The Diplomat's Wife(48)

I stare out the window at the shops as we make our way down Piccadilly. A few minutes later, as we reach the edge of Hyde Park, exhaustion washes over me. It must be from all of the walking after lying in bed for so many days, I think, my shoulders slumping. The driver slams hard on the breaks, bringing the bus to an abrupt halt. I raise my hand as I am thrown forward to keep from slamming into the seat in front of me. “Sorry folks,” the driver calls. “A dog ran across the road.” As I straighten, a sudden wave of nausea sweeps over me. I leap from my seat and race to the front of the bus. “I need to get off,” I say weakly to the driver.

“But ma’am, we’re in the middle of traffic. I’m not allowed to let you off where there’s no stop.”

I bring my hand to my mouth. “Please, I feel very ill.”

The driver shakes his head and I run down the steps and dash hurriedly through the traffic. Horns blare. I cross the sidewalk and reach the bushes on the far side just in time to duck my head behind them. Retching violently, I bring up the ice cream and the tea, then the breakfast I’d eaten that morning. A minute later, when my stomach calms, I look up. The grass and benches nearby are dotted with people eating lunch and talking or reading. None seem to have noticed me being sick. I wipe my mouth with my sleeve, then make my way to a nearby bench. A cool sweat breaks out on my forehead. What is wrong with me? I cannot afford to get sick, not now. Perhaps it’s food poisoning. But I was nauseous the morning after Paul did not arrive, too, and that was a week ago. Paul. Suddenly I see his face above me in the Paris hotel room, silhouetted in the moonlight. It has been nearly a month since our night together. An uneasy feeling rises in me.

Impossible, I think. I cannot be pregnant, not from that one night. But the idea nags at me. I remember my last period in Salzburg, count the days. It was due some time ago, I realize now for the first time. In my preoccupation with Paul’s death, I had not thought to notice. Dread slices through me. My cycle must be off, I think desperately, from the stress of all that has happened. It will come any day now. But my uneasiness persists as I stand up and make my way back to the road.

Thirty minutes later I walk through the front door of Delia’s house. I find Delia in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, kneading dough. It looks as though a bag of flour exploded—the countertops, stove and floor are covered in white. “Hello, dear,” she says, not looking up. “I’m just baking some scones.”

I smile. Though Charles does most of the cooking, Delia likes to bake. Or try. More than once, I have seen Charles wait patiently while Delia puts her creations in the oven, then clean up the mess she has made. Later, he will dispose of many of the scones, telling her that they were so delicious he ate them.

The odor of food makes my stomach turn once more. “That smells good,” I fib, dropping into a kitchen chair. “I’m sorry I was gone so long.”

“I saw your note. I was glad to see you up and about. Where did you go?”

“Walking.” I describe my route. “I would have been back earlier but I ran into someone whom I had met on the ship coming over.” I tell her about Simon and his work for the Foreign Office. Then I pause. “He offered me a job.”

Delia looks up, puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

“He works on East European affairs for the Foreign Office. He said he needs an assistant who speaks Polish. He made the same offer when we met on the ship.” I swallow. “Then, of course, I thought I would be leaving for America after a few weeks. But now…”

“Does that mean you are thinking about staying in England permanently?”

I hesitate. “I am,” I reply slowly. “I mean, where else would I go? There’s no one, nothing back in Poland for me. And nothing in America anymore.” I force down the lump that has formed in my throat. “Of course, I would find my own place to live. I don’t expect you to put me up forever.”

“But I love having you here!” Delia exclaims. “Can’t you see that? It’s just me and Charles in this big old house. Having a young person around has given it new life.” I can tell from Delia’s voice that she is sincere. I look up at the ceiling, noticing for the first time the places where the plaster had shaken loose from the bombing. They suffered here, too. Maybe not in the same way as we had back home, but no one escaped the war unscathed. Delia continues, “I understand, a young woman might want her own space. But I really wish you would consider living with us.”

I look around, amazed at how much Delia’s house has come to feel like home. “I would love to stay.”

Delia’s face breaks into a wide smile. “Wonderful!”

“But not for free. As soon as I start working, I’ll be able to pay room and board.”

“That’s not necessary,” Delia says quickly.

“I know, but I want to. It would make me feel better.”

“We can discuss that later,” Delia relents. “So what did you tell him? Mr. Gold, I mean. Are you seriously thinking about taking the job?”

“I don’t know. It’s a big step. Originally, I was thinking of something closer by, like a job in one of the shops. But this would pay well, I think, and be interesting.”

“And this Mr. Gold, is he married?”

“Oh, Delia,” I say, not knowing the answer. I remember the way he looked at me as he kissed my hand. “I’m not thinking of that. It’s too soon.” In truth, I cannot imagine ever wanting to be with someone else. For a second, I consider sharing with Delia my fear that I might be pregnant. But I am too embarrassed. It is probably nothing. “I think he just needs an assistant.”