A Private View (7 page)

Seated, Miss Gibb thrust her hands into her hair and shook it back from her face. The movement revealed a little more of the white flesh. ‘What would you like to eat?’ he asked. The look of unself-conscious greed on her face was reward enough for any host, he thought. ‘Moira?’ For, if only by Katy’s decree, they were to be Moira and George.

‘Oh, I think a grilled sole,’ said Mrs Lydiard. ‘I rarely eat much in the evening.’

‘I’ll join you. Katy?’

‘Snails,’ she said. ‘And king prawns
al forno
.’

They looked at her with respect; clearly an adventurous eater. ‘And to drink?’ murmured Bland.

‘More champagne, I think, don’t you?’

‘Moira?’

‘Nothing for me, George, I rarely …’

‘But it’s a celebration, Moira!’ said the girl. ‘And it’s terribly exciting! I might be on the verge of a new life! That’s something to celebrate, isn’t it?’

‘As you like, my dear,’ said Mrs Lydiard, suddenly looking old and tired.

‘We’ll drink to your new venture,’ said Bland. ‘And you must tell us more about it.’ For he still had an almost professional interest in her history.

‘I told you. It’s under wraps at the moment. But I’m hoping to build on my American experience.’

‘And what was that exactly?’

‘I was with Howard Singer,’ she said simply, putting down her glass as if to mark the significance of the declaration.

Bland searched his memory, but found no record of
Howard Singer Enterprises, or the Howard Singer Corporation.

‘Who is Howard Singer?’ queried Mrs Lydiard.

Katy made a gesture of comical despair, as if she could not credit their ignorance.

‘I’m surprised you’ve never heard of him,’ she said. ‘He’s very well known in the States. He has one of the most famous stress workshops on the West Coast.’ Her eyes were modestly lowered, as if in anticipation of their reverence. An aromatic plate of snails was put in front of her.

‘What does he do?’ asked Mrs Lydiard bluntly.

The eyes flew up again. ‘What doesn’t he do? Shiatsu, Vibrasound, Tantric Massage, Reflexology, Chakra, Crystal Therapy, Essential Oils—that’s my particular speciality—Flower Remedies, Colour Counselling—you name it.’

‘Sex therapy?’ suggested Bland.

‘Of course. An enormous number of people are on the wrong track, you know.’ Most of them, it was implied; possibly all of them, in Singer’s estimation.

Bland could see this man, this Singer, clearly a charlatan, bronzed and smiling, with very white teeth, and a Hawaiian shirt disclosing abundant grey fuzz. He added a ponytail and an elephant hair bracelet, as he neatly dissected his fish. Waves of garlic drifted across the table. Mrs Lydiard, he surmised, was not enjoying her dinner. He on the other hand was having a better time than he had anticipated. He refilled Katy’s glass, and said, ‘And that’s what you’d like to do, is it?’

‘I’ve heard of those things,’ said Mrs Lydiard. ‘It’s what they call New Age, isn’t it?’

‘Brilliant, Moira! I knew you’d be open to ideas. I think it’s wonderful when people like yourself keep up with the
times.’ She meant old people, clearly. For a moment or two her temper seemed uncertain; anger, it appeared, was never very far from the surface. But Bland was more interested in the voice, which had again become patrician, although it had previously been a hybrid mixture of English and American.

‘I think I’d rather trust my doctor …’

‘Yes, I do too,’ said Bland, thinking of his cache of sleeping pills.

‘You’d be wrong! Massage could help that leg of yours, Moira, and I’m sure all your pills haven’t.’

Yes, he thought, she was clearly angry, although they had gone out of their way to humour her. Feeling reckless, he suggested, ‘And I suppose the first step is to get in touch with the child inside you?’

‘Within. We say within.’

‘Within,’ he concurred.

He was beginning to enjoy himself, although all appetite had left him. Mrs Lydiard too seemed depressed by her fish. However, Mrs Lydiard’s expression of otherworldliness, and her apparent decision to rise above whatever she deemed unworthy of her notice, could, he decided, be put down to a feeling of exclusion. It was clear from Katy’s animation, her self-absorption, her very greed, that she had little time for elderly ladies beyond the sudden absent-minded smiles she aimed in Mrs Lydiard’s direction. Mrs Lydiard, possibly not a good judge of character, was not as foolish as she seemed, he thought. Simply, she had rejoiced in his invitation, had enjoyed adorning herself, and was now as disconcerted as a girl to be relegated to the sidelines, when the evening had promised nothing but pleasure. There was indeed
something combative in the atmosphere. Maybe women always felt like this about other women, he thought, particularly when a man, however negligible, manifested a degree of interest. Not that he was interested. Amused, rather. He smiled to himself. At least he had the good sense not to feel smug.

