The Diplomat's Wife (41 page)

I then remember Simon’s strange appearance when he walked into the kitchen earlier, the unfamiliar scent as he kissed me hello. I walk quickly down the hallway to the coatrack that stands by the front door and lift Simon’s overcoat from the hook, bringing it to my nose. An unmistakable clover smell lingers by the collar. The perfume of another woman.

It could be nothing, I tell myself, replacing the coat. A female passenger pressed too close on the bus, her scent lingering. But that does not explain the phone call. I walk back to the kitchen. An affair. I wash the dishes, still considering the idea. An hour ago the notion was inconceivable. What if it is true? I hardly have the right to be angry, after all that happened with Paul. It would almost be ironic. But I nevertheless feel a stab of jealousy. Who is this woman who Simon prefers to me?

You cheated, too, I remind myself. But Paul and I were different, two old lovers finding each other for a single moment in time. Our coupling was unplanned, instinctive. I imagine Simon’s affair to be calculated and sustained. Furtive plans made for secret meetings. Lies told to cover his tracks. Anger rises in me. Has Simon been playing me for a fool? An hour ago, I turned away Paul on the phone. And for what? Is my marriage to Simon a charade?

Easy, I remind myself as I dry the last of the plates. You don’t know for sure that Simon is having an affair. A few words on the phone, some perfume. That is not proof. But doubt nags at me harder now. I need to find out.

I turn out the kitchen light and make my way upstairs. Tiptoeing into Rachel’s room, I reach into her crib and place my hand on her back lightly so as not to wake her, feeling her gentle, even breathing. Farther down the hall, the door to Simon’s study is closed. I hesitate, looking at the thin shaft of light beneath the doorway. Suddenly I am seized with the urge to burst in and confront him with my suspicions. I take a step toward the study, then stop again. Simon would never admit to having an affair. I can almost imagine his calm denial, so matter-of-fact as to make me feel foolish. No, if I am to find proof, I will have to manage another way.

I continue down the hall to our bedroom, my mind turning as I wash and climb into bed. I pick up the book that sits on my nightstand, but I am too agitated to read. I look around our bedroom at Simon’s nightstand, his armoire. If there is evidence of Simon’s infidelity, where would it be hidden? I do not dare look now, of course, but perhaps tomorrow when he is at work. I force myself to turn to the book until at last my eyes grow heavy and I drift to sleep.

I do not hear Simon come to bed. When I awake in the morning, the duvet on his side is freshly made, as though he had not bothered to climb underneath. The events of the previous night, my suspicions about Simon, come rushing back to me. Perhaps it is all in my head, I think, staring up at the ceiling. And even if it is not, do I really want to know? “Borrowing trouble,” my mother would have called it. My life is safe here, stable. I could leave well enough alone. Simon would never ask for a divorce—the scandal would be too much for his career. A sensible woman would not dig for answers. But I need to find out.

I go to Rachel, who is sitting in her crib, babbling to herself. Carrying her downstairs, I find Simon’s breakfast dishes washed and stacked. There is a hastily scribbled note on the table:
Early meeting.
I look at the clock above the stove. Six-fifty. Uneasiness rises in me. Simon always leaves at exactly seven-twenty. I wonder if he knows that I heard him on the phone last night, senses my suspicions and is avoiding me.

I carry Rachel over to her high chair and put some dried cereal on the tray in front of her. At seven-thirty, there is a noise at the front door. “Good morning,” Delia singsongs from the foyer. I look over to the counter where her glasses still sit. In my confusion over hearing Simon on the phone, I forgot to call her and tell her they were here.

Delia comes into the kitchen wearing a pair of spectacles I do not recognize. I hold the ones she left behind out to her. “I was wondering where those were!” Delia exclaims.

“I meant to call you and tell you they were here.”

“No worries. Fortunately I had my old pair.” Her sleeve is damp as she takes the glasses from me, replacing the older ones and tucking them into her bag. I look out the window over the sink, noticing for the first time the rain that falls in heavy sheets. My heart sinks. I had hoped that Delia would take Rachel to the park, giving me a chance to look through Simon’s belongings. Perhaps the weather will change.

