Qu’est-ce que vous prenez?
’
Well, of course she didn’t know. She’d never had a cocktail.
‘You choose,’ she said, giving, instead of the radiant smile which used to be a mainstay of her armoury, the mysterious, vulnerable yet glamorous glance which was taking its place. Had she developed it on purpose? Ah – she didn’t have to. All her life Julia had been a beautiful girl, creamy and fresh and delectable. For a while, she could see now, she had been a fading girl, a self-conscious, obsessive creature pining for what she could not have – her youth, her husband.
So now? Now I am an elegant, purged, adult woman. I have suffered and I’m not ashamed of it. I am thin, and a little hard. I am not deluded. I will lie if I need to. I know what’s dead, and I’m no longer in mourning. My husband is a pathetic provincial drunk – well, isn’t he? And I am a free modern woman. The cliché, now, of course, would be to cut all my hair off and take up smoking. That’s what a girl does, nowadays, to show what she is. But I shan’t. I shall keep my beautiful hair. I shall not smoke, I am a woman of mystery, and I have brought three chequebooks. And Peter, wherever he is, probably won’t even notice that I’ve gone.
Julia’s waiter, perceiving that she was probably unused to drink, and considering her strange, unhealthy complexion, kindly chose – as some fresh oranges had come in from Morocco – to offer Madame a mimosa of champagne and orange juice; however, the head waiter, hearing the order and enquiring further, preferred that the oranges be preserved for those who a) specially asked for them and b) were known and valued customers of the hotel, rather than unknown women travelling alone. Madame should have, he suggested, a
blanc-cassis imperiale.
Julia liked it very much. It didn’t go to her head.
I thought cocktails were meant to be dangerous
– but it seemed not to be. She ordered another, and decided to have a lobster omelette, and watch the sun go down. Of her new books (which also included the latest Edna St Vincent Millay collection and a detective novel about a little Belgian), she had decided on the new Edith Wharton: society, marriage, love and scandal in 1870s New York. Well. The setting might be old, but she knew the approach would not be. She would sit in public alone, eating her dinner and reading. She was not lonely. She was not embarrassed. She was happy. And, though she honestly did not realise it, she was, still, waiting.
*
For a while Julia lay low. She slept a lot, and took walks, sheltering her white face from the sun beneath a wide-brimmed hat, and crossing the road when she saw small children.
She knew she was right to leave, and to leave Tom,
but
…
When the little
but
started up, she pictured it as a tiny goblin on her shoulder, whispering to her. She had had goblins all her life. They sat there, fat and squat, telling her perfectly boldly that she was not good enough, she was pathetic, and what
was
she thinking, to imagine she could do this, or that, or the other. Or anything, really.
A giant version of my mother!
she had realised in the end, and taken up a sort of loud singing inside her head to block it out.
Today’s goblin was small, pale and mild. ‘You should be with your child,’ it murmured.
Even though he can’t stand me and everyone knows I’m a terrible mother and I only make things worse for him?
‘You should be with your husband,’ it said.
Even though Peter isn’t even there, and when he is he’s a drunk?
‘What are you if you’re not a wife and mother, and not even a beauty any more?’ the tiny goblin whispered.
I’m a runaway
,
she replied.
I’m a modern woman. I’m a self-sacrifice for their sake. I’m facing my responsibilities by getting out of the way of all those people who know better than me what to do, to help Peter, and Tom … I’m no good. I wish I were. Rose, and Mama … they are, well, they’re better than me, aren’t
’
Well, of course she didn’t know. She’d never had a cocktail.
‘You choose,’ she said, giving, instead of the radiant smile which used to be a mainstay of her armoury, the mysterious, vulnerable yet glamorous glance which was taking its place. Had she developed it on purpose? Ah – she didn’t have to. All her life Julia had been a beautiful girl, creamy and fresh and delectable. For a while, she could see now, she had been a fading girl, a self-conscious, obsessive creature pining for what she could not have – her youth, her husband.
So now? Now I am an elegant, purged, adult woman. I have suffered and I’m not ashamed of it. I am thin, and a little hard. I am not deluded. I will lie if I need to. I know what’s dead, and I’m no longer in mourning. My husband is a pathetic provincial drunk – well, isn’t he? And I am a free modern woman. The cliché, now, of course, would be to cut all my hair off and take up smoking. That’s what a girl does, nowadays, to show what she is. But I shan’t. I shall keep my beautiful hair. I shall not smoke, I am a woman of mystery, and I have brought three chequebooks. And Peter, wherever he is, probably won’t even notice that I’ve gone.
Julia’s waiter, perceiving that she was probably unused to drink, and considering her strange, unhealthy complexion, kindly chose – as some fresh oranges had come in from Morocco – to offer Madame a mimosa of champagne and orange juice; however, the head waiter, hearing the order and enquiring further, preferred that the oranges be preserved for those who a) specially asked for them and b) were known and valued customers of the hotel, rather than unknown women travelling alone. Madame should have, he suggested, a
blanc-cassis imperiale.
Julia liked it very much. It didn’t go to her head.
I thought cocktails were meant to be dangerous
– but it seemed not to be. She ordered another, and decided to have a lobster omelette, and watch the sun go down. Of her new books (which also included the latest Edna St Vincent Millay collection and a detective novel about a little Belgian), she had decided on the new Edith Wharton: society, marriage, love and scandal in 1870s New York. Well. The setting might be old, but she knew the approach would not be. She would sit in public alone, eating her dinner and reading. She was not lonely. She was not embarrassed. She was happy. And, though she honestly did not realise it, she was, still, waiting.
*
For a while Julia lay low. She slept a lot, and took walks, sheltering her white face from the sun beneath a wide-brimmed hat, and crossing the road when she saw small children.
She knew she was right to leave, and to leave Tom,
but
…
When the little
but
started up, she pictured it as a tiny goblin on her shoulder, whispering to her. She had had goblins all her life. They sat there, fat and squat, telling her perfectly boldly that she was not good enough, she was pathetic, and what
was
she thinking, to imagine she could do this, or that, or the other. Or anything, really.
A giant version of my mother!
she had realised in the end, and taken up a sort of loud singing inside her head to block it out.
Today’s goblin was small, pale and mild. ‘You should be with your child,’ it murmured.
Even though he can’t stand me and everyone knows I’m a terrible mother and I only make things worse for him?
‘You should be with your husband,’ it said.
Even though Peter isn’t even there, and when he is he’s a drunk?
‘What are you if you’re not a wife and mother, and not even a beauty any more?’ the tiny goblin whispered.
I’m a runaway
,
she replied.
I’m a modern woman. I’m a self-sacrifice for their sake. I’m facing my responsibilities by getting out of the way of all those people who know better than me what to do, to help Peter, and Tom … I’m no good. I wish I were. Rose, and Mama … they are, well, they’re better than me, aren’t
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