He found the girl beguiling, largely for her adroit shrewdness and for her very genuine silliness, of which she was unaware. As to her ‘work’, Bland reflected that to be very good at something inherently stupid was not necessarily a mark of high intelligence. On the other hand, to make a living out of it, as he did not doubt that she might, would be no mean achievement, would, in addition, argue superior business sense. He wondered about her relationship to the prestigious Singer, of whom he had never heard. Acolyte, clearly, since the man was evidently something of a guru, and possibly, no, probably, more. Despite her relative youth she was obviously experienced, more experienced than either of her fellow diners. He had not forgotten the sudden shock of her appearance, when she had manifested herself—there was no other word for it—at his door. Now that a range of natural expressions had taken over, her appearance was less decisive, although the manner in which she had ingested her terrible meal compelled the attention. She ate daintily, but with ruthless efficiency, the moisture glistening on her mouth. He put her age at about twenty-nine or thirty. When she reached middle age the plumpness round her waist and hips would be difficult to shift, particularly if she ate as undiscriminatingly as she was doing this evening.

‘You are so right,’ pursued Mrs Lydiard, who was nothing if not socially responsible, ‘to want to start your own
business. The future belongs to the self-employed. Otherwise one gets such a shock when one is obliged to retire. Didn’t you feel that, George?’

‘I’ve hardly had time to get used to it,’ Bland replied.

‘I was bereft,’ she added. ‘Positively bereft.’

He was beginning to understand Mrs Lydiard. She did not miss her children, let alone her husband. She missed her employer, who had seen her through so many happy days in Harley Street, for whom she had dressed so carefully for so long, and whose presence at her side on such an evening as this would have made her impervious to any slight. She was not entirely baffled by the turn things had taken; she could see that on this particular occasion she was being treated as a makeweight. At the same time she was as fascinated as was Bland, whom she clearly thought ought to know better, by the girl’s crude charm, and longed to be included in what Katy termed her celebration. If the occasion warranted it—and she still had some doubts about this—she wanted to join in. Bland, watching her, when he could spare some attention from Katy, reflected that the girl possessed an unusual gift: she brought everyone to the brink of bad behaviour, simply by dint of behaving rather badly herself. One vied for her attention; one raised one’s voice; one exaggerated one’s own presence. However much one longed to maintain one’s usual standards, within a few minutes—half an hour at the most—this was mysteriously no longer possible. Mrs Lydiard, he could see, was eager to make amends for her momentary disloyalty, if not quite ready to desert her other convictions, conventional medicine retaining the priority. He himself was feeling imprudent, largely because he had
discerned that the girl was dissembling. He felt quite kindly towards her, but his judgment, he thought, was intact.

‘How did you come to know Sharon?’ he asked noncommittally, refilling her glass.

‘Sharon?’ She was deeply flushed now, eyes and teeth gleaming. ‘She was Sheila when I first knew her. Sheila Robinson. She changed it to Sharon because she thought it was more distinguished. Whereas anyone could have told her that Sharon is incredibly naff.’

The vowels had narrowed again, the tone had modulated into a distinguished drawl. Even her expression had changed, had become distant, as if contemplating a little-known human folly.

He noted once again that she had not answered his question. He also noted that although she had had a great deal to drink she was not drunk, whereas he himself was feeling a little warm, a little vague. Mrs Lydiard was rearranging her gloves and her handbag, as if impatient for the evening to end. Gloves, he could hear Katy thinking: how incredibly naff. Coffee was served.

He signalled the waiter for the bill, looked at his watch, and saw to his surprise that it was after eleven-thirty.

‘Forgive me for keeping you up so late,’ he apologised to Mrs Lydiard. ‘At least tomorrow’s Sunday.’

