Brief Lives by Anita Brookner Read Free Book Online

didn’t you?’ Old Jack was one of the first property tycoons, and Molly, his third wife, was his junior by twenty-six years. When Owen had brought them to the house for the firsttime she had struck me as rather drunk, and I had taken her upstairs to tidy up, at her own request. Once in my bedroom she had become tearful, and told me that her life was not as easy as it looked. Downstairs again she placed a loaded hand on Jack’s thigh, squeezed it, and said, ‘She has the most darling bed.’ She made it sound like a cot. ‘Take a look at it before you leave. Jack loves beds,’ she told us, with a trouperish but still tearful smile. ‘All kinds. All the time.’ Jack, to his credit, remained impassive throughout this announcement. I did not think that Molly was in for a very long run.
    Although these people were strangers to me, and although Owen’s appreciation of them appeared misplaced, what really frightened me was the fact that his work had become the centre of his affectivity. His entire emotional life seemed to consist of an enthusiasm for people, for places, even for activities far removed from the home I had tried to make for him, far, too, from my own settled expectations. In this he was ahead of his time. Having lived so much longer than he was able to do I now see young men, and young women too, whose working lives represent and contain all their aspirations, their desires, almost. Nowadays I read that in New York work has replaced love as the highest priority. I also read that the women who make what they call a commitment to their careers are likely to confess to being lonely and desolate and to lament the shortage of men. Given this fact, of course, men in the same position are not likely to lament the shortage of women, but they will tend to treat them differently. Owen’s behaviour towards me became perfunctory, as I suppose it always does when a man’s work is more important than his wife’s peace of mind. Orders would be given for the week’s entertaining, telephone calls would be made and received all thetime, when we were eating, frequently when we were in bed, and love became purely functional. The strangest thing was that this kept him perfectly happy. The house ran smoothly, I offered no objection to his way of life, I was docile and malleable still, but best of all, from his point of view, there was no longer any real intimacy between us. Intimacy, I see now, was what he feared the most; intimacy made him uneasy, as if he had forfeited or lost part of himself in the process, as if it had made him vulnerable to criticism, to attack. I had seen his face after I had once, in the early days, prevailed on him to love me; it was fretful, pained, resentful. All this I saw in one terrible moment, as he turned away from me. He sat on the edge of the bed, naked, his clasped hands hanging between his knees. Poor Tom’s a-cold, I thought. I was so frightened then that I vowed I would keep my distance. For that was what he wanted, and I still loved him enough to try to please him.
    Vinnie would turn up from time to time, and say, ‘And how’s that naughty boy of mine?’ She almost never asked me the same question. I remember on one occasion I had put a careful casserole of chicken and peppers on the kitchen table to cool and she began to dip into it with a teaspoon. The teaspoon was supposed to indicate that she was not really interested in eating it, but had merely come into the kitchen to keep me company, since that was where I inexplicably chose to spend my time. I remember reacting rather sharply. ‘Please, Vinnie! That casserole is for this evening!’ She looked surprised and annoyed; I had never scolded her before. ‘I was only tasting it,’ she protested. ‘But you keep using the spoon,’ I said. ‘And it’s got your lipstick on it.’ I felt the tears of exasperation and hopelessness rising to my eyes, took the spoon, and dropped it in the sink. She immediately lit a cigarette, and