The Diplomat's Wife(105)

You cheated, too, I remind myself. But Paul and I were different, two old lovers finding each other for a single moment in time. Our coupling was unplanned, instinctive. I imagine Simon’s affair to be calculated and sustained. Furtive plans made for secret meetings. Lies told to cover his tracks. Anger rises in me. Has Simon been playing me for a fool? An hour ago, I turned away Paul on the phone. And for what? Is my marriage to Simon a charade?

Easy, I remind myself as I dry the last of the plates. You don’t know for sure that Simon is having an affair. A few words on the phone, some perfume. That is not proof. But doubt nags at me harder now. I need to find out.

I turn out the kitchen light and make my way upstairs. Tiptoeing into Rachel’s room, I reach into her crib and place my hand on her back lightly so as not to wake her, feeling her gentle, even breathing. Farther down the hall, the door to Simon’s study is closed. I hesitate, looking at the thin shaft of light beneath the doorway. Suddenly I am seized with the urge to burst in and confront him with my suspicions. I take a step toward the study, then stop again. Simon would never admit to having an affair. I can almost imagine his calm denial, so matter-of-fact as to make me feel foolish. No, if I am to find proof, I will have to manage another way.

I continue down the hall to our bedroom, my mind turning as I wash and climb into bed. I pick up the book that sits on my nightstand, but I am too agitated to read. I look around our bedroom at Simon’s nightstand, his armoire. If there is evidence of Simon’s infidelity, where would it be hidden? I do not dare look now, of course, but perhaps tomorrow when he is at work. I force myself to turn to the book until at last my eyes grow heavy and I drift to sleep.

I do not hear Simon come to bed. When I awake in the morning, the duvet on his side is freshly made, as though he had not bothered to climb underneath. The events of the previous night, my suspicions about Simon, come rushing back to me. Perhaps it is all in my head, I think, staring up at the ceiling. And even if it is not, do I really want to know? “Borrowing trouble,” my mother would have called it. My life is safe here, stable. I could leave well enough alone. Simon would never ask for a divorce—the scandal would be too much for his career. A sensible woman would not dig for answers. But I need to find out.

I go to Rachel, who is sitting in her crib, babbling to herself. Carrying her downstairs, I find Simon’s breakfast dishes washed and stacked. There is a hastily scribbled note on the table: Early meeting. I look at the clock above the stove. Six-fifty. Uneasiness rises in me. Simon always leaves at exactly seven-twenty. I wonder if he knows that I heard him on the phone last night, senses my suspicions and is avoiding me.

I carry Rachel over to her high chair and put some dried cereal on the tray in front of her. At seven-thirty, there is a noise at the front door. “Good morning,” Delia singsongs from the foyer. I look over to the counter where her glasses still sit. In my confusion over hearing Simon on the phone, I forgot to call her and tell her they were here.

Delia comes into the kitchen wearing a pair of spectacles I do not recognize. I hold the ones she left behind out to her. “I was wondering where those were!” Delia exclaims.

“I meant to call you and tell you they were here.”

“No worries. Fortunately I had my old pair.” Her sleeve is damp as she takes the glasses from me, replacing the older ones and tucking them into her bag. I look out the window over the sink, noticing for the first time the rain that falls in heavy sheets. My heart sinks. I had hoped that Delia would take Rachel to the park, giving me a chance to look through Simon’s belongings. Perhaps the weather will change.

But the sky remains solid gray throughout the morning. Delia takes Rachel back up to her bedroom to play and I join them for a while, trying to focus on the building blocks Rachel loves so much. Later, I leave them, still playing, and retreat to the parlor with my book. But I stare out the window at the rain-soaked street, unable to concentrate. Is Simon really at work, I wonder, or off somewhere with that woman? For a minute I consider calling him at the office to see. But a call from me would be unusual and would surely make him suspicious.

A short while later, Delia carries Rachel back downstairs and deposits her on my lap. “I’ll make lunch,” she says, disappearing into the kitchen. I wrap my arms around Rachel, burying my nose in her dark curls.

I think then of Paul. If Simon really is having an affair and I confronted him, perhaps he would leave me, after all. Maybe then Paul and I could be together. A shiver runs through me. The idea is almost inconceivable. Would Paul even still want me under such circumstances? He might not even realize that Rachel is his, I remind myself. A romantic affair while on the run in Germany is one thing. A relationship with a divorced woman who has a young child is quite another.

Delia reappears with two trays bearing sandwiches and soup. She turns on the radio to the BBC and a newscaster’s voice fills the parlor. We eat in silence, listening to the broadcast. I feed Rachel small bites of sandwich from my plate. After we finish, Delia clears the lunch trays and returns with cups of tea. The news ends and another program, “Woman’s Hour,” begins. We sit, listening to the radio while Rachel plays on the floor. Neither Delia nor I mention our conversation from the previous day about Paul. I consider briefly sharing my suspicions about Simon with her, then decide against it.

The afternoon passes slowly, the rain beating incessantly on the roof. I look at the clock above the fireplace. It is just after three o’clock. Delia usually doesn’t leave until at least six and I will not dare look through Simon’s belongings at such a late hour for fear he will come home.