The Diplomat's Wife Part 24

"That was Delia."

"I figured. And just now, well, I guess when you answered, I almost lost my nerve. I know I shouldn't be calling. But I couldn't help it." He pauses. "I needed to hear your voice."

I bring my hand to the mouthpiece. "Me, too," I whisper, my voice cracking. I clear my throat. "I thought you were still in the hospital."

"That's the official story. We've said that because..." He stops, catching himself. Is he afraid of speaking openly on the phone, or of telling me too much? In Germany, we were a team. But now, back in our separate worlds, there are things that cannot be said.

"I'm glad to know you're well," I say.

"I'm not," he replies. "That is, physically I'm on the mend. But I can't stop thinking about us, about..." His voice trails off.

"Me, neither." I pause as a vision of the cellar in Berlin, Paul's torso beneath me, flashes through my mind. Then I remember Delia and Rachel, just one floor above me. Simon could be home any minute.

"But we can't do this, Paul."

"I know. I'm sorry," he says, his voice choked. "Goodbye, Marta."

"Paul, wait..." There is a click and the line goes dead. I stare at the receiver for several seconds. Paul called me. He has not forgotten. Tears fill my eyes. Impulsively, I pick up the receiver once more, ring the operator. "I'd like to get the last number that called this line," I say. There is a pause. I jot down the numbers that she recites on a pad of paper. I start to dial, then stop again. What would I say to him? Calling Paul will only make things worse for both of us. But he sounded so upset when he hung up, and the notion of him being sad or angry with me is unbearable. I start to dial the number.

Suddenly, there is a noise behind me. I drop the receiver, which clatters to the counter, and turn. Delia is standing at the entrance to the kitchen. "Y-you startled me," I say, picking up the receiver and replacing it on the hook.

"Another empty call?" she asks, crossing to the stove.

"Yes," I reply, feeling guilty at my lie. "I was just going to try to get the number from the operator."

Delia does not respond but turns on the stove burner beneath the tea kettle. Then she opens the oven door and begins pouring some of the juices that have formed in the bottom of the pan over the roast. "Rachel went right down," she says a moment later, closing the oven door. "Nearly fell asleep in the bath."

"She was more tired than she knew." I sink to one of the chairs at the table.

"More tea?" I shake my head, still reeling from my conversation with Paul. Suddenly, unable to hold back any longer, I burst into tears. "What is it, dear?" Delia asks, startled. She rushes to the table and sits down beside me. "What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry," I say through my sobs.

"There, there," Delia says, stroking my hand. "You've been through a lot. It's all catching up with you."

I look up at her, puzzled. How much does she know? I consider telling her that it is the stress of caring for Simon's aunt and getting sick. Then suddenly I can lie to her no longer. "Delia, I need to tell you something. When I was gone, I wasn't actually caring for-"

Delia raises her hand. "I know."

"You do?"

She nods. "Simon isn't a terribly good liar."

"I'm sorry for not telling you the truth. It was government business."

"My dear, there is no need."

"Anyway, while I was gone, I saw..." I hesitate, studying her face. I should stop there, I know. But I have to tell someone about what happened in Germany, to make it real and make sense of it all. And Delia was with me when I lost Paul the first time. "Do you remember Paul, the American soldier whom I was supposed to marry?"

"Of course."

"He's alive!" I blurt out.

Delia's jaw drops. "I don't understand." Quickly, I tell her how Paul had survived the crash, followed me to Prague and rescued me from the bald man. Watching her eyes widen, I realize how unbelievable my story must seem.

"Oh, my goodness!" She brings her hand to her mouth. "That is really quite remarkable. Where is he now?"

"At one of the U.S. military bases. And the calls," I say, gesturing to the phone on the wall. "They weren't wrong numbers."

"I see." She studies my face. "He still has feelings for you?" I nod. "And you?"

I hesitate. "I'm married."

"Yes, and you have a daughter..." Delia stops, remembering. "Rachel was premature. That is, she really wasn't, was she?"

"No," I admit. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you at the time."

