A Closed Eye by Anita Brookner Page A

Harriet saw, Tessa had decided to be airy, inconsequential, self-indulgent. She had the strange satisfaction of being publicly acknowledged as her husband’s wife, and with the solid conviction of her class was beginning to consider herself something of an asset, as if she and Jack had married on an equal footing, as if she had never confessed her unhappiness. She avoided the truth of her imperfect condition these days, berated herself smilingly for being depressed, or, more usually, ‘quite angry’. This anger of hers, always referred to with an air of complaisance, she thought an advantageous quality, heroic almost, something that did her credit. ‘I’m beginning to feel my anger,’ she might say to Harriet, who, in passing, was quite glad that Freddie was not at home to hear this. The anger was always referred to with the sort of smile a therapist might have worn, a steady, patient, professional smile. And there was pleasure in it, as well. The anger would rebuild Tessa’s self-esteem. And while it went about its essential work—a long task, for that self-esteem had never previously faltered—it received a certain amount of help in the form of new clothes, beauty treatments, and, tentatively at first, the attentions of other men.
    These days, after leaving Lizzie at Wellington Square, Tessa would take herself off to renew ‘contacts’, high-spirited women like herself, for whom she had worked energetically but for brief periods before she was married. Thus, for three months she had been an expensive florist; for six months had helped Pamela cook directors’ lunches; for a year had worked for Angie, the interior decorator. Angie was her most substantial contact, although nothing seemed to come of these meetings. Perhaps Tessa simply liked going into Angie’s overstuffed little shop (‘blowing in’, was how they both put it) and pretending to be working there without actually having to do any work. Perhaps she found it an ideal way to fill in the morning and see a few people, before embarking on the most important matter of the day, which was lunch, in a good restaurant, or a hotel dining-room, the sort of place where businessmen forgathered and where she might find just such a man on his own. Hotels were better for this, although she preferred the more fashionable kind of restaurant.
    She attracted attention because she looked purposeful, and also unafraid. She had regained her major asset, her lean long-legged figure, and was now well dressed, her hair groomed. Occasionally there was what she considered to be a permitted distraction in the afternoon. She was discreet, although it did not matter much to her whether she was discreet or not, but her partners preferred it. For herself, she rather hoped that Jack might get to hear of her conduct and become furiously possessive. This was the whole point of her manœuvres. It was difficult to tell whether she enjoyed them or not. Certainly the attention (and the champagne, which was obligatory on these occasions) keyed her up, brought colour to her cheeks, made her a little self-conscious, so that when she arrived at Wellington Square to pick up Lizzie (whom she had entirely forgotten: thank God for Harriet) she would sometimes be quite self-absorbed, mock-ashamed, inclinedto take long exaggerated breaths, raise her eyebrows, roll her eyes, as if to say, yes, I dare say this is scandalous behaviour, but you see I am acting out my anger. I am making my anger
work
for me. And anyway, Jack can hardly expect me to sit here like patience on a monument, can he? I have a pretty good idea what
he’s
up to. Israeli women can be quite attractive, I hear. Anyway,
he’s
not particular. In this way she set Jack up as an enemy, to suit her own purposes. As if in recognition of the hopelessness of the task (to make Jack come back and be a good husband and father and settle down and let the parents find him something suitable to do) she lavished more attention (and less thought)