Undue Influence by Anita Brookner Read Free Book Online Page B

more than the fact that the wife lay in a large bed, or rather lay back against a multitude of pillows, with manicure implements on a small tray on her knees. I had an impression of blondeness, of a round face, of anxious eyes. She was immaculately made up, and did not look in the least ill, yet when she spoke her voice was hoarse, and the hand she held out to me, and which I took, was hot and moist. She was wearing some sort of peignoir, coral pink, with a certain amount of lace, and she smelt of the kind of scent which should be reserved for decisive women executives looking forward to a career in the boardroom. I imagined, though I could hardly turn round and look, a whole armoury of such scents, indulgences brought to the sickroom by the devoted husband who would naturally be at a loss in such a situation and who would seek the advice of the sales assistants behind the beauty counter. My mother had never used more than a simple cologne. But this was no time to think of my mother.
    ‘How do you do?’ I said. ‘Claire Pitt. I brought your husband’s book. I didn’t mean to disturb you.’
    ‘My dear,’ said the hoarse voice. ‘If you only knew how eager I am to see new faces. My life, as you can see,’ she gestured around the room, upsetting the tray with the manicure instruments which her husband bent eagerly to retrieve, ‘is confined to this one room now.’
    ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said.
    ‘Of course Martin could have collected the book,’ she said sharply. ‘He is quite free in the daytime. In fact I make him goout; I know he likes to walk. I insist that he does so, though I suspect he doesn’t always enjoy it.’ She flashed him a smile which revealed another, earlier woman, mischievous, not entirely kind. She would have been lovely, I reckoned. She was still good-looking in a ruined way, although I was touched to see that her cheeks had taken on a little colour since I had entered the room. Her hand still held mine, as if to prevent me from leaving.
    ‘Who looks after you in the daytime?’ I asked, since it was clear to me that she had no interest in myself.
    ‘Oh, Sue is here in the daytime,’ was the reply.
    ‘Your daughter?’
    She laughed. ‘Did you hear that, Martin?’ she said. Her tone was not quite friendly.
    ‘The nurse,’ said Martin Gibson, not registering the implied insult. At least I thought it was an insult. If these people did not sleep together that was hardly the husband’s fault. Nor was it entirely hers. She did seem ill; the heat of her hand was disagreeable. Yet it would have been rude to have disengaged my own. My eyes strayed to the bedside table, on which stood a flowered china candlestick, and a photograph, in an Art Nouveau silver frame, of a white Scotch terrier sitting in a basket. Her eyes followed mine, and she smiled slightly, as if she had discerned my curiosity but was not disposed to satisfy it. ‘Yes, my poor dog had to go,’ she said. ‘Along with all the rest.’
    ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said again, since this seemed to be expected of me. ‘If there’s anything I can do …’ I still do not know why I said this.
    ‘Of course, it broke my heart when Martin had to give up his teaching,’ she went on.
    ‘Oh?’ I looked at him inquiringly, but he seemed resigned to being a mere attendant.
    ‘European literature, at that place in Hampstead. What was it called, darling? I can never remember.’
    ‘But that must have been terrible for you,’ I said, turning to him.
    ‘It was,’ said his wife. ‘And for me too. His students used to love to come and talk to me. If they had a little problem it helped them to confide, you know.’
    I reflected that she might enjoy other people’s problems, particularly those of young people who are still tender enough to trust. No doubt she had designs on whatever problems I might have. As if in answer to this the hot hand grasped mine even more tightly. I felt a slight desire to escape.
    ‘Yes, the secrets I’ve