"I understand," Delia replies quickly. "But you don't have to be ashamed. You were young and in love." I bite my lip. I cannot bring myself to tell Delia that I was with Paul again in Germany, that I betrayed my marriage. "Does Paul know that Rachel is his?"

"I don't know. I tried to tell him on the s.h.i.+p, but he was half conscious at the time."

Delia looks away, staring out the window. "You've never asked me why I didn't marry or have children." She raises her hand before I can reply. "Oh, don't worry. I know you were just being polite. I was in love once many years ago. We wanted to get married, but my father wouldn't hear of it. He said he would disinherit me if I shamed the family by marrying a man who worked as our butler."

"Charles?" I interrupt, surprised. I had known for some time that their relations.h.i.+p was more than a working one, but I had no idea the history went back so many years.

Delia nods. "My father fired him over the affair. Charles begged me to leave with him, but I was too afraid. So he left, married, had children. And I remained alone. Years later, after his wife died, he came back to me. My father was long since gone by that time. We never married; it would have been too painful for his children and it wasn't something either of us needed. We just wanted to be together, and we're quite happy now. But when I think of all the years we missed, the family we might have had together...I don't know, Marta. I can't tell you what to do. You have stability here, a good life. But second chances don't come often. And when they do, well, you kind of have to wonder."

We sit, neither of us speaking, for several minutes. The clock in the parlor begins to chime. "It's seven," Delia remarks, sounding surprised. "I had no idea it was so late."

"You should go," I reply. "Charles will be worried."

Delia does not respond but walks toward the door and begins putting on her coat. For a minute, I worry that she is angry with me, judging my feelings for Paul. But then I see that she is lost in the memories of her own past. "Delia?" She turns back to me. "Thank you. For telling me, I mean. And for understanding."

She smiles. "Good night. I'll see you tomorrow."

After the door closes behind her, I sit for several minutes, thinking. Delia's words echo in my mind: second chances, what might have been. It all happened so fast. I think of Paul and me in the Meierhof cellar, clinging to each other desperately, and I ache with longing. But not with guilt, I realize suddenly. Except for my hesitation at telling Delia, I have not felt at all badly about what happened between us. What kind of woman am I, to betray my husband and feel nothing?

It was a moment, I tell myself now. Old lovers caught up in memories. But even as I think this, I know that it is not true. Our feelings are still as real as they were two years ago. And now he is gone again, just as quickly. I hear his voice in my mind, desire slicing through me anew. How can I bear to be separated from him again? I stare at the phone, fighting the urge to try to call him. What could I possibly say that would change things, not make them worse?

A noise at the door jars me from my thoughts. "Hallo?"

Simon. I wipe my eyes with the back of my sleeve, straighten my hair. "In here," I call.

"h.e.l.lo, dear," Simon says as he enters the kitchen. "Good day?" he asks. A faint clover smell tickles my nose as he bends to kiss me on the cheek.

"Fine. And you?" Our evening colloquy is always the same. But something is different, I think, as he steps away from me. His suit, usually well-pressed even at day's end, looks rumpled beneath his overcoat, and his thin hair is tousled as though there was a strong breeze. The bus must have been more crowded than usual, I decide. I imagine the riders packed tightly together, Simon standing in the aisle, wedged uncomfortably between an old lady with shopping bags and a woman holding a crying baby.

"Busy." He raises his briefcase. "Loads of reading to do tonight. I'd best get started."

"The roast is in the oven. It will be ready in a few minutes if you're hungry," I offer, but he shakes his head.

"Too much to do, I'm afraid. And there was a late lunch meeting. If you would just leave me a plate in the icebox, that would be lovely." Before I can answer, he is gone again, his footsteps echoing against the stairs. I slump against the counter, relieved. There were times before my trip when I wished Simon would have eaten dinner with me, when I would have welcomed some company. Now, lost in my thoughts, I am grateful not to have to manage a conversation.

