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270 pages, Hardcover
First published January 6, 2022
Colette was trying to develop a new way of looking at life, with more lightness, as if everything that seemed so substantial, like a school, or a home, or a marriage, was in fact only disposable and breakable. It was frightening, but also a relief. Phyllis used to joke about how Anne and her husband Tom had experimented with free love before they were married, and Colette saw now how they’d have set about it earnestly, in pursuit of an ideal. Perhaps it was better to be frivolous.
Her performance as a contented wife was consummately good. It frightened Nicky: what depths of experience had he stumbled into? He had taken the Fischers at their face value, as respectable and innocent. Now it appeared that he might have been the innocent himself.
Colette wasn’t on the side of the political types anyway. She was more drawn to the ones who talked about drugs and art and music, were often stoned and not at all in earnest. They weren’t waiting for the students and factory workers to bring about a new era. As far as they were concerned it had arrived already, they were helping themselves to it wholeheartedly.
"There was a lot to be said for these companionable married exchanges: low-voiced and sensible, friendly, worn into their groove, each partner attuned through long familiarity to the needs of the other."
“She'd begun joking recently about becoming an old woman: she'd pictured herself sliding across serenely into middle age, fulfilled and busy with her house and her hobbies. But all this cheerful resignation, she recognised now, had been a sham, mere self-deception."
"She mustn't spoil her new happiness, she thought, by falling back into these patterns, cleaning up and organizing things, arranging the furniture more attractively. In her old life she'd been only half alive: too busy perfecting the appearance of herself and her home for others to admire. Now she was taking her first faltering steps away from that falsehood."
"A muffling blanket of desolation descended on the house, wrapping up all of them separately with their own thoughts - even while Colette and Hugh sat side by side on the sofa, both laughing at the same jokes on the television."
"All this weight of the happy family past, shut up inside their photographs."
"Morality she pictured as an inexorable mill grinding out its judgements, irrefutable but ugly, like the machinery in a factory, alien to the subtlety of her inner life. She knew that her betrayal of her husband and children was wrong, but in the same impersonal dulled way that she knew from school about the Treaty of Vienna, or the abolition of the Corn Laws."
"Yet when they were naked they couldn't quite look at each other without compromise: their glances skidded away obliquely. They were always polite, even when they quarrelled. There was no point in picnicking under the night sky with Roger because it could go nowhere new, could only be a pretence of romance."
"Now the intimacy of this new music pierced and enveloped her. She might never have found out, if she hadn't met Nicky - if she hadn't sought him out, and followed him here, leaving everything behind - that this new shape of being existed: the glamour of it and its seductive invitation, careless and mocking and free."
"She was filled up with the music's beauty and its emotion, with her new full life and her own deep, interesting story. It didn't matter if this had come to her too late, when she was already forty. There was only this moment, this joy now."
"The room was full of his childhood, broken off abruptly, left as if he meant to resume just where he'd left it, when he came back from school."
"His heart was not broken, without Phyllis; she had not been the companion of his heart. He would miss how pleasantly she had kept his home, that was all, he thought, with his new coldness. And he felt the humiliation of her leaving him, and the deep inconvenience; he loathed the idea of explaining his situation to anyone."
"More adventures awaited her, she was still alive."
Yet in Anthea's bedroom, poking through her things, Colette was moved: the material evidence of a life was eloquently suggestive, as long as you didn't have the life thrust in your face. She thought how it would feel to be in here if the Chidgelys, all five of them, had been wiped out in a car accident in Switzerland. Anthea's collection of costume dolls under those circumstances would seem poignant, eloquent.
As I worked on the novel I was so drawn to imagining that Home Countries bourgeois world. I felt its rich mystique as well as its comedy, and loved writing about it - its tameness and its routines, [...] the safe municipal park with the keeper in his hut, where the teenagers wait for their lives to start. So much that's mysterious is held in tension under this polite and reasonable surface: those wild children, carried away in their imaginary games, tearing between the houses, disrespecting boundaries [...] Tensions and contradictions, repressed inside the constraining frame of bourgeois life, are famously good for literature: 'life with the lid on,' Elizabeth Bowen called it.