LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

they first met, was still strong. How foolish he’d been to hope that eventually she would embrace England and everything English as lovingly as he had. ‘That’s all that’s important to you, isn’t it? Never mind me. Never mind if I go stir-crazy in this Godforsaken dump.’ She tossed her head to throw her hair back but when it fell forward again she raked her fingers through it to get it from her face.

      He sat at the end of the bed smiling at her and said, ‘Now, now, Nikki, darling. Just tell me what’s wrong.’

      It was the patronizing ‘just’ that irritated her. There was something invulnerable about his resolute coldness. Her sister had called him ‘the shy desperado’ and giggled when he called. But Nikki had found it easy to fall in love with Bret Rensselaer. How clearly she remembered it. She’d never had a suitor like him: slim, handsome, soft-spoken and considerate. And there was his lifestyle too. Bret’s suits fitted in the way that only expensive tailoring could contrive and his cars were waxed shiny in the way that only chauffeur-driven cars were, and his mother’s house was cared for by loyal servants. She loved him of course but her love had always been mingled with a touch of awe, or perhaps it was fear. Now she didn’t care. Just for a moment, she was able to tell him everything she felt. ‘Look here, Bret,’ she said confidently. ‘When I married you I thought you were going to …’

      He held up his hand and said, ‘Let me turn off the bath, darling. We don’t want it flooding the study downstairs.’ He went back into the bathroom; the roar of water stopped. A draught was coming through the window to make steam that tumbled out through the door. He emerged tightening the knot of his dressing gown: a very tight knot, there was something neurotic in that gesture. He raised his eyes to her and she knew that the moment had passed. She was tongue-tied again: he knew how to make her feel like a child and he liked that. ‘What were you saying, dear?’

      She bit her lip and tried again, differently this time. ‘That night, when you first admitted that you were working in secret intelligence, I didn’t believe you. I thought it was another of your romantic stories.’

      ‘Another?’ He was amused enough to smile.

      ‘You were always an ace bullshitter, Bret. I thought you were making it all up as some kind of compensation for your dull job at the bank.’

      His eyes narrowed: it was the only sign he gave of being angry. He looked down at the carpet. He had been about to do his exercises but she’d hammer at him all the time and he didn’t want that. Better to do them at the office.

      ‘You were going to bleed them white. I remember you saying that: bleed them white. You told me one day you’d have a man working in the Kremlin.’ She wanted to remind him how close they had been. ‘Remember?’ Her mouth was dry; she sipped more water. ‘You said the Brits could do it because they hadn’t grown too big. You said they could do it but they didn’t know they could do it. That’s where you came in, you said.’

      Bret stood with his fists in the pockets of the red dressing gown. He wasn’t really listening to her; he wanted to get on, to bathe and shave and dress and spend the extra time sitting with a newspaper and toast and coffee in the garden before his driver came round to collect him. But he knew that if he turned away, or ended the conversation abruptly, her anger would be reaffirmed. ‘Maybe they will,’ he said and hoped she’d drop it.

      He lifted his eyes to the small painting that hung above the bed. He had many fine pictures – all by modern British painters – but this was Bret Rensselaer’s proudest possession. Stanley Spencer: buxom English villagers frolicking in an orchard. Bret could study it for hours, he could smell the fresh grass and the apple blossom. He’d paid far too much for the painting but he had desperately wanted to possess that English scene for ever. Nikki didn’t appreciate having a masterpiece enshrined in the bedroom, to love and to cherish. She preferred photographs; she’d admitted as much once, during a savage argument about the bills she’d run up with the dressmaker.

      ‘You said that running an agent into the Kremlin was your greatest ambition.’

      ‘Did I?’ He looked at her and blinked, discomposed both by the extent of his indiscretion and the naïveté of it. ‘I was kidding you.’

      ‘Don’t say that, Bret!’ She was angry that he should airily dismiss the only truly intimate conversation she could remember having with him. ‘You were serious. Dammit, you were serious.’

      ‘Perhaps you’re right.’ He looked at her and at the bedside table to see what she’d been drinking, but there was no alcohol there, only a litre-size bottle of Malvern water. She’d stuck to her rigorous diet – no bread, butter, sugar, potatoes, pasta or alcohol – for three weeks. She was amazingly disciplined about her dieting and Nikki had never been much of a drinker: it went straight to her waistline. When Internal Security had first vetted her they’d remarked her abstinence and Bret had been proud.

      He got up and went round to her side of the bed to give her a kiss. She offered her cheek. It was a sort of armistice but his fury was not allayed: just repressed. ‘It’s a glorious sunny day again. I’m going to have coffee in the garden. Shall I bring some up?’

      She pulled the bedside clock round to see it. ‘Jesus Christ! The help won’t be there for an hour yet.’

      ‘I’m perfectly capable of fixing my own toast and coffee.’

      ‘It’s too early for me. I’ll call for it when I’m ready.’

      He looked at her eyes. She was close to tears. As soon as he left the room she would begin weeping. ‘Go back to sleep, Nikki. Do you want an aspirin?’

      ‘No I don’t want a goddamned aspirin. Anytime I bug you, you ask me if I want an aspirin: as if talking out of turn was some kind of feminine malady.’

      He had often accused her of being a dreamer, which by extension was his claim to be a practical realist. The truth was that he was even more of a romantic dreamer than she was. This craving he had for everything English was ridiculous. He’d even talked of renouncing his US citizenship and was hoping to get one of these knighthoods the British handed out instead of money. An obsession of that kind could bring him only trouble.

      There was enough work in the office to keep Bret Rensselaer busy for the first hour or more. It was a wonderful room on the top floor of a modern block. Large by the standards of modern accommodation, his office had been decorated according to his own ideas, as interpreted by one of the best interior decorators in London. He sat behind his big glass-topped desk. The colour scheme – walls, carpet and long leather chesterfield – was entirely grey and black except for his white phone. Bret had intended that the room should be in harmony with this prospect of the slate roofs of central London.

      He buzzed for his secretary and started work. Halfway through the morning, his tray emptied by the messenger, he decided to switch off his phone and take twenty minutes to catch up with his physical exercises. It was a part of his puritanical nature and upbringing that he would not make a confrontation with his wife an excuse to miss his work or his exercises.

      He was in his shirt-sleeves, doing his thirty pressups, when Dicky Cruyer – a contender for the soon to become vacant chair of the German Stations Controller – put his head round the door and said, ‘Bret, your wife has been trying to get through to you.’

      Bret continued to do his pressups slowly and methodically. ‘And?’ he said, trying not to puff.

      ‘She sounded upset,’ said Dicky. ‘She said something like, “Tell him, you get your man in Moscow and I’ll go get my man in Paris.” I asked her to tell me again but she rang off.’ He watched while Bret finished a couple more pressups.

      ‘I’ll talk to her later,’ grunted Bret.

      ‘She was at the airport, getting on the plane. She said to say goodbye. “Goodbye for ever,” she said.’

      ‘So you’ve said it,’ Bret told him, head twisted, smiling pleasantly from his position full length on the floor. ‘Message received and understood.’

      Dicky muttered

Скачать книгу