My mind spins back to Paul once more and I replay our dialogue over and over in my mind. "I can't stop thinking about you," he'd said. He wanted to hear my voice. I grow warm. Suddenly I am seized with regret. Why had I pushed him away? Because you are married with a child, a voice inside me says. Because it was the right thing to do.

I walk to the sink and reach into the cupboard above me for a gla.s.s, then turn on the cold water tap, letting it run for several seconds. As I fill the gla.s.s, I spot an unfamiliar item on the countertop: a pair of spectacles. I turn off the tap and pick them up. Delia's gla.s.ses. She must have set them down while making dinner. I raise my hand to my own face. I know how disconcerting it is when I cannot find my gla.s.ses, even for a few minutes. She will surely be missing them.

I look up at the clock. Delia left about twenty minutes ago and won't be home yet, but I can leave a message with Charles, telling her the gla.s.ses are here. I walk to the phone and pick up the receiver, remembering Paul's voice on the other end of the line. I bring the receiver to my ear. But instead of a dial tone, I hear voices talking. I freeze, surprised. Simon must be on the extension in the study. Unusual, I think. Simon seldom uses the phone. I wait for him to say something, to chastise me for interrupting his call. But he does not seem to have heard me pick up the line. Who is he speaking with? Probably one of the men from the office.

I hesitate. I should hang up. But instead, I place my hand over the mouthpiece and listen. "The arrangements are made?" I hear Simon ask.

"Luton Airport..." a voice replies. A woman's voice. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. "Tomorrow. Seven o'clock." She has a clipped, foreign accent that is somehow familiar.

"Seven o'clock," Simon repeats. "I will be there with the package." There is a click and the line goes dead.

CHAPTER 26.

I stand motionless, still holding the receiver. Who was Simon speaking with? I replay the conversation in my mind, hearing the young woman's voice. It surely did not belong to Biddie Newman, the secretary who had been a.s.signed to help Simon during my office leave and who had been with the department for nearly forty years. Perhaps one of the other a.s.sistants in our department, calling to convey a message. I run through each of them in my head, but all except me are British-born. None of them have an accent like the woman on the phone. Who is she and why is Simon calling her?

I replace the receiver and walk to the oven, considering the question. I could just ask Simon, I rationalize as I take the roast from the oven, making up two plates of meat, potatoes and vegetables. I put one in the icebox, carry the other to the parlor. We have no secrets at work, at least none that I know of-even during my sabbatical, he's kept me updated about events at the office. But to ask, I would have to admit that I heard him on the phone. Though it was inadvertent, I feel somehow guilty about eavesdropping.

It has to be someone from the office, I decide, cutting a piece of roast. Simon does not have any other friends or a.s.sociates that I know of...My hand stops midair, brown gravy dripping onto the plate. That I know of. Is he having an affair?

I turn the thought over in my mind, considering it for the first time. Don't be silly, I tell myself, setting down the fork. Simon is so cold and distant, so focused on his work. It is hard to imagine him summoning the pa.s.sion for any woman.

But it is not impossible, I admit reluctantly. Suddenly I am not hungry. I carry my plate back into the kitchen, sc.r.a.pe my uneaten dinner into the garbage bin. Perhaps he is so disinterested in me because he has feelings for another. He has been working later at the office since my return, many nights not returning until after I am asleep. And then there was that business trip to Brussels several months ago...Suspicion bubbles in my mind.

I then remember Simon's strange appearance when he walked into the kitchen earlier, the unfamiliar scent as he kissed me h.e.l.lo. I walk quickly down the hallway to the coatrack that stands by the front door and lift Simon's overcoat from the hook, bringing it to my nose. An unmistakable clover smell lingers by the collar. The perfume of another woman.

It could be nothing, I tell myself, replacing the coat. A female pa.s.senger pressed too close on the bus, her scent lingering. But that does not explain the phone call. I walk back to the kitchen. An affair. I wash the dishes, still considering the idea. An hour ago the notion was inconceivable. What if it is true? I hardly have the right to be angry, after all that happened with Paul. It would almost be ironic. But I nevertheless feel a stab of jealousy. Who is this woman who Simon prefers to me?

