Altered States (6 page)

‘A friend?’

‘A young man. Janek. I don’t blame her. I’d have done the same thing myself.’

‘So that’s where the poverty came from. And living in a hotel. What did they do?’

‘They were enterprising. They got jobs in one of the big cafés. He played the piano and she was a waitress. Then he got tired of it and said he wanted to see the Riviera, so they both went to Nice for a bit and did the same thing there. Then they parted company and she returned to Paris.’

‘And were there other friends along the way?’

‘Perhaps. Again I don’t blame her. And she doesn’t blame herself. I admire her for that. She makes no apologies for her past, but she doesn’t turn it into a fairy story either. And latterly she was completely respectable. She got a job as an assistant at the Librairie Polonaise, in the Boulevard Saint-Germain, and that’s where she met Humphrey, you see; she was treating herself to a coffee after work at the Deux Magots, and there he was. That’s how they met.’

‘Why are her feet so ugly?’

‘Oh, that
is
sad. When she was first in Paris she was very impressed by the glamour of the women, and she saved up for ages for something new to wear. She wanted high-heeled shoes, and one evening Janek presented her with a pair. Only they were too small. She wore them anyway, so as not to hurt him, with the result that her poor feet were pushed out of shape. She may even have broken a couple of bones, with the result that you see. But now at least she can rest: she doesn’t have to be on her feet all the time.’

‘And you really enjoy these afternoons out?’

‘I do, although I can see that you don’t quite believe me. She’s a very good companion; she’s cheerful and affectionate and undemanding. A very loving person. I can see it’s a novelty for her to have a bit of money to spend. She adores going round the shops, particularly Selfridges, and you know, Alan, it quite amuses me. I rather like being frivolous with her. It’s quite a salutary lesson for me to see her appreciating the good things in life. I’m afraid I’ve taken them too much for granted.’

‘And you have afternoon tea.’

‘She always insists on treating me, though I’d rather be at home by that time. She enjoys being waited on, you see.’

What I could see was Jenny’s face shining with pleasure as she contemplated a plate of hotel cakes. I assumed she was greedy, but this may not have been the case. As my mother said, she may simply have enjoyed being waited on, a legitimate pleasure after those early years of waiting on others.

‘And are they happy? After all, Humphrey’s a respectable sort of bloke, very little experience of women …’

‘They are very happy—you saw that for yourself. She’s grateful to him, she respects him, in fact she idolizes him, and why not? He rescued her from the Librairie Polonaise and the Hôtel du Départ …’

‘I’ve passed it. Yes, he rescued her from that all right, though it’s a perfectly reasonable place.’ I forbore to tell my mother that I had once gone there with a girl, between trains. Only an accident of our respective histories had prevented Jenny and myself from coinciding there.

‘ … and she says he’s given her a family.’

‘What, Sybil and Marjorie? I can’t see those two striking up a friendship.’

‘Well, no, not Sybil and Marjorie, though they’ve behaved better than might have been expected. No, she means Sarah.’

Carefully I balanced the last of my cheese on a corner of biscuit. ‘What about Sarah?’ I said.

‘She loves the girl. She told me that Sarah was the daughter she never had. And the worst of it is that Sarah can’t stand her. Humphrey is quite a wealthy man, you know, and Sarah is his favourite niece, his only niece, in fact. Before his marriage Sarah stood to inherit a decent sum of money. Not that she’s a poor girl; she has her own father’s share from the sale of the business. Humphrey has been more than fair. And I’m sure he’s made provision for her, even now.’

‘Is it just the money?’

‘No.’ My mother sighed. ‘She’s an odd girl, irresponsible, quite spiteful sometimes. Of course Sybil was always odd. But Sarah seems unconcerned about hurting others. She was rude to Jenny when they first met, and she never returns her telephone calls. And poor Jenny telephones her all the time. She asked for your number, by the way.’

‘Jenny?’

‘No, Sarah.’

‘You gave it to her?’

‘I gave her the office number. I hope that was all right?’

I swallowed my disappointment. ‘Of course. She may want my advice. She said she was thinking of selling the house.’

‘The house is not hers to sell. But perhaps she’s discussed this with Sybil. Although I’m sure Sybil would have consulted me—you know how she is.’

