The Diplomat's Wife (40 page)

“I’m sure the Foreign Office has thanked him sufficiently,” I replied. What would I say? That since coming back from Germany, I have thought of him every waking moment? That when I do sleep, I see him endlessly in my dreams? The truth is unspeakable. And to say less would feel like a lie. No, I decided, a note from me would just hurt him more by reminding him of everything that could never be.

The phone rings in the kitchen, jarring me from my thoughts. “I’ll get it,” I call to Delia, standing. There is a second ring as I cross the parlor to the kitchen. I pick up the receiver. “Hello?” I say. There is no response. I think then of the two earlier calls Delia had mentioned. “Hello?” A wrong number perhaps, or a bad connection? But I can hear breathing on the other end of the phone. There is something familiar about the sound, the way the caller inhales, breath seeming to catch and hold for a second. My heart skips a beat. “Paul?” I whisper.

“I’m an idiot,” he says remorsefully. “Calling like I’m a twelve-year-old boy with a crush.”

At the sound of his voice, strong and deep, warmth rises in me. I swallow, forcing myself to breathe. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” he replies quickly. “I called earlier but someone else answered so I hung up.”

“That was Delia.”

“I figured. And just now, well, I guess when you answered, I almost lost my nerve. I know I shouldn’t be calling. But I couldn’t help it.” He pauses. “I needed to hear your voice.”

I bring my hand to the mouthpiece. “Me, too,” I whisper, my voice cracking. I clear my throat. “I thought you were still in the hospital.”

“That’s the official story. We’ve said that because…” He stops, catching himself. Is he afraid of speaking openly on the phone, or of telling me too much? In Germany, we were a team. But now, back in our separate worlds, there are things that cannot be said.

“I’m glad to know you’re well,” I say.

“I’m not,” he replies. “That is, physically I’m on the mend. But I can’t stop thinking about us, about…” His voice trails off.

“Me, neither.” I pause as a vision of the cellar in Berlin, Paul’s torso beneath me, flashes through my mind. Then I remember Delia and Rachel, just one floor above me. Simon could be home any minute.

“But we can’t do this, Paul.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” he says, his voice choked. “Goodbye, Marta.”

“Paul, wait…” There is a click and the line goes dead. I stare at the receiver for several seconds. Paul called me. He has not forgotten. Tears fill my eyes. Impulsively, I pick up the receiver once more, ring the operator. “I’d like to get the last number that called this line,” I say. There is a pause. I jot down the numbers that she recites on a pad of paper. I start to dial, then stop again. What would I say to him? Calling Paul will only make things worse for both of us. But he sounded so upset when he hung up, and the notion of him being sad or angry with me is unbearable. I start to dial the number.

Suddenly, there is a noise behind me. I drop the receiver, which clatters to the counter, and turn. Delia is standing at the entrance to the kitchen. “Y-you startled me,” I say, picking up the receiver and replacing it on the hook.

“Another empty call?” she asks, crossing to the stove.

“Yes,” I reply, feeling guilty at my lie. “I was just going to try to get the number from the operator.”

Delia does not respond but turns on the stove burner beneath the tea kettle. Then she opens the oven door and begins pouring some of the juices that have formed in the bottom of the pan over the roast. “Rachel went right down,” she says a moment later, closing the oven door. “Nearly fell asleep in the bath.”

“She was more tired than she knew.” I sink to one of the chairs at the table.

“More tea?” I shake my head, still reeling from my conversation with Paul. Suddenly, unable to hold back any longer, I burst into tears. “What is it, dear?” Delia asks, startled. She rushes to the table and sits down beside me. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry,” I say through my sobs.

“There, there,” Delia says, stroking my hand. “You’ve been through a lot. It’s all catching up with you.”

I look up at her, puzzled. How much does she know? I consider telling her that it is the stress of caring for Simon’s aunt and getting sick. Then suddenly I can lie to her no longer. “Delia, I need to tell you something. When I was gone, I wasn’t actually caring for—”

Delia raises her hand. “I know.”

“You do?”

She nods. “Simon isn’t a terribly good liar.”

