The Paying Guests(41)
Was that what Frances had done?
She watched Lilian close the vanity case, and drew a breath. ‘Lilian. What I told you, just now —’
Lilian snapped the latch shut. ‘It’s quite all right.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you won’t mention it to anyone?’
‘Of course not.’
‘And you won’t – you won’t brood on it? I should hate it to come between us, now that we’ve become friends.’
At that, Lilian smiled and made a gesture, an airy movement with her hand. It was an attempt, perhaps, at sophistication, as if to say that women made sapphic disclosures to her – oh, every other day.
But the gesture was unconvincing, the smile rigid, confined to the mouth. And after a few more minutes of uncomfortable chat, the two of them parted. Frances went around the landing to her bedroom, to stare at her reflection in dismay. Her confidence in the haircut was gone. It seemed to have all the wrongness of the afternoon in it. She kept fingering her naked neck, feeling exposed.
And then – since it had to be done, and might as well be done right away – she screwed up her courage and went downstairs.
She opened the drawing-room door softly, in case her mother should still be dozing. But she was awake – at the bureau now, addressing an envelope. She looked at Frances over her spectacles, and it must have taken her eyes a moment to refocus. When they did, she lowered her pen, removed the glasses, and said, ‘Good gracious!’
‘Yes,’ said Frances, with an attempt at a laugh, ‘I’m afraid I allowed Lilian to twist my arm.’
‘Mrs Barber did this? I hadn’t an idea she was so talented. Come closer, into the light. Oh, but it’s charming, Frances.’
Frances stared at her. ‘You think so?’
‘Very smart. Turn around, let me see. Yes, very up-to-the-minute!’
‘I felt sure you wouldn’t like it.’
‘Why would you think that? It’s a treat to see you making the best of yourself. I wish you would do it more often.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well —’ Her mother flushed. ‘You can sometimes look a little slipshod as you go about the house; that’s all I meant. I don’t mind for myself, I’m simply thinking about callers. But this – No, it’s very smart.’
Her words caught Frances off guard. Coming so closely on the heels of the awkwardness with Lilian, they left her, absurdly, back on the brink of tears. She crossed to the hearth and stood at the mantel-glass, pretending to pat and tweak the new haircut. Idiot! Idiot! she said to herself, pushing the feelings down again.
When she left the room she remained in the hall for a minute, uncertain. And once she had climbed the stairs she hesitated at the top. Surely Lilian would come, if only to ask what her mother had made of her?
But though the door of the little kitchen was ajar, and there were sounds of activity beyond it, Lilian did not appear.
5
The hair held its wave for the rest of that day, but when Frances rose the next morning she looked, she thought, like someone from a mental ward, one half of the hair squashed flat where she had lain on it, the other half frizzed and bushy, impossible to comb. She didn’t know what to do with it, so she ran herself a bath and ducked her head right under; after that the waves disappeared altogether and the hair dried oddly.
Her mother, looking her over, was distinctly less enthusiastic than she had been the day before.
‘Why not ask Mrs Barber to put you tidy? She did such a splendid job in the first place.’
But when Frances did seek out Lilian, there was more of that wrongness between them. She showed Frances how to dress the hair so that it fell into loose waves of its own – standing behind her at her bedroom mirror, rearranging the locks with her fingertips. But her gaze, in the glass, seemed always to be in the process of sliding away, and her pose was a cautious one, as if she were reaching into a thicket, trying to avoid being snagged by thorns. Her manner made Frances feel sad. She had the sense that with her confession she had wrecked their friendship, thrown it away. And for what? For honesty. For principle. For the sake of a love-affair that in any case had already had the life pressed out of it, years before.
The hair continued to look peculiar to her in the days that followed, but she received so many compliments, from her mother’s friends and from neighbours, that she supposed it must be all right. Mr Barber went about the house whistling ‘A Little Bit off the Top’ – which she took to be a tribute, of sorts. And Christina, when she saw her, said, in a faintly put-out tone, ‘Yes, well, not bad, though it’s a pity it shows up that great lantern jaw of yours,’ which she took to be another. Even the boy who brought the meat looked at her in a new way. Everyone admired her, it seemed; everyone save Lilian. It was just as though, with a clash of its gears, their accelerated friendship had suddenly gone into reverse. For nearly a week they met only as landlady and lodger, on the stairs, on the landing, one of them heading out of the front door as the other crossed the hall. In Anna Karenina, Kitty was expecting her baby, Anna and Vronsky were wretched, disaster was on its way. But there were no more literary discussions, no more picnics in the park, no more cigarettes on the back step; and no further mentions of Netta’s party.