A Quiet Life(135)

When Winifred and Peter arrived a couple of days later, Laura did not find the holiday any easier. She had not seen Peter since that conversation with Valance; he had been on a trip to Sweden in May, Winifred had told her, and then to London for a while. And although she had been so sure that Valance had been talking nonsense when he said that Peter had been part of the network, as soon as she saw him, sitting on the terrace after he arrived, sunglasses blocking out his gaze, a rustle of fear began. He was asking about the swimming at the beach; he was talking about taking a speedboat out one day; he was accepting a glass of limoncello before lunch – it was all so civilised. Archie hardly knew him, had only met him a couple of times before, but of course they were easy with one another, they had the urbane understanding of the group, a shared sense of humour, shared acquaintances. Laura felt the ripple of unease deepen. How easy it would be for him, as it had been for Nick, for Edward, to hide a secret for years: nobody ever suspected men like them.

She could see that Winifred was assuming that something was going on between her and Archie, and she had to accept that, it would be gauche to tell her that she was wrong. There would be no shame for Laura, after all, in finding a lover now – on the contrary, perhaps it had been rather extreme for her to have remained so obviously faithful to her absent husband for so long. Laura noted in turn that Winifred seemed irritable with Peter, leaning back in her chair, criticising something he had said. As she looked at Winifred, she thought how young she looked: her childless body was the same, slender and energetic, as it had been when she had first met her, and her cropped hair was short and thick as a boy’s.

They talked of going down to the beach that afternoon, but then Archie said that Amy might be arriving soon, and everyone was held, uncertainly, in the garden, awaiting the new arrival. When Amy did walk out through the French windows onto the terrace, Laura was surprised. How she had changed. She remembered how Amy had looked on the boat, at the Dorchester, in Sybil’s house, so relaxed even in those striking monochrome and scarlet outfits, as if she had just thrown them on, but now her clothes did look thrown on. She was wearing grey trousers that looked too big for her and a white straw hat whose wide brim was bent. Beside her was a young man, too eager to please, shaking everyone’s hands too energetically. ‘Gianni …’ was all Amy said by way of introduction as he did so.

If there was one word Laura would have associated with Amy in the past, it was repose. She had always seemed to be the still centre of any room, an exquisitely calm presence among the chatterers. And yet now she was irritable, sitting on the edge of her chair, smoking quickly and nervously. When she took off that straw hat, Laura noticed that there was a tide mark in her make-up at the edge of her jaw, and in the corners of her eyes the black flakes of her mascara showed. Archie had planned for dinner in the house, but before they ate Amy insisted that everyone pile into cars, Peter’s and Archie’s, to drive to Pesaro for a drink. She gripped Gianni’s arm and whispered to him in the hall as they were getting ready to go.

Nobody else but Laura noticed the motorbike starting up behind them as soon as they left the house, but she saw it, too close behind them, swerving in and out as if to get a good look at the passengers, and as they parked the cars, another Vespa screeched to a halt beside them. Laura expected, they all expected, that it would be Amy he wanted to photograph, but the bulb went off in Laura’s eyes. In shock, she turned away, holding her hand over her face. ‘What comment do you have on Ethel Rosenberg’s death?’ shouted the man on the back of the motorbike. ‘What do you have to say about the traitors?’ Fear was there on the esplanade.

Archie hurried Laura inside the bar, pulling her along by her arm. She sat down, but then realised the photographers were waiting outside, and she turned so that her back was to the window. Archie and Peter were calling over a waiter, trying to pretend that nothing had happened, offering Laura a cigarette. But Amy was chilly, her eyes narrowed.

‘Still no news of Edward?’ she asked in her rather rasping voice, tapping a cigarette on the table and lighting it.

‘Nothing – I mean, the press has all sorts of sightings all the time – but they never come to anything.’ Laura went back to her usual line, like a worry bead that she had to click into place. ‘I just know that he couldn’t have been a traitor.’ She felt the others shy away from the statement, and only Amy went on looking at her in that appraising way.

‘Where do you think he is, then?’

But Winifred, as if to drown out the rudeness of her question, was asking where Amy had been staying last week. Amy ignored her and started saying something about the Rosenbergs, about their children. Laura turned away from her, glad that drinks were arriving and a cold vermouth was put in front of her. It was as though Amy was angry with her, she thought, and she tried to push Amy’s attention away from her.

‘Where’s Gianni?’ She had only just become aware that he was missing. Was he still in the car?

‘He’ll be back.’

He didn’t come back for a long time, and when he did, Amy didn’t let him have a drink but insisted they went back to the house. The photographers were still waiting, but Laura was braced now, and Archie drove fast, zooming dangerously along the coastal road. As soon as they went in, Amy and Gianni ran upstairs. Laura looked almost laughingly at Winifred, assuming it was sex. But they were only gone briefly, and when they returned Amy seemed languorous, coming out with a slow step onto the terrace, smiling more easily at everyone.