“I’m sorry for not telling you the truth. It was government business.”

“My dear, there is no need.”

“Anyway, while I was gone, I saw…” I hesitate, studying her face. I should stop there, I know. But I have to tell someone about what happened in Germany, to make it real and make sense of it all. And Delia was with me when I lost Paul the first time. “Do you remember Paul, the American soldier whom I was supposed to marry?”

“Of course.”

“He’s alive!” I blurt out.

Delia’s jaw drops. “I don’t understand.” Quickly, I tell her how Paul had survived the crash, followed me to Prague and rescued me from the bald man. Watching her eyes widen, I realize how unbelievable my story must seem.

“Oh, my goodness!” She brings her hand to her mouth. “That is really quite remarkable. Where is he now?”

“At one of the U.S. military bases. And the calls,” I say, gesturing to the phone on the wall. “They weren’t wrong numbers.”

“I see.” She studies my face. “He still has feelings for you?” I nod. “And you?”

I hesitate. “I’m married.”

“Yes, and you have a daughter…” Delia stops, remembering. “Rachel was premature. That is, she really wasn’t, was she?”

“No,” I admit. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you at the time.”

“I understand,” Delia replies quickly. “But you don’t have to be ashamed. You were young and in love.” I bite my lip. I cannot bring myself to tell Delia that I was with Paul again in Germany, that I betrayed my marriage. “Does Paul know that Rachel is his?”

“I don’t know. I tried to tell him on the ship, but he was half conscious at the time.”

Delia looks away, staring out the window. “You’ve never asked me why I didn’t marry or have children.” She raises her hand before I can reply. “Oh, don’t worry. I know you were just being polite. I was in love once many years ago. We wanted to get married, but my father wouldn’t hear of it. He said he would disinherit me if I shamed the family by marrying a man who worked as our butler.”

“Charles?” I interrupt, surprised. I had known for some time that their relationship was more than a working one, but I had no idea the history went back so many years.

Delia nods. “My father fired him over the affair. Charles begged me to leave with him, but I was too afraid. So he left, married, had children. And I remained alone. Years later, after his wife died, he came back to me. My father was long since gone by that time. We never married; it would have been too painful for his children and it wasn’t something either of us needed. We just wanted to be together, and we’re quite happy now. But when I think of all the years we missed, the family we might have had together…I don’t know, Marta. I can’t tell you what to do. You have stability here, a good life. But second chances don’t come often. And when they do, well, you kind of have to wonder.”

We sit, neither of us speaking, for several minutes. The clock in the parlor begins to chime. “It’s seven,” Delia remarks, sounding surprised. “I had no idea it was so late.”

“You should go,” I reply. “Charles will be worried.”

Delia does not respond but walks toward the door and begins putting on her coat. For a minute, I worry that she is angry with me, judging my feelings for Paul. But then I see that she is lost in the memories of her own past. “Delia?” She turns back to me. “Thank you. For telling me, I mean. And for understanding.”

She smiles. “Good night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

After the door closes behind her, I sit for several minutes, thinking. Delia’s words echo in my mind: second chances, what might have been. It all happened so fast. I think of Paul and me in the Meierhof cellar, clinging to each other desperately, and I ache with longing. But not with guilt, I realize suddenly. Except for my hesitation at telling Delia, I have not felt at all badly about what happened between us. What kind of woman am I, to betray my husband and feel nothing?

It was a moment, I tell myself now. Old lovers caught up in memories. But even as I think this, I know that it is not true. Our feelings are still as real as they were two years ago. And now he is gone again, just as quickly. I hear his voice in my mind, desire slicing through me anew. How can I bear to be separated from him again? I stare at the phone, fighting the urge to try to call him. What could I possibly say that would change things, not make them worse?

A noise at the door jars me from my thoughts. “Hallo?”

Simon. I wipe my eyes with the back of my sleeve, straighten my hair. “In here,” I call.

“Hello, dear,” Simon says as he enters the kitchen. “Good day?” he asks. A faint clover smell tickles my nose as he bends to kiss me on the cheek.

“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.