Our Woman in Moscow(46)

“Is there? I don’t blame him.”

“He looks a little unsavory, if you ask me.”

“Seedy chap, eh?” said Philip. “Must be Burgess. Dark hair, pudgy sort, probably drunk?”

“I think so.”

Philip nodded. “Burgess, all right. If he makes a nuisance of himself, swat him with a newspaper.”

The woman in the turtleneck laughed. “Don’t listen to him. Burgess won’t make a nuisance of himself with you. Perhaps your husband”—more laughter passed among them—“but women only by consent.”

Iris laughed, too, though she wasn’t quite in on the joke. The other thing about the diplomatic service, everyone knew one another—not just the outward man, but all his foibles, his eccentricities, his past indiscretions, things that among women would be called gossip—all shared without words, like a secret handshake.

“Mind you, he’s got a first-rate brain,” said Philip.

“Oh, no doubt of that,” the woman said. “First-rate. And always good for a drunken escapade, whenever one’s in need of those things.”

“Charming fellow, if you like his particular brand of charm.”

“What if you don’t?” Iris asked.

“Then you’ll hate him,” said the woman. “Oh, I say. Speak of the very devil.”

Iris swiveled her head just in time to see him walking through the doorway, the man named Burgess, holding a cigarette and a highball brimming with gin in his right hand and a champagne coupe in the left hand. He made straight for the slight gap between Sasha and Iris and slid himself inside it.

“This is for you, Mrs. Digby,” he said solemnly, handing her the champagne.

“Oh! Thank you.”

“Guy Burgess. Foreign Office. Now, you mustn’t hold it against me, but I suspect I see more of your husband than you do.”

“Not true,” Sasha said. “Though not entirely false, either.”

“All matters of state, I assure you. You do like champagne, Mrs. Digby?”

“Very much.”

“Then you won’t mind if I steal away the old man for just a moment? Matters of state, you see.”

“Not at all,” Iris said, and it wasn’t entirely a lie.



After a moment or two of trivial conversation, the blond woman—her name was Fischer, Nedda Fischer—invented some excuse and left Iris and Philip to each other. Iris smiled. Philip smiled back. The effect was ever so slightly sinister, because Philip had encountered some terrible calamity during the war—exactly what, nobody could agree, and Philip himself wasn’t going to talk about it—that had left the right side of his face scarred and pitted and not quite as mobile as the left side. Also, most of the ear was missing.

It was commonly accepted that Philip’s hair turned white after the injury. Iris found the effect somewhat dazzling, next to his dark eyes and surreal face. They’d met at a party like this one, about a month or so after she and Sasha moved here from Turkey. Sasha had become incapably drunk and Philip had driven them home in his Morris Eight, and it was only later that Iris discovered what a sacrifice this was, because of petrol rationing. She wrote him a thank-you note, and they went out to dinner the following week, Iris with Sasha and Philip with some woman they never saw again. Sasha told her that Philip’s wife had left him right after the war, had simply taken the children and moved to Canada, and was now dragging the divorce interminably through the courts because of Philip’s money. Iris spent weeks calling him Mr. Boh-shahm in her best French accent before he took her aside and confessed that his surname was actually pronounced Beecham, English style, and their mutual embarrassment was so severe that they agreed she should simply call him Philip, and just like that, they became the best of friends.

Which explained why the smile they shared now was one of mutual relief, because the flinty blond woman had finally left them alone.

“Has this aunt of yours arrived yet?” he asked her.

“Not until next week. She’s setting herself up in the Dorchester for a week to show the girls the sights, Tower of London and Buckingham Palace and everything, and then we head down to Dorset, thank God.”

He made a little bow. “Delighted to be of service.”

“Honestly, we’re awfully grateful for the cottage. I’m so desperate for some country air, I could scream.”

“Will your husband be staying long?”

“The first week, and then only on weekends. He says it’s a good time to catch up on work, when everyone’s off in August.”

“Digby’s got a reputation for hard work.”

“It’s very nice for his employers. Less so for his boys and his poor neglected wife.”

“Ah, how are the boys? Relieved to be out of school at last?”

“They are absolute terrors at the moment. The woman in the downstairs flat came up this morning and very politely requested that they stop running up and down the corridor, because her chandelier was shaking dangerously. I’m at my wit’s end without a garden.”

“It’s jolly criminal, this business of stuffing young families into these beastly so-called mansion flats. You’ll recall I did recommend you find a nice detached house down in Surrey or even Kent.”

“You’ll recall I did my best to convince Sasha to take your advice.”