drop out of sight. In a very real sense she loses significance. This had happened in my own case, although my own case was modest compared to Julia’s. I suppose this is why so many women are ambivalent about marriage these days: they are reluctant to give up the independence for which they have worked so hard and which they occasionally feel as a burden. They are not being frivolous: they fear that genuine loss of significance. It is all the harder for them if they have had to postpone their own desires, for these desires dwindle and are experienced as pain. Julia’s case was less harsh, of course, for she already had Charlie, the perfect partner for a woman with a famous presence, and the least self-serving of men. But the higher the achievement the greater the regret. And although I thought that Julia exaggerated her own fame—she never, for example, acknowledged anybody else’s—there was no doubt that she had achieved an enormous visibility. Julia was iconic, featured in
Vogue
, known for her amazing elegance as well as her rather
louche
performances. Her appearance in a restaurant turned heads and subdued conversations. She had the fearlessness of the true aristocrat: her announced intention of becoming middle-class was in fact a jeer at those who already were. Being of more modest condition myself I kept quiet, another little cowardice of mine, but with Julia one had to protect oneself as best one could. She was genuinely devoid of shame. Or of humility. Yet I could see that itpained her to sit at home in Onslow Square, with such a reduced audience. It pained her, but she was resolute. Nowadays she rarely went out.
It pained me too. I felt that we were in a similar situation. I missed my singing days, now long gone, and even looked back wistfully to the time when the boys in the orchestra were so kind to me. And sometimes it was an effort to maintain my appearance. Julia was invaluable on that score. Always immaculate, she kept me up to the mark. She would gaze at me quite impersonally. ‘Shorter hair,’ she would pronounce. ‘And you need a manicure. And you might ask whoever does it if she could come round and do mine. Tell her the morning is my best time. Tell her to telephone about ten-thirty.’ And I would be off on another errand, but one which benefited myself as well as Julia.
It was Julia who had the idea that we should take a holiday together, the four of us. The winter was cruel to her incipient arthritis, and although she rarely went out, her flat, in which she spent so much of her time, was not quite warm enough. Actually I think—indeed I know—that she exaggerated her disability, as she exaggerated everything else. Once I saw her take a jar of marmalade that Maureen had been trying to open and give the lid a sharp wrench. ‘Why, Julia!’ I made the mistake of saying. ‘Your hands!’ She looked at me impassively, under the eyelids. ‘I just fancied a little piece of bread and marmalade,’ she said. ‘But it doesn’t matter. I’ll go without. You can take that away now,’ she said to Maureen, waving away the plate she had brought in. ‘I’ll have it later.’ She also exaggerated the fact that she never went out. She would sometimes go out to take one of her many defunct clocks and watches to the jeweller’s near South Kensington station, but these occasions were occasions for getting into character. She wouldtake a wicker basket, like a milkmaid going to market, which she thought appropriate for the environs of the Fulham Road, and smile prettily at passers-by. The basket was always empty. She never seemed to have time to buy the more humble commodities on which a household runs. Members of her entourage—Charlie, Maureen, myself—would be used for this purpose.
She deplored the cold, which she said made her hands ache, but in fact she was antagonistic to most forms of weather. She liked the artificial climate of her dressing-room rather than anything more natural or more
Vogue
, known for her amazing elegance as well as her rather
louche
performances. Her appearance in a restaurant turned heads and subdued conversations. She had the fearlessness of the true aristocrat: her announced intention of becoming middle-class was in fact a jeer at those who already were. Being of more modest condition myself I kept quiet, another little cowardice of mine, but with Julia one had to protect oneself as best one could. She was genuinely devoid of shame. Or of humility. Yet I could see that itpained her to sit at home in Onslow Square, with such a reduced audience. It pained her, but she was resolute. Nowadays she rarely went out.
It pained me too. I felt that we were in a similar situation. I missed my singing days, now long gone, and even looked back wistfully to the time when the boys in the orchestra were so kind to me. And sometimes it was an effort to maintain my appearance. Julia was invaluable on that score. Always immaculate, she kept me up to the mark. She would gaze at me quite impersonally. ‘Shorter hair,’ she would pronounce. ‘And you need a manicure. And you might ask whoever does it if she could come round and do mine. Tell her the morning is my best time. Tell her to telephone about ten-thirty.’ And I would be off on another errand, but one which benefited myself as well as Julia.
It was Julia who had the idea that we should take a holiday together, the four of us. The winter was cruel to her incipient arthritis, and although she rarely went out, her flat, in which she spent so much of her time, was not quite warm enough. Actually I think—indeed I know—that she exaggerated her disability, as she exaggerated everything else. Once I saw her take a jar of marmalade that Maureen had been trying to open and give the lid a sharp wrench. ‘Why, Julia!’ I made the mistake of saying. ‘Your hands!’ She looked at me impassively, under the eyelids. ‘I just fancied a little piece of bread and marmalade,’ she said. ‘But it doesn’t matter. I’ll go without. You can take that away now,’ she said to Maureen, waving away the plate she had brought in. ‘I’ll have it later.’ She also exaggerated the fact that she never went out. She would sometimes go out to take one of her many defunct clocks and watches to the jeweller’s near South Kensington station, but these occasions were occasions for getting into character. She wouldtake a wicker basket, like a milkmaid going to market, which she thought appropriate for the environs of the Fulham Road, and smile prettily at passers-by. The basket was always empty. She never seemed to have time to buy the more humble commodities on which a household runs. Members of her entourage—Charlie, Maureen, myself—would be used for this purpose.
She deplored the cold, which she said made her hands ache, but in fact she was antagonistic to most forms of weather. She liked the artificial climate of her dressing-room rather than anything more natural or more
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