London Match (37 page)

'Will this affect Bret's appointment to Berlin?'

'They won't consult me on that one, Bernard.' A modest smile to show me that they
might
consult him. In fact, we both knew that Morgan was depending upon Dicky's veto to stop Bret getting Berlin. 'But I'd say Bret will be lucky to escape a suspension.'

'A suspension?'

'It won't be called a suspension. It will be called a posting, or a sabbatical, or a paid leave.'

'Even so.'

'Bret's made a lot of enemies in the Department,' said Dicky.

'You and Morgan, you mean?'

Dicky was flustered at this accusation. He got up from his chair and went to the fireplace so that he could toy with a framed photo of his boat. He looked at it for a moment and wiped the glass with his handkerchief before putting it back alongside the clock. 'I'm no enemy to Bret; I like him. I know he tried to take over my desk, but I don't hold that against him.'

'But?'

'But there are all kinds of loose ends arising out of the Stinnes affair. Bret has gone at it like a bull in a china shop. First there was the fiasco in Cambridge. Now there's the shooting in Hampstead. And what have we got to show for it? Nothing at all.'

'No one tried to stop him,' I said.

'You mean no one listened to your attempts to stop him. Well, you're right, Bernard. You were right and Bret was wrong. But Bret was determined to run it all personally, and with Bret's seniority it wasn't so easy to interfere with him.'

'But now it is easy to interfere with him?'

'It's called "a review",' said Dicky.

'Why couldn't it be called a review last week?'

He sank down into the sofa and stretched his legs along it. 'Because a whole assortment of complications came up this week.'

'Concerning Bret?'

'Yes.'

'He's not facing an enquiry?'

'I don't know, Bernard. And even if I did know, I couldn't discuss it with you.'

'Will it affect me?' I asked.

'I don't think so, except inasmuch as you have been working with Bret while all these things have happened.' He fingered his belt buckle. 'Unless of course Bret blames you.'

'And is Bret doing that?' I said. I spoke more loudly than I intended; I hadn't wanted my fears, or my distrust of Bret, to show.

As I said it, Dicky's wife Daphne came in. She smiled. 'And is Bret doing what, Bernard?' she said.

'Dyeing his hair,' improvised Dicky hastily. 'Bernard was wondering if Bret dyes his hair.'

'But his hair is white,' said Daphne.

'Not really white. It's blond and going white,' said Dicky. 'We were just saying that it never seems to go any whiter. What do you think, darling? You ladies know about things like that.'

'He was here the other evening. He had supper with us,' said Daphne. 'He's such a handsome man. . . .' She saw Dicky's face, and maybe mine too. 'For his age, I mean. But I don't think he could be dyeing his hair unless it was being done by some very good hairdresser. It's certainly not obvious.' Daphne stood in front of the fireplace so that we could get a good look at her new outfit. She was dressed in a long gown of striped shiny cotton, an Arab
djellaba
which the neighbours had brought back from their holiday in Cairo. Her hair was plaited, with beads woven into it. She'd been an art student and once worked in an advertising agency. She liked to look artistic.

'He'd have no trouble affording an expensive hairdresser,' said Dicky. 'He inherited a fortune when he was twenty-one. And he certainly knows how to spend it.' Dicky had gone through his college days short of cash, and now he especially resented anyone having been young and rich, whether they were prodigies, divorcees or pop stars. He looked at the clock. 'Is that the time? If we're going to see this video, we'd better get started. Have you got the food ready, darling?' Without waiting to hear her reply he turned to me and said, 'We're eating on trays in here. Better than rushing through our meal.'

Dicky had been determined to get a preview of the report I was preparing for submission to the D-G, but his command to bring it to him had been disguised as an invitation to supper, with a rented video of a Fred Astaire musical as a surprise extra.

'It's only soup and toasted sandwiches,' said Daphne.

Dicky said, 'I bought her one of those sandwich toasters. My God, I rue the day! Now I get everything between toasted bread: salami, cheese, ham, avocado and bacon. . . . What was that mess you served the other day, darling — curried lamb inside a toasted
chapatti
? It was disgusting.'

'It was just an experiment, darling,' said Daphne.

'Yes, well, you didn't have to scrape all the burned pieces off the machine, darling,' said Dicky. 'I thought you'd set the whole kitchen on fire. I burned my finger.'

He showed me the finger. I nodded.

'It's ham and cheese tonight,' said Daphne. 'Onion soup to start with.'

'I hope you chopped the onion really small this time,' said Dicky.

