English Correspondence Read Online Free PDF Page B

hoped she was coming out of it. The gloom she’d been in. For a few days they had been quite nice to each other.
    The letter sat in the drawer of her desk until the evening. She thought of it from time to time, but couldn’t face dealing with it. She used the words to herself; dealing with, notreading, that was too pleasurable. They had more bookings in the restaurant than they had had for weeks. She was relieved to be busier. The car park was half full. That was how she and Paul judged it. No one came here on foot. The village was separate, cut off by the main road and, in any case, dead. Clients were passing on the stairs. The ones coming down, tidy for dinner, vaguely scented, lightened by anticipation. The ones going up, lagging behind in contentment, the day’s small desperations still hanging about them. Felix, the waiter, was late, so Sylvie was rushed, having to hurry between the front of house and the bar. After she’d come back from the funeral, he had surprised her by hugging her. She couldn’t be impatient with him because of that and was simply relieved when he appeared at the door, hot and cold from his bike ride, breathing fast. He took his waiter’s jacket from its hanger, put it on, looked efficient, shook off wherever he had come from, his girlfriend, the football, a fight with his brother. He took the tray of drinks from her hands and carried them over to the four men in suits who were looking up expectantly. There were still ten minutes to go before dinner. Sylvie suddenly felt she could cope with Don’s letter; with having sent it, as well as what he might have said in reply. With her back to the room, she poured herself half a glass of wine from an uncorked bottle and drank it. Then she went to the desk in the hall and opened the letter.
    Once all the clients were sitting down for dinner, the restlessness was over. They were tucked up at tables, all dining early, subdued, respectable. Mostly it was like this. There might be disruption at nine thirty or later. Dramatic couples walked in from over the Belgian border, careless, young, thin, blackened by fashion. They always chose minute or enormous amounts from the a la carte menu, without even glancing at Paul’s choice for the evening. They wanted to know about particular ingredients. Then they ate without appreciation, shovelling food down, or leaving it. They drank cocktails and water, often just water, made all theothers feel red faced and uncomfortable as they finished their bottles and started new ones. Sylvie always made a point of reassuring the frumpish diners. She smiled and filled their glasses, reintroduced the wine list. What she really wanted to do for these innocent, guilt-ridden victims was whisper, don’t worry they’re on something too, you just can’t see it.
    She was taking their orders, standing there in a proper frock, narrow necklace, tights, polished shoes with curved heels. She was cool but attentive, pointing things out, making suggestions. Some of them tried to engage her in conversation, telling her, God knows why, what they’d done during the day. Usually it was men that did this. Some were overwhelmed by their own garrulity; their mothers had admired them, let them run on. Occasionally male clients dealt in matrimonial trade-off. She knew the signs; the gaze never leaving her, moving between her eyes and her breasts. The wife overruled, not even able to say what she wanted to eat. Sylvie ignored the scrutiny and sped through the order. The present encounter was different. She was standing by a table for two. The man had stopped speaking and was staring at her. His voice had been monotonous and he had tapped the menu in appropriate places. She lost all connection between what he had been saying and what she had to write down. She stared back at him. Her eyes couldn’t leave him. They seemed to get stuck on his face; the wispy grey eyebrows, the half-moon spectacles that he was