The Diplomat's Wife(106)

“How’s Charles?” I ask when Delia switches off the radio.

“He’s a bit under the weather,” she replies, “but it’s just a cold.”

“You should go home and be with him,” I say quickly, seizing the opportunity.

“Are you certain?” she asks.

I nod. “Rachel and I will be fine.”

Delia hesitates, then stands. “Thank you. I’m sure Charles will appreciate it. I’ll fix her bottle before I go.” She goes into the kitchen and returns a few minutes later with the warm bottle, which she hands to me. She walks to Rachel where she plays, bends and kisses her on the head. “See you tomorrow.”

When Delia has gone, closing the door behind her, I stand and scoop up Rachel, who squawks in protest. “Nap time, darling,” I say, pushing down my guilt at not playing with her for longer. I carry Rachel upstairs, depositing her into her crib, then walk back out into the hallway. Simon’s study, I think. He would surely keep anything private there. I hurry into the study. It is immaculate as always, the desktop bare except for a notepad in the upper-right-hand corner and a cup of perfectly sharpened pencils beside it. The sweet smell of pipe smoke hangs faintly in the air. I walk behind the desk. There are three drawers on the right-hand side and a shallower one running across the middle. I pull on the handle of top-right drawer, but it refuses to open. The other drawers are also locked.

I pause. I have been in Simon’s desk dozens of times, looking for paper clips or pens. It has never been locked before. What is he hiding? The gnawing in the pit of my stomach grows sharper. Where is the key? I scan the top of the desk, the bookshelves behind it. He must have taken it with him.

Suddenly there is a noise at the front door. I jump, moving hurriedly away from the desk. Delia must have forgotten something. “Hallo?” Simon calls from the foyer. I freeze, panicking. What is he doing home so early? I race from the study, pulling the door quietly closed behind me. A second later, he appears on the staircase.

“I—I just put Rachel down,” I stammer, gesturing toward the nursery, hoping he has not noticed the direction from which I have come. “You’re home early.” I start down the stairs past him, trying not to shake. Did he hear me in the study?

But if he is suspicious, he gives no indication. “I have a dinner tonight at seven,” he replies, following me into the parlor. “Have to get changed. Here.” He hands me a long box. “For you.”

“What’s this?” I tear off the paper. Inside, I recognize the dark green cardboard of Harrods department store.

“I know how much you like the mint chocolates,” he says as I lift the lid. “You haven’t had any since you’ve been back.”

“Thank you.” I try to make my tone sound appreciative. But my mind reels. Simon never brings me gifts for no reason. And Harrods is in Knightsbridge, clear across town from the Foreign Office. What was he doing in that neighborhood? Perhaps he was meeting the woman on the phone for a romantic tryst.

“I had a lunch meeting in Kensington,” he adds, as though sensing my suspicion. I do not respond but replace the lid and set the box on the coffee table. “Aren’t you going to have one?”

“I had a big lunch with Delia so I’m not hungry. I’ll enjoy them later. What’s the occasion for the dinner tonight?”

“To honor the outgoing chargé d’affaires from Copenhagen. I mentioned it a few days ago.”

“Of course,” I say. I have no recollection of him mentioning the dinner, but I have been so distracted since coming home. “Not a problem for you to go alone, I take it?”

He shakes his head. “It’s a stag dinner, in fact. I’m going to look over some papers and get changed for the evening. I’ll see you before I leave.”

I watch nervously as he crosses the room and climbs the stairs. Had I disturbed anything in the study that would give any indication that I had been inside? And why were the drawers locked? I think back to the phone conversation I overheard. Seven o’clock tonight, the woman said. And now Simon is going to this dinner…I stand up and walk to the kitchen. On the wall by the icebox hangs the calendar on which Simon writes all of his appointments. I look at the small white square for December 20, today’s date. It is blank. The dinner, which Simon claimed to have told me about days ago, is nowhere to be found.

My uneasiness grows. It is probably nothing, I tell myself. He just forgot to write down the dinner. Simon is too meticulous for that, though. I make my way back to the parlor, my mind racing. For a minute, I consider confronting him once more. But what would I say? Whom did I hear you speaking with on the phone while eavesdropping? That I could not snoop because your desk drawers were locked?

A short while later, Simon appears on the stairs, wearing his dinner jacket, hair slicked back.

“Y-you look nice,” I say.

“Thank you.” He gestures toward the box on the coffee table. “How are the chocolates?”

“I don’t know. I still haven’t tried them.”

“Well, let’s have one before I leave, shall we?” I do not answer as he opens the box and holds it out to me. I pick a piece of candy, unwrap the foil and take a bite. The melted chocolate, thick and rich, seemed to stick in my throat. “Delicious,” I say, forcing myself to swallow. But I cannot manage the rest of the piece. I close my fist around the rest of the chocolate, then tuck it in a napkin when Simon is not looking.