She smiled patiently at him, as if every day were Sunday to her. He collected them both by the door; they seemed to have become bulky and voluminous, difficult to manoeuvre. Just as well I don’t have to drive, he thought. Out in the street the clean air staggered him with its purity; he felt grateful for it, humbled by it. Suddenly the evening seemed tawdry, a waste of time and money. He wished that he could
have remained on distant terms with Mrs Lydiard, and that this cumbersome girl had never entered their quiet lives. His earlier feeling of licensed irreverence was replaced by a sensation of shame. Mrs Lydiard was silent, whether on her dignity, or wearily aware that any young person, even so marginal a one as this (and what in the end did they know about her?) could turn her into someone of no importance. Mrs Lydiard, Bland could see, felt old. As, suddenly, he did himself.

‘Thank you so much, George,’ said Mrs Lydiard distantly. ‘No, don’t come up. I’m quite all right on my own. Why don’t you see Katy to her door? I’m sure we’re all ready for bed. I know I am.’

‘Ready for bed?’ queried Katy, amused, as they made their slightly unsteady way up the stairs. ‘I’m not. I rarely go to bed before one-thirty or two, sometimes later. I’m at my best at night, do my best thinking then. Howard and I often did encounter work around this time …’

‘Encounter work?’ he queried.

‘You know. Question and answer sessions. Transactional analysis. Howard has this marvellous technique for getting people to recognise their hang-ups.’

‘You mean he sees clients, patients, or whatever, in the middle of the night?’

‘Sure. Are you unhappy with that?’

‘I would be if it were happening to me.’

‘I could tell you a bit more about it if you’re interested. Even give you a trial session. On an introductory basis, of course. Are you going in?’ she questioned, apparently amazed at this state of affairs. ‘You’re not going to bed though, surely? If not, I don’t mind watching television with
you for a bit. You get the really grungy programmes round about midnight. They’re the ones I really enjoy. And they’re American. Howard and I knew a lot of people in the entertainment business.’

He put his key in the lock of his own door and said, ‘I think I’ll turn in, if you don’t mind. I
am
a little tired now. I only got back from France this morning. Goodnight, Katy. Thank you for a pleasant evening.’

Although he was by this time in his own hallway she lingered, watching him. All at once he felt tired of her, inimical to her, as if she were a threat, as if she might destroy his peace of mind, the desperately calm and comfortable life he had fashioned for himself, if she had a mind to. He retained enough self-possession to wish her, once again, a pleasant goodnight, once again to thank her for an enjoyable evening. If he overdid it it was because he was unsettled, and mildly ashamed of himself.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘But remember, if you want to kick a few ideas around, or even share your thoughts, you know where I am.’

He noticed, even in his tired state, that she had not thanked him, had not expressed appreciation for the evening. This was how women behaved now, he told himself. He had little experience of the phenomenon, being cast in an ancient and no doubt false mould of politeness, of smiles and acknowledgments, and dutifully expressed deference towards the masculine gift of largesse. He also noticed that she was utterly unmarked by the evening’s excesses. At least, they felt like excesses to him; to her they must seem little more than an interlude. Inside his flat he knew both alarm and relief, as if he had been caught out in some deception.
Intellectually, he knew, the evening had been indefensible; at certain moments he had been secretly derisive not only of the girl but of himself. Such an evening could not have taken place if Putnam were still alive, or, if it had taken place, would have been put into context by Putnam’s commentary. Putnam had served this useful function, among so many others. He knew that he was not being quite honest with himself: he had been stimulated by the sight of the girl’s appetites (for there had been more than one in evidence) and intrigued by her, as if she were a puzzle sent to beguile him in these bewildering days of leisure, this life so free of incident and adventure. He wanted, he thought, to study her further; that surely was allowed. In bed, in the blessed dark, he thought, she is young! All that this implied, all the longing, all the hurt, all the frustrations of his own youth came flooding back as he remembered her flushed cheeks, her decorated eyes. These were the last images that tempted him before he slid into sleep, her cheeks, her eyes, and her gleaming mouth closing on a morsel of nourishment, her scarlet fingertips guiding it steadily towards extinction.

A
MAZING GRACE’, DRONING OUT OF THE RADIO
by his bed, alerted him to the fact that it was Sunday. He sat up cautiously: not too bad. On the other hand not quite as good as usual, which was only to be expected after his intake of the previous evening. He looked back on the occasion with amazement: what on earth had possessed him to arrange it? At least he had refused to prolong it; that was one thing saved. But perhaps this too was cause for concern, that he had turned down an opportunity to do what any other man would have done, and by his very action, or lack of it, had confirmed his status as cautiously respectable bachelor, near celibate, and hopeless recluse.