The Diplomat's Wife(43)

Panic rises within me. Has Paul changed his mind? Or maybe he was delayed and did not get discharged from the army when he expected. I walk back to the concourse and sink down onto a bench. There are just two trains left on the timetable, one from Edinburgh and another from Newcastle. Maybe he’s not arriving by train at all. But he will be here. My stomach, uncomforted, gnaws.

I look down the nearly deserted concourse, uncertain what to do. Then I reach inside the neck of my dress and lift Paul’s dog tags. I have not taken them off since he gave them to me. I trace the letters that spelled out his name. Where are you? My shoulders slump. Half an hour, then an hour, passes. Soon the lights go out at the newsstand. A shopkeeper draws a metal gate closed across the front of the coffee stand.

“Ma’am?” I turn to find the conductor with whom I’d spoken earlier standing above me. “Do you want me to call you a cab? That is, I’m afraid we don’t allow people to stay overnight in the station. Loiterers and all that.” I look at him, puzzled, then turn back to the timetable. It is nearly ten o’clock. The station is empty and all of the trains are gone.

“That won’t be necessary,” a male voice says from behind me. Paul, I think for a second. But the voice is much older than Paul’s, the accent English. I turn to find Charles standing behind me. “Your car is waiting, miss.”

The conductor looks surprised. “Good evening, then.” He shuffles off.

“Hello, Charles.” It is difficult to mask my disappointment that he is not Paul. “What are you doing here?”

“Miss Delia sent me to make sure you are all right.”

“Fine, thank you. Paul’s train hasn’t come in yet, but I’m sure he’s just delayed….”

“Begging your pardon, miss,” Charles says gently, “but there are no more trains tonight.” He points up at the now-empty schedule board. I do not reply. “I can take you back to the house.”

“I have to wait here.” I can hear the stubbornness in my own voice.

“It’s not safe to stay here alone so late,” Charles protests. “You’ve given the gentleman our address, haven’t you?”

I nod. Charles is right, of course. Paul will be able to find me. I take a long last look around the train station, then follow Charles outside to the sedan parked at the curb. He holds the door for me and I climb numbly into the back. I lean my head against the cool, damp glass, stare blindly out the window as we make our way through the wet streets of north London.

The parlor lights still burn brightly as we pull up in front of Delia’s house. Inside, Delia hurries across the foyer to greet us. “What happened?”

I shake my head. “The gentleman did not arrive,” Charles replies for me.

“I’m sure he was just delayed,” Delia says quickly. “You gave him our address here?” I nod. “Good, he’ll come here as soon as he can.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“We’ll go to the embassy. The deputy chief is a good friend of mine and I’m sure they’ll know of various units coming into London. We’ll go first thing tomorrow, if he hasn’t arrived by then,” Delia promises.

She sounds so positive, I almost feel better. “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome. Now, why don’t you come sit and have some supper? I’ve kept it warm for you.”

I shake my head. “Thanks, but I’m not hungry.”

“Then at least some tea,” Delia presses.

“I’d prefer to just go to bed.” I bring my hand to my temple, which has begun to throb.

“Of course. You must be exhausted from all of the waiting.”

“I am.” I start up the stairs, then turn back. “You’ll wake me if…”

“The moment he arrives,” Delia promises.

Upstairs, I undress and climb numbly into bed. I know that the sooner I go to sleep, the more quickly morning will seem to come. But Paul’s face stares back at me in the darkness. Where are you? Have you changed your mind about me? His face remains impassive. I close my eyes and force myself to breathe evenly, a trick my mother taught me when I was restless at night as a child. Soon I drift off to sleep, but Paul’s face haunts me there, too. I dream that I am standing on the platform in the train station once more. A train pulls in and, as I watch the disembarking crowds, a familiar face appears. Paul! My heart lifts and I start toward him. But he turns away, speaking to the woman behind him. There, holding his hand, is the young woman from the café in Paris. “No…”

I awake with a start. Bright sunlight streams through the windows. The previous evening comes rushing back to me. Perhaps Paul arrived during the night. I sit up quickly, swinging my feet to the floor. But before I can stand up, a wave of nausea overtakes me. Easy, I tell myself. I reach for the pitcher of water that Charles always leaves fresh on my nightstand and pour a glass. I do not want to get ill just as Paul arrives. A feeling of certainty grows inside me. He will be here today.

I take a few sips of water and my stomach settles. Then I wash and dress quickly, and make my way downstairs. Delia is seated at the kitchen table. As usual, a full English breakfast has been laid out: fried eggs, bacon, stewed tomatoes, beans and toast. My stomach begins to turn again. Delia looks up from the heaping plate in front of her. “Hello, dear. How did you sleep?”