‘As far as you know she’s still in Parsons Green?’

I could not bring myself to ask my mother further questions. If there were to be anything between Sarah and myself it would be better if my mother knew nothing about it. Again, this stealth should have been a warning to me.

‘As far as I know, though I believe she spends a lot of time with that friend of hers in Paris. Berthe. You met her.’

‘She doesn’t work, then, Sarah?’

‘She sometimes cooks for private dinner parties. She’s quite a good cook, I understand. But no, I don’t think she has a regular job. Not like you, dear, not now. How are you enjoying it?’

We discussed the office, as I knew she wanted to, until, with a happy sigh, she said, ‘This has been a lovely evening. Thank you so much, Alan. You’re a good son. I’ve always wanted to tell you that, and now I have. I must be tipsy.’ She laughed, she who had never been tipsy in her life.

‘I’ll take you home,’ I said.

‘Are you going to walk back?’

‘Yes, I rather like the park at night. It’s only just after ten-thirty, not late.’

‘Be careful dear.’ If her look was particularly searching I was unaware of it, for I had already turned away.

In those days I would walk across the park quite late, sometimes just before it shut, at midnight. On this particular evening I strode out as if I were being pursued, although it was a fine evening, clearer than the day had been, all those hours ago, before my decision had been revealed to me. I am ashamed to say that I allowed myself this romantic thought, though I am hardly romantic by nature, being of a philosophical and, I like to think, stoical disposition. I had persuaded myself that the time for levity was past: in this I was right. Having acquired something of a hereditary position I thought it incumbent on me to behave in a fairly grave manner. Yet on this particular evening I could hardly wait to get home to make that crucial telephone call, the one needed to set things in train. Everything depended on it. Once the connection was made I could take care of the rest.

In the flat I threw my coat onto a chair and looked up Bertram Miller in the directory. When I dialled my fingers were actually shaking. ‘The number you require is no longer
available,’ sang a voice. ‘The number you require is no longer …’ I dialled Directory Enquiries. ‘Bertram Miller,’ I said firmly. ‘Fifty-eight Bredwardine Road.’ There was silence. I was about to replace the receiver and try again when another voice said, ‘That number is now ex-Directory.’

‘I’m an old friend,’ I pleaded. ‘I’ve just got back from abroad.’

‘I’m sorry. I’m not allowed to give out ex-Directory numbers. Do you require another service?’

‘No. Thank you.’

I went to bed, but not to sleep. By the morning I had that somewhat haggard brightness that is the legacy of a sleepless night. In the office I told the girls that if a Miss Miller telephoned she was to be put straight through. After all, she had my number, I reasoned: she must have wanted it for a purpose. Then, unable to work, I told the girls that I was going out for half an hour, that I would ring back anyone who left a number, but that I had to have a number. They must have thought I was behaving oddly: they always took messages correctly, and never failed to note down contact numbers. I walked back to Wigmore Street and to a coffee bar where I sometimes had breakfast. I remembered that I had eaten nothing that morning. After tea and toast I suddenly felt tired, as if I might pass out. I roused myself and ran back to the office. There were no messages.

Oddly enough this did not depress me. Nor was I depressed throughout the whole of the next two weeks. I waited expectantly, but in a sort of dream; if nothing happened it simply meant that the delicious moment of contact was still in the future, something to look forward to. By the third week my mood changed, became more bleak. If nothing happened it was because nothing would happen. There was no contact. There never would be.

On the Wednesday of the fourth week I got back from
lunching with a client to find Sarah in the room shared by Telfer and Mrs Roche. There was a pungent smell of nail polish in the air: she was painting her nails. Avoiding Mrs Roche’s eye I invited her into my office. She picked up her bottle, and with her fingers spread wide wriggled past me through the door. I smelt a heavy scent, something by Guerlain, I thought, and the waxy, more aromatic odour of her hair. I was worried that I might be too confused to speak. However, when I did I was entirely in character.

‘How can I be of help?’ I said.

