A Private View by Anita Brookner Read Free Book Online Page A

this in the split second of lucid dreaming—had seemed flimsy, meretricious, unconvincing, as if his slow steady rise to affluence had been an error, as if no happiness could ever come of it. With Louise he would have lived differently, he knew, possibly in just such a street, in a substantial but unpretentious house, in which the rituals of tea-time would have been honoured and all the neighbours known. Here he knew virtually no one: he sometimes wondered whether he could even tolerate this flat, which would have seemed to him unimaginably perfect in those early sore-spirited days. It is not home, he thought, staring into the darkness of theroom: it does not comfort me, holds no warmth of memory. Not that memory, these days, was in any way propitious. If he had any spirit he would leave it until in the passage of time it lost some of its negative associations. He could go away again, not precipitately, but in a more deliberate fashion, could travel like a gentleman. And perhaps at the end of such journeying he would find, or make, another home, a real home. The image was becalmed but unnerving, as the dream had been. The emptiness, the silence! He registered the fact that although the effect had been peaceful it was a feeling of alarm that had woken him.
    For this reason the doorbell, when it rang again, was almost welcome, although he wished he were in a better condition to answer it. Stumbling into his shoes, aware of his dishevelled state, he limped down the corridor, switching on the lights as he went. On the landing, and waiting patiently, stood Katy Gibb, looking considerably more amenable than when she had first appeared earlier that day. She had shed her jacket and trainers: indeed her feet were bare, and he had time to notice how beautiful they were, slim, white, and unmarked. He remembered her hand in his, and the agreeable impression that had made. Her cheeks were now a healthy pink; her pale rather small eyes regarded him in a manner which conveyed both shyness and frankness. The only odd thing about her appearance, apart from her feet, was the fact that her hair was streaming wet.
    ‘Hallo,’ he said. ‘Are you feeling better?’ Though I am the one who feels ill, he thought.
    ‘I came to thank you,’ she replied, ‘for being so kind to me this morning, and to ask if you could lend me some tea. There doesn’t seem to be any in the flat.’
    ‘The shops are probably still open,’ he said.
    ‘Oh, it’s hardly worth going out now. And besides, my hair’s wet.’
    Conscious that he was not at his best, he was not anxious to ask her in, but as he turned towards the kitchen she quite naturally followed him.
    ‘This is a nice flat,’ she said. ‘Do you live here alone?’
    ‘Yes, I do,’ he replied, rather shortly. ‘Here’s your tea.’ He noticed that it was his last packet. He would have to do some serious shopping in the morning; it was, as she had said, too late to bother with now, and in any case he wanted to wash and change, feeling shabby after his long sleep.
    ‘Thank you so much. And I was wondering, is there anywhere to eat round here? I’m not very domesticated, I’m afraid. Could you put me in the picture? I don’t want to be a nuisance, or anything. Only all my friends seem to be away for the weekend.’
    This could have been put more tactfully, he thought. But he was ashamed of his ruffled temper, which he feared may have been apparent to her, and conscious of the waif-like picture she made, with her bare feet and her wet hair.
    ‘Why don’t I give you dinner?’ he said. ‘We’ll ask Mrs Lydiard to join us, and you can tell us all about yourself.’
    ‘Lovely,’ she said, all but clapping her hands. Don’t overdo it, he thought, and smiled sourly at his own crabbed reaction. At the same time he felt a vague disquiet that he had descended the slope to misanthropy so quickly—he thought of it as misanthropy rather than misogyny, for he desired to see no one at all on this