But the sky remains solid gray throughout the morning. Delia takes Rachel back up to her bedroom to play and I join them for a while, trying to focus on the building blocks Rachel loves so much. Later, I leave them, still playing, and retreat to the parlor with my book. But I stare out the window at the rain-soaked street, unable to concentrate. Is Simon really at work, I wonder, or off somewhere with that woman? For a minute I consider calling him at the office to see. But a call from me would be unusual and would surely make him suspicious.

A short while later, Delia carries Rachel back downstairs and deposits her on my lap. “I’ll make lunch,” she says, disappearing into the kitchen. I wrap my arms around Rachel, burying my nose in her dark curls.

I think then of Paul. If Simon really is having an affair and I confronted him, perhaps he would leave me, after all. Maybe then Paul and I could be together. A shiver runs through me. The idea is almost inconceivable. Would Paul even still want me under such circumstances? He might not even realize that Rachel is his, I remind myself. A romantic affair while on the run in Germany is one thing. A relationship with a divorced woman who has a young child is quite another.

Delia reappears with two trays bearing sandwiches and soup. She turns on the radio to the BBC and a newscaster’s voice fills the parlor. We eat in silence, listening to the broadcast. I feed Rachel small bites of sandwich from my plate. After we finish, Delia clears the lunch trays and returns with cups of tea. The news ends and another program, “Woman’s Hour,” begins. We sit, listening to the radio while Rachel plays on the floor. Neither Delia nor I mention our conversation from the previous day about Paul. I consider briefly sharing my suspicions about Simon with her, then decide against it.

The afternoon passes slowly, the rain beating incessantly on the roof. I look at the clock above the fireplace. It is just after three o’clock. Delia usually doesn’t leave until at least six and I will not dare look through Simon’s belongings at such a late hour for fear he will come home.

“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.

“I’ll have mine after I eat supper,” he says, putting it in his pocket. He leans down and kisses my cheek. “I won’t be terribly late.”

“Have a good time,” I say, struggling to keep my voice even. I want to stop him, to demand that he tell me the truth. My heart races as he closes the door behind him, fighting the urge to leap up and run to his study. He will be gone for hours, I tell myself. I need to wait at least thirty minutes or so, to make sure he is really gone, that he doesn’t return because he has forgotten something. I lean back, closing my eyes, eager for him to leave once more.

Suddenly, I sit up with a start. I must have fallen asleep, but for how long? My head is strangely heavy, my mouth dry as though I have been asleep for hours. “Hello?” I call, rubbing my eyes. There is no response. I stand and make my way unsteadily to the kitchen, splashing water on my face. Then I walk back across the parlor to the front window. Simon’s car is gone.

Shaking my head to clear it, I hurry back up the stairs to Simon’s study, more determined than ever to find out what is going on. My eyes lock on a letter opener standing in the pencil cup, the lamplight reflected in its sharp, silvery end. I pick up the opener and turn it over in my hand, considering. If I break the lock, Simon will know I was here. Suddenly I do not care—I need to know the truth about what he is doing, about the woman on the other end of the phone. I wedge the letter opener into the small space between the top-right drawer and the underside of the desk and turn it sharply. The lock opens with a pop.

Inside the drawer sits a thick stack of papers. I lift the top few and rifle through them. What am I looking for? I wonder. Love notes, receipts from presents or hotels? But everything here appears to be work-related. This is ridiculous, I think. Why am I doing this? But I continue skimming through the papers. The first few pages are department cables. For a second, I hesitate. Perhaps there are classified documents that I am not cleared to see. Nonsense. I risked my life. I have the right. Simon would not have classified documents stuck in a desk drawer, anyway. Or at least I do not think so. I look down at the cables. They are nothing I have not seen in the office, but I am surprised to find them shoved inside the desk in no particular order. Simon always files papers alphabetically in folders and then by date order within, in the metal cabinet that sits behind his desk.