‘If a man is eating alone,’ he said, ‘and he complains about something or other he gets good treatment. But if he dines with a woman he doesn’t because the waiter’s back goes up, since he thinks he’s only trying to impress the woman. Even if the man is justified in his complaints the waiter thinks he should show solidarity with the male sex and not mention them, especially in front of a woman. You can’t win. They’ve got the class war in one eye and the sex war in the other. If I had my way there’d be nothing but counters where you had to go up and get your own.’
‘How perfectly horrible,’ she said. ‘I’d never eat out.’
‘You could bring a maid,’ he suggested, ‘and she’d queue for you.’
Had he really done the paintings she so much admired? It was like having lunch with your chauffeur simply because he was a good driver. And yet, not quite. This might turn out more interesting. ‘Tell me about your life,’ she said when half a melon, big enough to float away on across the blue lagoon, had been set before them. ‘How did you become a painter?’
‘My life’s simple,’ he replied. ‘Always will be, I hope. After prep school, Eton and Oxford, I got a commission in the Brigade of Guards. Fought in France, back through Dunkirk, went to Egypt and got wounded — though not in the groin. I rejoined my battalion and went to Italy, wounded again, invalided out, nothing to do except draw my pension and paint pictures.’
She laughed. ‘That’s not what you told the newspapers.’
‘You’ve got to make up a good story,’ he said, pushing his melon aside because it tasted like marrow. ‘Uncle Toby would disown me if I didn’t. I love you. But you must forgive me — not for saying that, because I can’t imagine anyone not coming out with it — but for being so blunt and common. I can’t make pretty speeches. I paint, not talk. I’ve never been good at weaving snares of words around women. If I’m so tongue-tied that I can only say “I love you”, you’ll have to forgive me.’
It seemed impossible to get through to him. There must be a gap in his armour somewhere. He knew she was thinking this, and saw that if he kept up his rigmarole long enough she might come to bed with him. ‘Do you paint all the time?’
‘Every minute God sends.’
‘Don’t you get bored?’
‘I love you, Daphne.’
‘Don’t you get bored with that?’ He was too impertinent to be her chauffeur.
‘Let’s go to Paris for a couple of days.’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Venice, then.’
It was ludicrous. She laughed. He rubbed his hands under the table. Wiping them on the cloth, she thought, pointing to the napkin. He drew it across his moustache.
‘You haven’t got your passport,’ she said.
He took it out of his pocket. ‘I never leave the house unless it’s on me — even if only to the pub for a packet of fags — in case I decide not to go back. I always do, though. You only vanish when all the ends will be left hanging.’
‘You’re a very destructive person.’
‘Not really. To myself maybe.’
‘You make my blood run cold,’ she mocked.
‘Here’s the horsemeat,’ he said, glad to end such a note.
For a thin woman she showed great appetite, and if he kept up with her it was only to get his money’s worth, and because he’d left home with no more than half a grapefruit and a thimble of black coffee under his belt.
He filled her empty glass close to the brim, hoping she’d bend her lips to the table to sip it, so that he could look down her dress. But he’d underestimated her dexterity, for she lifted it easily without spilling a drop.
He apologised: ‘I’m no good at serving people.’
‘You’d never make a waiter,’ she smiled. ‘When did you last go to the mainland?’
‘Fortnight ago. Got so bored with my community I lit off in the car. Drove five hundred kilometres to this posh hotel south of Paris. Cost fifty francs for a room and bath. Same again for something to eat. I got sloshed over dinner, so daren’t use the bath I’d paid for in case I drowned. I climbed into bed with my boots on to make up for it. After all, fifty francs is four quid. I really do love you.’
She jumped, though not, he noted, with annoyance. He imagined it might be due to his quick change of voice and because he touched her warm, silken kneecap under the table. ‘Why do you keep on?’
He sensed she’d be disappointed if he suddenly lost heart. She hadn’t been entertained at lunch for a long time, and so unexpected.
‘Listen,’ he said confidentially, eyes lit as he leaned closer, ‘I can get all the women I want, just by telling them I love them. If I say it earnestly enough — but not like a beaten dog — no woman can resist it. It always works, even if you do it only ten minutes after meeting them. Often that’s more effective because they think that if you can fall in love so quickly you’ll never be able to see their faults. A thing like that almost persuades them they’re in love with you. But only the best women believe you when you say you love them, and they’re the ones you want.’
She noticed how impeccably dressed he was, how lean-faced and handsome, with his well-chiselled head, short hair and clipped moustache. ‘You may not know it,’ she said, attempting to divert him, ‘but I’m married.’
‘Your husband’s on the board of fifty-four companies.’
She tapped her empty plate. ‘Fifty-six.’
‘My stud-book’s out of date.’
She picked up the menu to choose dessert.
‘He’s afraid the country’s heading for a Labour Government.’
‘It’ll shoot rapidly out as soon as it gets in,’ he reassured her. ‘There’s nothing predictable about the English, bless ’em. I was in the butcher’s the other day buying the daily cow, and he was bewailing the power of the trade unions and said what England needs is a dictator to put a stop to ’em. He was in raptures at the thought of it, so I said: “Yes, I’d love that as well. That would really ruin the country. Blokes like you would go down first. I’d bloody love that, because as soon as it happened I’d be on my way to Switzerland.” You should have seen his face drop. Because I’d got money he thought I was on his side.’
‘Poor fellow!’ she said.
‘You know,’ he went on fervently so that she couldn’t interrupt, ‘I can normally look people in the eyes, but when I’m in love I can burn anyone off the face of the earth. Your eyes are generous and clever. Don’t think I don’t fall in love even though I am forty-three. My brain may get soft, but the charge is still there. It’s not lust or wick-fever either because when I’m in love, as I am now, my slonker isn’t so ready to stiffen though it burns like a poker in the fire when it gets there at last. My sight is clearer and I wear glasses less when I’m painting. I’m not shy and devious anymore when I’m in love, even though I have more to hide because I’m married as well!’
Her hand shook at the menu. The smile left her. She was glad the waiter came, and they ordered a dessert which, he reminded her, was as high and ornate as the hat she’d been wearing when he first saw her two years ago: ‘I’ll do a picture when I get home. The idea’s forming in my third and visual eye. Lady Ritmeester’s hat! It won’t be a big one, but its colour will dazzle the world!’
She’d heard more loving speeches in the last half hour than from her husband in fifteen years. The skin under her make-up was burning. ‘I’ll order more wine — no, champagne,’ he said, ‘to toast the way I feel about you.’
He felt a hand on his wrist. ‘Pay the bill,’ she said. ‘We’ll get a taxi to my flat on Mount Street.’