Read Mrs Palfrey at the Claremont for Free Online Page B

and forth, the thin sole flapping.
    ‘We will keep ourselves to ourselves,’ she promised. ‘It is just in case I am obliged to introduce you – inpassing, you know. They are rather an inquisitive little set. Is it too much to ask? Or must I go back and make some explanation to Mrs Arbuthnot?’
    ‘Goodness, no! I shall enjoy myself no end.’ ‘At seven-fifteen, then. I shall be sitting in the lounge. We will have a glass of sherry before dinner.’ She flushed a little at her sophistication, at the idea of entertaining this young man, and of their shared guilt. She stood up and held out her hand. Once more, he bunched up his papers and got to his feet. ‘I shall call you Desmond,’ she said.
    ‘Christ!’ was all he had replied.

    Mrs Palfrey, crossing the lounge towards the bar, felt herself watched. But not by Mrs Burton, who was with her brother-in-law again, laughing and drinking and heedless of anyone else.
    It was the shoes Mrs Palfrey was now worried about. She had seen the dark, respectable suit hanging on the door in Ludo’s basement room, and was easy in her mind about that. But those old shoes he had worn in Harrods, with the sole hanging loose from one of them … suppose he had no others.
    Her fears were realised. He had no others. He came into the lounge and almost fell headlong – that flapping sole curling back as it met the thick carpet.
    His composure was amazing. He led everyone’s eyes away from his feet, by his gesture of outstretched arms towards Mrs Palfrey. She panicked, fearing lest hemight overact his grandfilial role; but, with just the right touch of fond familiarity and respect, he came forward and kissed her lightly on her cheek. At the same time, he registered the strange, tired petal-softness of her skin, stored
that
away for future usefulness. And the old smell, which was too complex to describe yet.
    Mrs Palfrey, unwilling for him to wander about on this hazardous carpet, got up herself and pressed the bell. Returning to her chair, she bade him sit down.
    ‘What would you like to drink, Desmond?’
    ‘Whatever is suitable under the circumstances,’ he said in a low voice; then, bending nearer to her, asked, ‘Who is that old codger over there, staring at me like crazy?’
    ‘I will tell you later,’ Mrs Palfrey said, avoiding Mr Osmond’s eye.
    It was all going with a swing. There would be so much to discuss at dinner. She had had qualms about it; that he would be glum and young and regretful; but now she was under the influence of charm – a new ingredient in her life. The unmended shoes were an eccentricity. She glowed.
    ‘Will you bring two glasses of sherry, Antonio,’ she said to the waiter. ‘I think medium-dry. Is that all right for you, Desmond?’
    Ludo bowed his head.
    Mrs Palfrey had murmured those words to herself, going about her bedroom earlier, getting ready: ‘medium-dry’ she had said with an air of sophistication, staring at herself in the glass and bringing the biggestpearl exactly centre-bottom of the necklace.
    ‘And may I have the menu and wine-list?’ she added, having also rehearsed that.
    The waiter, in the way of looking surprised, put his thin mouth sideways. In this hotel, guests looked at the menu by the lift, or in the restaurant quietly awaited what they expected.
A la carte
was a farce.
    Ludo leaned back easily, but his eyes were darting to and fro, noting everything, noting Mrs Arbuthnot noting him, and Mrs Post, in her sad
pot-pourri
colours, fussing over her knitting.
    ‘Over
there
is Mrs Arbuthnot,’ Mrs Palfrey said, in a low voice to Ludo. ‘With the sticks.’
    ‘I thought so. I shouldn’t be afraid of her, you know. Although you seem very much the new girl round here.’
    ‘Of course. Mrs Arbuthnot has been at the Claremont for years.’
    ‘It has entered her soul.’
    ‘But we aren’t allowed to die here.’
    He threw back his head and laughed.
    ‘But isn’t that sad?’ she asked doubtfully.
    ‘I don’t see