Even then I could probably see that it was hopeless. I seemed to have to exert phenomenal psychological pressure, along the order of mesmerism, to induce her to meet my eye, since she was intent on her nails, testing them to see if they were dry, and when they were, examining them carefully, turning her hands this way and that. I wondered why she could not have completed this task at home, before she came out, but that was to misunderstand Sarah from the start. I had known her intermittently, as a distant relative, all my life, but not in the intuitive fashion to which I now had access. I could see that time and occasion would mean nothing to her: whatever she wanted to do she would do, regardless of where she was, or who was with her. And she would be so intent on what she did that reproaches would either be useless or out of order. This was one of her versions of her mother’s fabled oddness, though in contrast to Sybil’s eager anticipation of old age and decrepitude Sarah would live entirely in an eternal present. Her main characteristic was the kind of primal innocence enjoyed by children, except that allied to this innocence—of time, of her effect on others—was an extremely alert sense of her own importance. The psychopathology of this combination was unusual. Since that meeting in my office I have seen her enter a room full of people and fail to greet any of them, secure in the
knowledge that sooner or later they would drift over to her and greet her of their own volition, drawn by her infinitely magnetic presence. By the same token she would sometimes laugh in solemn company, for example if an extremely serious matter were under discussion, simply because too little attention was being paid to her. She was not stupid, not by any means. She knew herself to be unusual and desirable, and most of the time she would be restless and bored. She probably expected the world to attend to her needs, which would not fail to be quite specific. And, more important, she would be deficient in the ability to link cause and effect, or to think in any but the most immediate terms.

Naturally I could confirm nothing of this at the time, though I think I sensed it. While Sarah was examining her nails I felt that intimation of longing and frustration that results from an inability, almost an incapacity, to capture the attention of someone who has suddenly assumed a vital and overwhelming importance. I waited patiently, my gaze no doubt beamed on her like a searchlight, until she finally decided that her nails were in a satisfactory condition. Then she rearranged her heavy mane of hair, opened her bag, and removed a piece of paper.

‘I need a lease,’ she explained, or failed to explain, handing over the paper, on which was scrawled the name of another solicitor, one whom I had met in the course of business. ‘I’ve sold the house and bought this flat.’

‘Your mother was agreeable to this?’

She shrugged. ‘Haven’t the faintest. I couldn’t go on living out there, could I? Anyway, I need to be in town. This’ll do for the time being.’

‘And where is this flat? I presume you’ve already exchanged contracts? And sold the house?’

‘Of course. I don’t waste time. I never waste time.’

This statement, coming from one who thought it acceptable
to waste others’ time, should also have given me pause, yet at that moment, and indeed afterwards, I had to admire the sheer consistency of her extremely inconsistent nature. She was unpredictable, yet she could also be relied upon to be unpredictable. In this way she need never take the blame, particularly for those unexplained absences which were her stock in trade. The effect was of an endlessly delayed climax, and I use the image advisedly, for it was this particular characteristic that made her so fascinating to men. This too I could see at the time; time was also to prove me correct. When bored, as she obviously was now, her looks would fade, as if a light had gone out. One would then be on one’s mettle to amuse her, to spoil her, and, yes, I must repeat this, to capture her attention. She was a woman destined to beguile men, yet most of them would leave her indifferent. She had the imperviousness of an alien, while all the time trailing evidence of her powers of seduction, which were considerable. I was not in the least surprised when the door of my office opened and Brian came in, intrigued no doubt by Mrs Roche’s indignant comments.

‘Hello!’ he said. ‘How nice to see you again! Alan looking after you, is he?’

To my despair she brightened, but, I reasoned, only because something was happening, as opposed to the nothing signified by my steady attention.

‘I’ve bought this flat,’ she said, turning to him. ‘Paddington Street.’

‘That’s quite near where I live,’ I said. ‘In Wigmore Street. We shall almost be neighbours.’ I wanted to ask her out to dinner, but I was not going to do so with Brian in the room. What a pity we had all had lunch, I reflected, otherwise Brian would certainly have extended his usual invitation.

‘If you could just take care of it for me,’ she said, suddenly switching her gaze to mine. I watched her, fascinated, as she
warmed into luminous life, having decided that she had ignored me sufficiently for my own good. She moistened her lips, and seemed to will brightness into her eyes and colour into her cheeks. The effect was dazzling, and also unsettling, indications of a volatility which she nevertheless had under perfect control. She was like the weather in a mountain region, like the weather in this little town of Vif, a heavy mist descending out of nowhere, a fitful sun giving way to soaking rain.