Sylvie looked on. She knew what was happening, she willed him to find them. She caught his eye, took a deep breath, looked serene. He stopped, patted his jacket. A slight rustle, like bank notes. He sat down, swigged his wine, forgot all about it, forgot all about her. What is it, Maurice, his wife whispered across the table. She was, as always lagging behind. He took no notice; ignored her and turned to his neighbour.
Paul and Maude had gone back to the kitchen to beribbon the pudding. Sylvie went across to the two extra tables. They were tolerant people, the couple and the solitary man. They got on with their dinners without complaining. The noise and the heat from the party were rising. These three were adult. They drew an invisible line round themselves. The couple found plenty to say to each other. It hadnât been an ideal choice for the birthday, but they didnât indulge in apologies or recriminations. Their measured response gave them mutual respect. Sylvie saw this and was glad for them. The Englishman was watchful. He. had his own thoughts but the party impinged on them. He kept an eye out, looked slightly dismayed, though not necessarily for himself. Sylvie wasnât sure what he sensed but she thought she agreed with him.
Felix brought in the pudding. The sight subdued them. He had to dismantle it; it was that sort of pudding. He did it expertly. It collapsed and they fell on it. What remained of discernment and chic was undone.
Sylvie poured the champagne. The establishment had won in the matter of speeches. Nothing was to happen until after the food. Sylvie had been firm and Paul had been pleased with her. Maurice looked bovine. Panic had left him. The moment was near, but not now. He felt easy. The minutes stretched out.
Jacqueline, his secretary, looked round. Sylvie smiled at her and nodded. She supposed it was Jacqueline. Three shapes on the sideboard, two flat, the other a mound. Framed pictures for Maurice: one solemn, a local landscape, one jokey, some sort of cartoon of Maurice, neither accomplished. And flowers. She could smell them from here. It was the lilies that did it.
Christian, who had met Sylvie to make the arrangements, got to his feet. He kept the flat of his hands on the table, didnât stand straight, looked slightly aggressive. He started at the beginning, made it seem very distant, very local, very French. He, of course, hadnât been around at that time. The leaden anachronisms gave way to a list, then tailed off. Surely that hadnât taken fifty years. He mentioned bedrock and roots and foundations. He stopped just short of saying dead weight. The world was now global. He talked of relaxation and travel and well deserved leisure and being together â that meant Mauriceâs wife. He picked up his glass and proposed Mauriceâs retirement, long life and happiness. They all did. It didnât sound plausible. They were all fairly raucous, clinking their glasses. Jacqueline remembered Mauriceâs wife. She nudged Christian and whispered. They started again, the toasts and the clinking. Maurice would speak soon. They carried on talking. Heâd speak soon. No one looked at him. A moving occasion. Maybe a handkerchief. They waited. Talk dwindled. No one looked. Only Felix.
Sylvie knew straightaway that the boy had never seen death before, or anything like it. She wanted to comfort him, hold him, send him home to his mother. But she was the wrong side of the table. She needed his help. She asked him quite calmly to get to the telephone. Call an ambulance. Tell themitâs urgent. Tell Paul whatâs happened. Felix was pale but he trusted her, knew what to do.
The party round the table divided: those near Maurice who shifted away, those at either end who stayed put, exchanging glances and clichés, covertly sipping champagne. It was the only booze on the table and the glasses were nearly full. Everyone who needed it wished it was red, or, at any
Paul and Maude had gone back to the kitchen to beribbon the pudding. Sylvie went across to the two extra tables. They were tolerant people, the couple and the solitary man. They got on with their dinners without complaining. The noise and the heat from the party were rising. These three were adult. They drew an invisible line round themselves. The couple found plenty to say to each other. It hadnât been an ideal choice for the birthday, but they didnât indulge in apologies or recriminations. Their measured response gave them mutual respect. Sylvie saw this and was glad for them. The Englishman was watchful. He. had his own thoughts but the party impinged on them. He kept an eye out, looked slightly dismayed, though not necessarily for himself. Sylvie wasnât sure what he sensed but she thought she agreed with him.
Felix brought in the pudding. The sight subdued them. He had to dismantle it; it was that sort of pudding. He did it expertly. It collapsed and they fell on it. What remained of discernment and chic was undone.
Sylvie poured the champagne. The establishment had won in the matter of speeches. Nothing was to happen until after the food. Sylvie had been firm and Paul had been pleased with her. Maurice looked bovine. Panic had left him. The moment was near, but not now. He felt easy. The minutes stretched out.
Jacqueline, his secretary, looked round. Sylvie smiled at her and nodded. She supposed it was Jacqueline. Three shapes on the sideboard, two flat, the other a mound. Framed pictures for Maurice: one solemn, a local landscape, one jokey, some sort of cartoon of Maurice, neither accomplished. And flowers. She could smell them from here. It was the lilies that did it.
Christian, who had met Sylvie to make the arrangements, got to his feet. He kept the flat of his hands on the table, didnât stand straight, looked slightly aggressive. He started at the beginning, made it seem very distant, very local, very French. He, of course, hadnât been around at that time. The leaden anachronisms gave way to a list, then tailed off. Surely that hadnât taken fifty years. He mentioned bedrock and roots and foundations. He stopped just short of saying dead weight. The world was now global. He talked of relaxation and travel and well deserved leisure and being together â that meant Mauriceâs wife. He picked up his glass and proposed Mauriceâs retirement, long life and happiness. They all did. It didnât sound plausible. They were all fairly raucous, clinking their glasses. Jacqueline remembered Mauriceâs wife. She nudged Christian and whispered. They started again, the toasts and the clinking. Maurice would speak soon. They carried on talking. Heâd speak soon. No one looked at him. A moving occasion. Maybe a handkerchief. They waited. Talk dwindled. No one looked. Only Felix.
Sylvie knew straightaway that the boy had never seen death before, or anything like it. She wanted to comfort him, hold him, send him home to his mother. But she was the wrong side of the table. She needed his help. She asked him quite calmly to get to the telephone. Call an ambulance. Tell themitâs urgent. Tell Paul whatâs happened. Felix was pale but he trusted her, knew what to do.
The party round the table divided: those near Maurice who shifted away, those at either end who stayed put, exchanging glances and clichés, covertly sipping champagne. It was the only booze on the table and the glasses were nearly full. Everyone who needed it wished it was red, or, at any
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