Altered States by Anita Brookner

finally decided that her nails were in a satisfactory condition. Then she rearranged her heavy mane of hair, opened her bag, and removed a piece of paper.
    ‘I need a lease,’ she explained, or failed to explain, handing over the paper, on which was scrawled the name of another solicitor, one whom I had met in the course of business. ‘I’ve sold the house and bought this flat.’
    ‘Your mother was agreeable to this?’
    She shrugged. ‘Haven’t the faintest. I couldn’t go on living out there, could I? Anyway, I need to be in town. This’ll do for the time being.’
    ‘And where is this flat? I presume you’ve already exchanged contracts? And sold the house?’
    ‘Of course. I don’t waste time. I never waste time.’
    This statement, coming from one who thought it acceptableto waste others’ time, should also have given me pause, yet at that moment, and indeed afterwards, I had to admire the sheer consistency of her extremely inconsistent nature. She was unpredictable, yet she could also be relied upon to be unpredictable. In this way she need never take the blame, particularly for those unexplained absences which were her stock in trade. The effect was of an endlessly delayed climax, and I use the image advisedly, for it was this particular characteristic that made her so fascinating to men. This too I could see at the time; time was also to prove me correct. When bored, as she obviously was now, her looks would fade, as if a light had gone out. One would then be on one’s mettle to amuse her, to spoil her, and, yes, I must repeat this, to capture her attention. She was a woman destined to beguile men, yet most of them would leave her indifferent. She had the imperviousness of an alien, while all the time trailing evidence of her powers of seduction, which were considerable. I was not in the least surprised when the door of my office opened and Brian came in, intrigued no doubt by Mrs Roche’s indignant comments.
    ‘Hello!’ he said. ‘How nice to see you again! Alan looking after you, is he?’
    To my despair she brightened, but, I reasoned, only because something was happening, as opposed to the nothing signified by my steady attention.
    ‘I’ve bought this flat,’ she said, turning to him. ‘Paddington Street.’
    ‘That’s quite near where I live,’ I said. ‘In Wigmore Street. We shall almost be neighbours.’ I wanted to ask her out to dinner, but I was not going to do so with Brian in the room. What a pity we had all had lunch, I reflected, otherwise Brian would certainly have extended his usual invitation.
    ‘If you could just take care of it for me,’ she said, suddenly switching her gaze to mine. I watched her, fascinated, as shewarmed into luminous life, having decided that she had ignored me sufficiently for my own good. She moistened her lips, and seemed to will brightness into her eyes and colour into her cheeks. The effect was dazzling, and also unsettling, indications of a volatility which she nevertheless had under perfect control. She was like the weather in a mountain region, like the weather in this little town of Vif, a heavy mist descending out of nowhere, a fitful sun giving way to soaking rain.
    ‘I’ll take care of it, of course,’ I said. ‘Was there anything else? I’ll need a telephone number.’
    ‘Oh, sure.’ She searched in her large handbag for her diary, found the number and read it out. I wrote it down. Brian, I could see, was committing it to memory.
    ‘And I’ll be giving a little house-warming party,’ she said. ‘Some weekend or other. If you’d like to come?’
    ‘I’d be delighted,’ I said. ‘I’ll telephone you.’
    ‘Am I invited too?’ asked Brian. I had never seen him so clumsy.
    ‘Of course. Bring Pamela.’
    ‘Pamela?’
    ‘Your girl-friend.’
    ‘You mean Felicity.’
    ‘Sure. Felicity.’
    At the mention of Felicity’s name Brian looked unhappy, as well he might, I reflected. On Fridays and Saturdays Brian and Felicity