits. With real old aristocratic vehemence. There’s class for you. I’m too bourgeois, I wouldn’t know how to spit. Usually I daren’t even protest.’
‘Poor little Sarah. She lets people lift up her skirts on the Metro because she’s too well-bred to object.’
‘That’s just about it. But you should have seen Simone. She looked so extraordinary. She made poor Linda look like a schoolgirl. You know what, she gives me such a sense of tradition and
salons
and Henry James. And yet she doesn’t belong anywhere. Or perhaps she belongs everywhere. I’d like to be irresponsible like that. To be able to go on like that for ever.’
He looked at me, sharply. I was sorry I’d said what I had said, or at least those last two phrases of it: I know that Tony despises people who don’t like being exactly what they are and in many ways I sympathize, though one does need more of a tension than he will admit. And I didn’t want to be Simone, or only at times.
And I didn’t want to leave him, but I felt I should, and said so. The speeches and cake-cutting were due to start before long and I had to get back to Daphne and Louise for the photographs. So we parted, but before we did so Tony asked me if I’d like to spend the following day with him in Stratford. I was delighted and said yes, without thinking of Gill at all: she had dropped out of my mind. Then, feeling pleased with myself for having fixed up this infinitesimal bit of my future, I rejoined the family side of the affair. We had lots and lots of photographs and speeches, all very witty and tedious, and we drank healths: I was feeling a little hazy by this time, and full of goodwill. After that I had an impression that the etiquette book thought I ought to help Louise to change, so I followed her when she tripped off to do so. I found her giggling to herself as she struggled with her row of little buttons: ‘Oh, Sally, what a joke,’ she said. ‘What a ghastly joke, I’ve drunk pints and Stephen’s been on orange juice all day long.’
She trampled the dress to pieces as she was getting out of it, and she left it all heaped on the floor. Then she dressed up again in lilac; lilac to the eyeshadow: as she was standing in her skirt and bra, just about to put on her jacket, there was a knock at the door.
‘Who’s that?’ she said.
‘John,’ was the reply.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, dropping the jacket on the back of the chair. ‘Come in.’
‘May I?’
‘Oh yes, go along, come in.’
He came in, and stood in the doorway staring at her. He looked as if he too had had too much to drink. She stared back. ‘Hello,’ she said, after a moment. ‘What d’you want?’
‘Oh, I just wanted to know if your case was ready to put in the car.’
‘Trying to get rid of me?’
‘You know I am.’
‘All right, all right, you can have it. The white one. You’ve got the others.’
‘Yes. I’ve got them.’
He picked up the case and started to go, but she suddenly said, ‘Wait, wait, I’ve forgotten to pack my hairbrush. Wait while I do my hair.’
And then she took every single pin out of her hair and let it all down, out of its immaculately tidy arrangement, and started to brush it. She brushed it with long sweeping movements, throwing her head back at the end of each stroke, so that she showed an appalling white expanse of neck and underchin and bosom. He watched her while she did it. When she had finished brushing it she threw me the brush to pack, and started putting it all up again. When she had put it up, she put on the jacket of her suit and smiled at him, blinking and sweet. He took the suitcase and went out without a word. I thought to myself that I had never witnessed such crude and awful vanity in my life.
They got off in the end,
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