You cheated, too, I remind myself. But Paul and I were different, two old lovers finding each other for a single moment in time. Our coupling was unplanned, instinctive. I imagine Simon's affair to be calculated and sustained. Furtive plans made for secret meetings. Lies told to cover his tracks. Anger rises in me. Has Simon been playing me for a fool? An hour ago, I turned away Paul on the phone. And for what? Is my marriage to Simon a charade?

Easy, I remind myself as I dry the last of the plates. You don't know for sure that Simon is having an affair. A few words on the phone, some perfume. That is not proof. But doubt nags at me harder now. I need to find out.

I turn out the kitchen light and make my way upstairs. Tiptoeing into Rachel's room, I reach into her crib and place my hand on her back lightly so as not to wake her, feeling her gentle, even breathing. Farther down the hall, the door to Simon's study is closed. I hesitate, looking at the thin shaft of light beneath the doorway. Suddenly I am seized with the urge to burst in and confront him with my suspicions. I take a step toward the study, then stop again. Simon would never admit to having an affair. I can almost imagine his calm denial, so matter-of-fact as to make me feel foolish. No, if I am to find proof, I will have to manage another way.

I continue down the hall to our bedroom, my mind turning as I wash and climb into bed. I pick up the book that sits on my nightstand, but I am too agitated to read. I look around our bedroom at Simon's nightstand, his armoire. If there is evidence of Simon's infidelity, where would it be hidden? I do not dare look now, of course, but perhaps tomorrow when he is at work. I force myself to turn to the book until at last my eyes grow heavy and I drift to sleep.

I do not hear Simon come to bed. When I awake in the morning, the duvet on his side is freshly made, as though he had not bothered to climb underneath. The events of the previous night, my suspicions about Simon, come rus.h.i.+ng back to me. Perhaps it is all in my head, I think, staring up at the ceiling. And even if it is not, do I really want to know? "Borrowing trouble," my mother would have called it. My life is safe here, stable. I could leave well enough alone. Simon would never ask for a divorce-the scandal would be too much for his career. A sensible woman would not dig for answers. But I need to find out.

I go to Rachel, who is sitting in her crib, babbling to herself. Carrying her downstairs, I find Simon's breakfast dishes washed and stacked. There is a hastily scribbled note on the table: Early meeting. I look at the clock above the stove. Six-fifty. Uneasiness rises in me. Simon always leaves at exactly seven-twenty. I wonder if he knows that I heard him on the phone last night, senses my suspicions and is avoiding me.

I carry Rachel over to her high chair and put some dried cereal on the tray in front of her. At seven-thirty, there is a noise at the front door. "Good morning," Delia singsongs from the foyer. I look over to the counter where her gla.s.ses still sit. In my confusion over hearing Simon on the phone, I forgot to call her and tell her they were here.

Delia comes into the kitchen wearing a pair of spectacles I do not recognize. I hold the ones she left behind out to her. "I was wondering where those were!" Delia exclaims.

"I meant to call you and tell you they were here."

"No worries. Fortunately I had my old pair." Her sleeve is damp as she takes the gla.s.ses from me, replacing the older ones and tucking them into her bag. I look out the window over the sink, noticing for the first time the rain that falls in heavy sheets. My heart sinks. I had hoped that Delia would take Rachel to the park, giving me a chance to look through Simon's belongings. Perhaps the weather will change.

But the sky remains solid gray throughout the morning. Delia takes Rachel back up to her bedroom to play and I join them for a while, trying to focus on the building blocks Rachel loves so much. Later, I leave them, still playing, and retreat to the parlor with my book. But I stare out the window at the rain-soaked street, unable to concentrate. Is Simon really at work, I wonder, or off somewhere with that woman? For a minute I consider calling him at the office to see. But a call from me would be unusual and would surely make him suspicious.

A short while later, Delia carries Rachel back downstairs and deposits her on my lap. "I'll make lunch," she says, disappearing into the kitchen. I wrap my arms around Rachel, burying my nose in her dark curls.

