Our Woman in Moscow(49)
Iris jumped and turned. A man had appeared out of nowhere—a thick-shouldered, square-jawed, cleft-chinned all-American of a type Iris hadn’t seen in years. He showed her some friendly white teeth and continued in a slow country cadence designed by God to soothe skittish horses. “Say, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
“Not at all.”
He reached up and removed her raincoat from the hook. Like a gentleman, he helped her into it, holding her pocketbook for her as she stuck in one arm and then the other. When she turned to thank him, he tipped his hat and wished her a good evening. She was still staring at the door when Sasha ranged up and asked her what was the matter.
Nothing, she said.
By the time she and Sasha arrived home in Holland Park at half past one in the morning, a light, miserable rain dropped from the sky. Sasha stumbled out of the taxi and told the driver to wait, he’d be back in a moment.
“You’re not going back out again, are you?”
“Burgess and a few others. Gargoyle Club. I won’t be long. I’ll walk you upstairs,” he added generously, as he gave her his arm to help her out of the taxi.
“No, you won’t. You’ll come upstairs with me and go to bed, like a decent husband and father. Tomorrow’s Sunday.”
“In point of fact, it’s already Sunday.”
“Sasha, please. Stay.”
She put her hand on his chest and did her best to capture his gaze, the way she used to do, but his eyes were drunk and blurry and he looked right through her.
“Darling, just for an hour or two. Back before you know it.”
“You know that’s not true. Don’t be an idiot, Sasha.”
The taxi driver tooted the horn.
“Christ, Iris. It’s just a drink.”
“It’s not just a drink. It’s your life, it’s your career! I’ve been hearing rumors—”
He seized her by the arms. “Rumors? What the hell are you talking about? Who’s spreading rumors?”
“Nobody! Just people, they’re talking about how much you drink, all these stupid, crazy escapades—”
He swore and let her go. He swung the taxi door open without another word and she wanted to scream after him, What’s wrong? What’s happening? Why won’t you tell me?
But it was too late. The taxi roared off. Iris stood in the drizzle and watched the headlights spin around the corner onto Abbotsbury Road, off to the Gargoyle Club in Mayfair, a different world from this quiet suburban neighborhood of wife and sons.
They lived on the fourth floor of a block of mansion flats called Oakwood Court, just off the grounds of poor ruined Holland House. Like the Desboroughs’ apartment, where tonight’s party had taken place, theirs was grand and spacious and in dire need of decorative updating. During the winter and spring, it was impossibly cold. Because the block had been built at the turn of the century, it did boast certain mod cons, as the British called them, such as central heating and hot water. But the ceilings were so lofty and the air outside so dank and chill most of the year that Iris never felt really warm until June, no matter how many cardigans and mufflers she wrapped around her shivering body, and she would dream of Rome or Ankara. She would remember the hot sun and pungent blue sky as you might remember a happy childhood, all the unpleasant threads snipped conveniently away.
The porter went home at eight p.m. sharp and would not return until six in the morning. Iris crossed the small, deserted lobby and took the lift to the fourth floor. It was the old-fashioned kind, so Iris had to open and close the door and the grille by herself. Her hands were shaking—her eyes stung with unshed tears. There were two flats on each floor, and the other one was empty. The family had moved out in January, suddenly and without explanation, and nobody had taken their place. Iris fumbled with the latchkey, tiptoed through the door, and shrugged off her raincoat. Mrs. Betts would be asleep in her small room off the kitchen; she’d have tucked in Kip and Jack at seven o’clock, and though they were good sleepers generally, parents could never be too quiet in the middle of the night, could they? Iris perched on the bench and wriggled off one shoe and then the other and sat for a moment—shoe in each hand—eyes closed. She thought of Sasha in his taxi, racing up the Kensington Road—no traffic, not at this hour—toward Mayfair and the Gargoyle Club. Iris had never seen the Gargoyle Club, but she had no trouble picturing it. Burgess and the others would be waiting for him, bottles ready.
Iris opened her eyes and rose from the bench. She stole in her stockings down the dark corridor and stopped by the door to the boys’ room.
Now that Jack was nearly four years old, he slept in a real bed like his brother, all tangled up in sheets and blankets. Iris straightened them around his warm little body. He wore a soft, blue-striped union suit, his favorite. Mrs. Betts must have fished it out of the clothes hamper for him because Mummy and Daddy were away at a party. Iris smoothed his damp hair from his temple and imagined him sipping his warm milk, swinging his legs on the chair at the kitchen table next to Kip, while she and Sasha sat in their taxi and edged through the drizzle and the traffic toward the Desboroughs’ flat in Eaton Square.
Kip, on the other hand. Kip lay like a vampire in a coffin, perfectly straight, nose pointed to the ceiling, blankets tucked around him. Kip was the sweeter one, the sensitive one, who shared Iris’s artistic spirit but liked everything just so—soldiers lined up on the chest of drawers, clothes folded and ready for the next day—that kind of thing. Iris didn’t understand, but she went along with it. Last year he’d decided warm milk before bedtime was for babies, so he drank cocoa instead and instructed Jack on the finer points of the milk mustache.