The Diplomat's Wife(104)

“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 glass, then turn on the cold water tap, letting it run for several seconds. As I fill the glass, I spot an unfamiliar item on the countertop: a pair of spectacles. I turn off the tap and pick them up. Delia’s glasses. 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 glasses, 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 glasses 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 assigned to help Simon during my office leave and who had been with the department for nearly forty years. Perhaps one of the other assistants 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 associates 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 passion for any woman.

But it is not impossible, I admit reluctantly. Suddenly I am not hungry. I carry my plate back into the kitchen, scrape 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 hello. 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 passenger 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?