Making Things Better by Anita Brookner Page B

the whole set-up, though, wasn’t it? Your parents, and that funny old girl who came in on a Saturday and never took her hat off. It got to me after a time. And even that was better than Edgware Road.’ She shuddered. ‘I don’t know how you stood it.’
    â€˜I had to stand it. Now I’m happy that you’ve made a life for yourself, found someone who can take you on holiday, take you out . . . I manage. I’m not discontented. Don’t worry about me, Josie.’
    He reached for her hand, glad that this brief exchange had cleared the air between them. But now he was tired, and thought she must be too, although in her case tiredness would be compounded with relief that he had not reproached her. Though eager to proclaim the rightness of her decision to end their marriage, if challenged to do so, she was nevertheless not eager to dwell on it. In this, he thought, she showed signs of a belated maturity, although in a way he regretted this for her sake. In his experience maturity rarely brought cheering insights. Better the eagerness of youth, before the world had done its worst. His smile faded. He pressed her hand and then released it. They had after all not completely disappointed each other. And it was time to leave, before further reminiscences disturbed their fragile equilibrium. He glanced meaningfully at the next table, where the two women who had earlier caught his attention were now arguing vehemently. Josie followed his gaze, then nodded at him.
    â€˜They will have a rotten afternoon of it,’ he said, guiding her out into the street. ‘And they had planned it all so carefully. It was to have been a treat for one of them, though not, clearly, for the other. I dare say they will cut it short and go home to Weybridge. Oh, your car. Where did you say you left it?’
    â€˜In the car park. Don’t come with me. I know you hate it.’
    â€˜Well, if you’re sure. I’m always afraid of getting locked in.’
    â€˜Goodbye, Julius. Thank you for lunch. Keep in touch.’
    â€˜Yes, I’ll keep in touch. Good to see you, Josie. Oh, and have a good holiday.’
    He watched her stride away, noting with some sadness her thicker shoulders, the fact that she was slightly bent. With an effort he straightened himself, pushed back his own reluctant shoulders. They were old; it was all over. She would have told him not to be so defeatist, that, compared with so many, he was fortunate. He knew that, but it made no difference. His own equilibrium rested on such slender foundations that he also knew that undue reflection would disturb them. And now he was truly tired and wanted nothing better than to be at home, where no one but himself could register his decline.
    He decided to walk back to Chiltern Street, knowing that this was foolhardy, yet anxious to test himself. He stood for a moment, irresolute. The day was fine, windy, but with a mild sun. He set off down St Martin’s Lane, turned instinctively into Cecil Court to look through the second-hand books, and spent a restful few minutes away from the crowds. He was no longer used to company, that was the problem, could not function well in an atmosphere of talk and activity. Even the pleasures of the restaurant had tired him, even the company of Josie, although he was glad that she had re-established herself as a dear girl, barely recognizable now as the fresh-faced nurse whose presence he had so craved, almost as soon as he had had time to study her across a café table on the very first evening of their acquaintance. But that was how it should have continued, he thought: meetings in cafés on random evenings, as if they were actors in some black-and-white film, preferably French. In that way they could have injected an element of romance into their fortuitous association. He realized that he had been too keen to drive the relationship to its logical conclusion to speculate as to what a woman might want.