English Correspondence by Janet Davey Page A

The smells of colognes and face creams blended together and fought with the confit of duck from the kitchen. Sylvie opened a bottle and sniffed the cork. That was better. Maude was burnished, almost refractive; hair, eyes, nails, lips, teeth, dress, stockings, shoes, everything shiny. Only her face was fashionably matt. She attracted attention. The men walking in, at that moment, Maurice’s contemporaries, were, in age, her perfect admirers; admirers, not lovers, just the right gap. Loving would have tested them. The younger ones who followed were disturbed by her, glanced at her warily. Felix was used to her.
    It took time to settle them down. They had worked out a seating plan in advance, but, even so, there were flutterings, minor disappointments, these more than excitements; perhaps they were past them. Some collapsed like blackbirds taking a sun bath, spread out and patient, some were poised ready to swoop. They all knew each other, to different degrees of intimacy. Nothing startling, though there was bound to be at least one pair with a secret, and others who had forgotten they had been close for a week or so. What really joined them, Sylvie thought, was miscalculation. They had gone into business with room for manoeuvre, clear escape routes.For a time, these were open, then they glazed over with shatter-proof glass. They lived in a fortress. She could see it in their faces.
    Sylvie gave them a few minutes to stop fidgeting and then filled their glasses. It was one of those necessary pauses, like the one between Let us pray and praying. Get over the shuffling before starting. They turned to their neighbours to talk. To the right, to the left, best till last, nothing in it. One or two were left stranded with no one to speak to; they would drink up more quickly. Sylvie stood ready. Felix brought them their dishes. The first course. He did it neatly, without ostentation, avoiding their shoulders and badly timed gestures. Sylvie watched him, watched his hands and his speed. It was she who had taught him. Compared with him, they were babies. The menu planning had deprived them of choices. They ate what they were given. Don’t wave your fork, Sweet. That’s right, in it goes.
    They weren’t the only diners and, now there was a lull, Sylvie was able to attend to the others. There was an Englishman, on his own, and a couple, out to mark some exiguous event like a birthday. They had picked the wrong evening, but she didn’t want to neglect them.
    With the next course came Paul. He shook hands with Maurice and Maurice’s wife. They exchanged congratulations with equal enthusiasm: confit of duck and fifty years’ graft in the scales together. This was Maude’s moment too. She came forward. She knew Maurice slightly and gave him a kiss, told him how young he looked. This was plainly a lie, but he smiled and swallowed it with his next gulp of claret. They had both been drinking quite fast, he and his wife. They were used to the quantity but not to the speed. His wife’s fingers, pressed hard on the edge of the table, steadied the upper part of her body, but her head bobbed about. There was fear in her eyes, fear for the future, at home with Maurice. She was pleased that Maude kissed him. For a moment she hoped. Then knowledge of Maurice returned to her, she didn’t need to look at him. She was a realistic woman. Had shelooked, she’d have seen his high colour and the tic under his left eye.
    Sylvie signalled to Felix to fetch in more water; the slightest movement, no speaking. He understood her. He walked round the table and poured it, cold and clear into their glasses. The candles were warm, melting slowly, one of them dripping. Maurice put his hand in his pocket, felt about. The pieces of paper were missing. There were his car keys. The first words, what were they? Despite tough market conditions, profit before interest – No. He shifted his bum, half stood up, carried on fishing.