Our Woman in Moscow(90)
Sometimes, as they walked back to the cottage, Iris thought about the reverse—the night she had first walked to Highcliffe from Honeysuckle Cottage, the courage it had required of her. The strangeness of walking to a man’s house with the fixed intention of committing adultery with him. In the end, it was easy. Philip had made it seem perfectly natural to climb the stairs to his grand-shabby bedroom, hand in hand—almost ordained. But there was more to their affair than bed. Philip came down to the cottage every day. He led the children to the stables where they took turns riding the three ponies. They had picnics and walks by the sea, sometimes swimming when the sun was warm enough. Just yesterday they’d all gone sailing in Philip’s schooner—a glorious sun-filled afternoon—even Aunt Vivian laughed her head off. Philip had pointed out all the battleships and the French coast in the distance, had shown the children how to make proper knots, had caught a few fish that Mrs. Betts fried for dinner. When Iris had tucked the boys into bed, sunburned and exhausted, Jack looked at her earnestly and asked if Mr. Beauchamp could please stay with them in Honeysuckle Cottage instead of his big lonely house with all the empty rooms.
Iris had reported this to Philip last night, as their fingers tangled in the lazy aftermath of intercourse. Philip reflected for a moment or two and said that it was a logical question, and Jack was plainly a bright and sensible lad.
They didn’t say a word as they made their way down the lane toward Honeysuckle Cottage. They rarely did. Philip’s hand was warm around hers. The nights were turning chillier now, and Iris could see her breath and Philip’s merging in the air. By the time they reached the great elm and ducked behind the trunk to say good-bye, safe from curious childish eyes, the sky was streaked with pink and the sun was inevitable. Philip leaned back against the bark and drew her against him.
“Vivian’s leaving tomorrow,” she said. “I can’t stay the night anymore.”
“I know.”
“I haven’t decided about school yet. It will break their hearts to go back up to London, though, after all this.”
“You know you can have the cottage as long as you want. The local grammar is excellent.”
She kissed the tip of his nose. “We’ll talk about it soon, all right? I have to speak to Sasha first. We can’t just go on like this, nothing settled.”
“Whatever you decide.”
“You’re so good,” she whispered, “so good to me. I wish I could give you more.”
“You’ve already given me more than I dared to imagine.”
“This is so impossible, this sneaking around. We belong together, look at us.”
“Shh. I’m a patient man. If it takes years, I’ll wait.”
She said impetuously, “I hope you’ve given me a baby. If we’ve made a baby together then everything will be simple.”
“Not quite so simple—”
“Don’t you remember what you said, our first night? You said you would give me whatever I wanted, whatever I wished for, and I told you I wanted another baby, a girl this time, and you said—”
“I said I couldn’t promise a girl—”
“—Nature being so fickle, your exact words—”
“—but I would do my best for you.”
“Which you certainly have.”
Philip grinned. On a face like his, the effect was wonderfully fiendish. Iris knew she should go into the house, but she couldn’t bring herself to step away. This was not enough for either of them. There were not enough hours between nine in the evening and five in the morning to talk and laugh and read—drink champagne or brandy or cocoa and lie together in Philip’s bed, fingertips waltzing with fingertips—not enough days in the week that Iris could steal over from Honeysuckle Cottage and steal back, a little more happy, a little more in love, a little more herself. Iris couldn’t go back to the old way of doing things any more than she could reoccupy the body of the old Iris. Even now, just thinking about sleeping with Philip—remembering the night before—she turned her lips to his shirt and wriggled her tongue between a pair of buttons. Philip took her by the arms and pushed her sternly away.
“Enough of that. Sun’s rising. Our time is up.”
Iris practically danced through the kitchen door, giddy as a new bride, just as the phone started to ring.
She made a dive and answered it on the second bell.
“Honeysuckle Cottage,” she said.
An hour later, she was on the train to London.
Iris was shocked to see the flat in Oakwood Court. When she’d left it nine weeks ago, every article was in place, every surface shone, the air smelled of lemons and wood. She’d closed the door with a sense of satisfaction and purpose and imagined—as the taxi sped to Victoria Station—some ritual return at the end of August, refreshed and suntanned and ready to tackle life’s challenges.
Now she banged up the lift in rising panic. Guy Burgess had been so cryptic over the telephone, so smug and English, she couldn’t tell if Sasha had committed some unspeakable criminal act or simply went a little too far at a friend’s party, as he so often did. The door, when she rattled the knob, was unlocked. She pushed it open and stepped into the foyer, where she gasped in horror.
For an instant, she thought they’d been burgled—ransacked. The few framed pictures had fallen off the walls; the floor was strewn with broken glass. An empty bottle of gin rolled helplessly across the parquet. The air stank of vomit and decay.