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 indeedsomething 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 ownbusiness. 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
‘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 indeedsomething 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 ownbusiness. 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
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