I think then of Paul. If Simon really is having an affair and I confronted him, perhaps he would leave me, after all. Maybe then Paul and I could be together. A s.h.i.+ver runs through me. The idea is almost inconceivable. Would Paul even still want me under such circ.u.mstances? He might not even realize that Rachel is his, I remind myself. A romantic affair while on the run in Germany is one thing. A relations.h.i.+p with a divorced woman who has a young child is quite another.

Delia reappears with two trays bearing sandwiches and soup. She turns on the radio to the BBC and a newscaster's voice fills the parlor. We eat in silence, listening to the broadcast. I feed Rachel small bites of sandwich from my plate. After we finish, Delia clears the lunch trays and returns with cups of tea. The news ends and another program, "Woman's Hour," begins. We sit, listening to the radio while Rachel plays on the floor. Neither Delia nor I mention our conversation from the previous day about Paul. I consider briefly sharing my suspicions about Simon with her, then decide against it.

The afternoon pa.s.ses slowly, the rain beating incessantly on the roof. I look at the clock above the fireplace. It is just after three o'clock. Delia usually doesn't leave until at least six and I will not dare look through Simon's belongings at such a late hour for fear he will come home.

"How's Charles?" I ask when Delia switches off the radio.

"He's a bit under the weather," she replies, "but it's just a cold."

"You should go home and be with him," I say quickly, seizing the opportunity.

"Are you certain?" she asks.

I nod. "Rachel and I will be fine."

Delia hesitates, then stands. "Thank you. I'm sure Charles will appreciate it. I'll fix her bottle before I go." She goes into the kitchen and returns a few minutes later with the warm bottle, which she hands to me. She walks to Rachel where she plays, bends and kisses her on the head. "See you tomorrow."

When Delia has gone, closing the door behind her, I stand and scoop up Rachel, who squawks in protest. "Nap time, darling," I say, pus.h.i.+ng down my guilt at not playing with her for longer. I carry Rachel upstairs, depositing her into her crib, then walk back out into the hallway. Simon's study, I think. He would surely keep anything private there. I hurry into the study. It is immaculate as always, the desktop bare except for a notepad in the upper-right-hand corner and a cup of perfectly sharpened pencils beside it. The sweet smell of pipe smoke hangs faintly in the air. I walk behind the desk. There are three drawers on the right-hand side and a shallower one running across the middle. I pull on the handle of top-right drawer, but it refuses to open. The other drawers are also locked.

I pause. I have been in Simon's desk dozens of times, looking for paper clips or pens. It has never been locked before. What is he hiding? The gnawing in the pit of my stomach grows sharper. Where is the key? I scan the top of the desk, the bookshelves behind it. He must have taken it with him.

Suddenly there is a noise at the front door. I jump, moving hurriedly away from the desk. Delia must have forgotten something. "Hallo?" Simon calls from the foyer. I freeze, panicking. What is he doing home so early? I race from the study, pulling the door quietly closed behind me. A second later, he appears on the staircase.

"I-I just put Rachel down," I stammer, gesturing toward the nursery, hoping he has not noticed the direction from which I have come. "You're home early." I start down the stairs past him, trying not to shake. Did he hear me in the study?

But if he is suspicious, he gives no indication. "I have a dinner tonight at seven," he replies, following me into the parlor. "Have to get changed. Here." He hands me a long box. "For you."

"What's this?" I tear off the paper. Inside, I recognize the dark green cardboard of Harrods department store.

"I know how much you like the mint chocolates," he says as I lift the lid. "You haven't had any since you've been back."

"Thank you." I try to make my tone sound appreciative. But my mind reels. Simon never brings me gifts for no reason. And Harrods is in Knightsbridge, clear across town from the Foreign Office. What was he doing in that neighborhood? Perhaps he was meeting the woman on the phone for a romantic tryst.

"I had a lunch meeting in Kensington," he adds, as though sensing my suspicion. I do not respond but replace the lid and set the box on the coffee table. "Aren't you going to have one?"