on, too.”
“I can actually read by myself.” Sarcasm had been added to his own limited menu lately.
“Sorry,” she said.
At first she really had tried with him: admittedly aunty-ish stuff about whether he was looking forward to going home. “Not really.” And what kind of sports he’d played at school. “None.” But you had to start somewhere. She’d admired the murals on the dining room walls, the beautiful chandeliers, wondered at the songs the pianist played, but now she had just about reached the end of her patience.
“Water?”
“Yes, please, and,” he gave her a look of barely concealed truculence, “a bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé. Waiter!”
She’d offended him on the first night by asking him whether his parents allowed him to drink and he had not forgiven her. “You do realize, don’t you, that I am eighteen years old?” he’d said. Mrs. Bannister had said he was sixteen and he certainly didn’t look any older, but she let this pass. “Not eight. I can’t imagine why my parents thought I needed a chaperone.”
“So what about food?” she said. “Are you ready to order?”
“Not yet.” He disappeared behind his menu.
She buttered a roll; passed the bread; listened to the distant laughter of other diners and the strains of the pianist playing “Clair de Lune.”
This, she thought, is how I imagine it must feel to be really unhappily married. An endless landscape of slowed-down meals you don’t want to have together, a place where talk is an exhausting chore, a form of mental housework.
“Well, I’m going to have a tournedos Rossini,” she said. “Medium rare.”
When it came, she listened to their knives and forks on the plates; watched the waiter take their plates away; looked at the old married couple at the next table who had also eaten in silence.
“It’s Saturday night,” she told him. “They’ve got a band up in the ballroom. They’re supposed to be rather good. Do you feel like going?”
“No, I don’t think so.” He sighed heavily and pursed his lips in a self-conscious way.
“So, is there anything else you’d like to do then?” Oh, she honestly felt like striking him sometimes.
“Just say the word,” she added.
“You Great Sulky,” she said under her breath.
The pudding trolley arrived bearing lemon meringue pies and fruit jellies, an apple soufflé, ice creams, and the Indian julebis, which she found a little sickly.
“More wine, sir?” The wine waiter’s smile was a beam. “We have some very nice Beaumes de Venise to go with the crème anglaise. Madam?”
“Just the lemon meringue for me, thank you.” She drained her wineglass. “I think we’ve had enough.”
“I’ll have a bottle of Beaumes de Venise,” the Great Sulky told the waiter. When he lowered his head and looked at her like that, he reminded her of a young bull about to charge.
“Who is going to pay for this?” she asked him in an angry whisper after the wine waiter had scuttled off.
“My parents,” he said prissily. “Do stop fussing.”
As she watched the Young, chattering and laughing and starting to move upstairs, she felt what a luxury it would be to box him soundly around the ears. The room was half empty now and he was scowling at her again with that look of barely concealed contempt.
“Will both your parents be in Bombay when we get there?” She asked the question quite deliberately, knowing where it might lead.
“I don’t know.” He squinted at somebody beyond her head,in a way that suggested they were far more interesting than she was. And she felt a sudden desire to make him feel something, anything—hurt, embarrassment, a sense that she existed, too.
“My parents won’t be there,” she said.
“Why not?” It was the first question he’d ever asked her.
“My parents and my sister died in India when I was ten. That’s why I came back to England. One of the reasons I’m going back now is to pick up their things. They left some
“I can actually read by myself.” Sarcasm had been added to his own limited menu lately.
“Sorry,” she said.
At first she really had tried with him: admittedly aunty-ish stuff about whether he was looking forward to going home. “Not really.” And what kind of sports he’d played at school. “None.” But you had to start somewhere. She’d admired the murals on the dining room walls, the beautiful chandeliers, wondered at the songs the pianist played, but now she had just about reached the end of her patience.
“Water?”
“Yes, please, and,” he gave her a look of barely concealed truculence, “a bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé. Waiter!”
She’d offended him on the first night by asking him whether his parents allowed him to drink and he had not forgiven her. “You do realize, don’t you, that I am eighteen years old?” he’d said. Mrs. Bannister had said he was sixteen and he certainly didn’t look any older, but she let this pass. “Not eight. I can’t imagine why my parents thought I needed a chaperone.”
“So what about food?” she said. “Are you ready to order?”
“Not yet.” He disappeared behind his menu.
She buttered a roll; passed the bread; listened to the distant laughter of other diners and the strains of the pianist playing “Clair de Lune.”
This, she thought, is how I imagine it must feel to be really unhappily married. An endless landscape of slowed-down meals you don’t want to have together, a place where talk is an exhausting chore, a form of mental housework.
“Well, I’m going to have a tournedos Rossini,” she said. “Medium rare.”
When it came, she listened to their knives and forks on the plates; watched the waiter take their plates away; looked at the old married couple at the next table who had also eaten in silence.
“It’s Saturday night,” she told him. “They’ve got a band up in the ballroom. They’re supposed to be rather good. Do you feel like going?”
“No, I don’t think so.” He sighed heavily and pursed his lips in a self-conscious way.
“So, is there anything else you’d like to do then?” Oh, she honestly felt like striking him sometimes.
“Just say the word,” she added.
“You Great Sulky,” she said under her breath.
The pudding trolley arrived bearing lemon meringue pies and fruit jellies, an apple soufflé, ice creams, and the Indian julebis, which she found a little sickly.
“More wine, sir?” The wine waiter’s smile was a beam. “We have some very nice Beaumes de Venise to go with the crème anglaise. Madam?”
“Just the lemon meringue for me, thank you.” She drained her wineglass. “I think we’ve had enough.”
“I’ll have a bottle of Beaumes de Venise,” the Great Sulky told the waiter. When he lowered his head and looked at her like that, he reminded her of a young bull about to charge.
“Who is going to pay for this?” she asked him in an angry whisper after the wine waiter had scuttled off.
“My parents,” he said prissily. “Do stop fussing.”
As she watched the Young, chattering and laughing and starting to move upstairs, she felt what a luxury it would be to box him soundly around the ears. The room was half empty now and he was scowling at her again with that look of barely concealed contempt.
“Will both your parents be in Bombay when we get there?” She asked the question quite deliberately, knowing where it might lead.
“I don’t know.” He squinted at somebody beyond her head,in a way that suggested they were far more interesting than she was. And she felt a sudden desire to make him feel something, anything—hurt, embarrassment, a sense that she existed, too.
“My parents won’t be there,” she said.
“Why not?” It was the first question he’d ever asked her.
“My parents and my sister died in India when I was ten. That’s why I came back to England. One of the reasons I’m going back now is to pick up their things. They left some
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