'He hates soup going down his chin,' said Daphne, as though this was a curious aversion for which she could not account.

'It mined one of my good ties,' said Dicky. 'And in the dark I didn't notice.'

'Bret Rensselaer didn't spill his soup,' said Daphne. 'And he wears beautiful ties.'

'Why don't you get the supper, darling?'

'The trays are all ready.'

'And I'll get the video,' said Dicky. He stood, hitched his trousers up, and retrieved my report from under the paperweight before he strode from the room.

'The video is on the machine,' said Daphne. 'He hates saying he's going to the loo. He's such a prude about some things.'

I nodded.

She stood by the kitchen door and said, 'I'll go and get the food.' But she made no move.

'Can I help you, Daphne?'

To my surprise she said yes. Usually Daphne didn't like visitors to her kitchen. I'd heard her say that many times.

I followed her. The kitchen had all been redecorated since the last time I'd been there. It was like a cupboard shop; there were cupboards on every available piece of wall space. All were made of plastic, patterned to look like oak.

'Dicky is having an affair,' she said.

'Is he?'

She disregarded my feigned surprise. 'Has he spoken with you about her?'

'An affair?'

'He relies on you,' she said. 'Are you sure he hasn't mentioned anything?'

'I've been with Bret Rensselaer a lot of the time lately.'

'I know I'm putting you in a difficult position, Bernard, but I must know.'

'He hasn't discussed it with me, Daphne. To tell you the truth, it's not the sort of thing he'd confide to me, even if it was true.' Her face fell. 'And I'm sure it's not,' I added.

'It's your sister-in-law,' said Daphne. 'She must be as old as I am, perhaps older.' She opened the toasting machine and pried the sandwiches out of it, using the blade of an old knife. Without turning to me she said, 'If it was some very young girl, I'd find it easier to understand.'

I nodded. Was this, I wondered, a concession to my relationship with Gloria? 'Those sandwiches smell good,' I said.

'They're only ham and cheese,' said Daphne. 'Dicky won't eat anything exotic.' She got a big plate of previously prepared sandwiches from the oven. 'Tessa, I mean. Your sister-in-law; Tessa Kosinski.'

'I've only got the one,' I said. And one like Tessa was more than enough, I thought. Why did she have to make everyone's life so bloody complicated?

'And she's a friend,' said Daphne. 'A friend of the family. That's what hurts.'

'Tessa has been kind to me, helping me with the children.'

'Yes, I know.' Daphne sniffed. It wasn't the sort of sniff that fragile ladies used as a prelude to tears — more the sort of sniff Old Bailey judges gave before passing the death sentence. 'I suppose you must feel a debt of loyalty.' She put cutlery on the trays. She did it very carefully and gently, so that I wouldn't think she was angry.

'I'll do anything I can to help,' I said.

'Don't worry about Dicky hearing us. We'll hear the toilet flush.' She began to look for soup bowls and she had to open four of the cupboards before she found them. 'They had an affair before.' She was speaking to the inside of the cupboards. 'Now, don't say you didn't know about that, Bernard. Tessa and I made up after that. I thought it was all finished.'

'And this time?'

'A friend of mine saw them at a little hotel near Deal . . . Kent, you know.'

'That's a strange place to go for . . .'I stopped and tried to rephrase the sentence.

'No, it was chosen as one of the ten best places for a lovers' weekend by one of the women's magazines last month.
Harpers & Queen
, I think. That's why my friend was there.'

'Perhaps Dicky . . .'

'He told me he was in Cologne,' said Daphne. 'He said it was top secret.'

'Is there something you want me to do about it?'

'I want to meet your brother-in-law,' said Daphne. 'I want to talk to him about it. I want him to know how I feel.'

'Would that really be wise?' I said. I wondered how George would react to an approach from Daphne.

'It's what I want. I've thought about it, and it's what I want.'

'It might just blow over.'

'It will. They all blow over,' said Daphne. 'One after another he has these girlfriends, and I wait for it to blow over. Then he goes off with someone else. Or with the same one again.'

'Have you spoken to him about it?' I said.

'He says it's his money he spends, not mine. He says it's the money his uncle left him.' She turned to me. 'It's nothing to do with the money, Bernard. It's the betrayal. He wouldn't betray his country, would he? He's fanatical about loyalty to the Department. So why betray his wife and children?'

'Did you tell him that?'

'Over and over again. I've had enough of it. I'm going to get a divorce. I want George Kosinski to know that I'm naming his wife in a divorce action.'

Poor George, I thought, that's all he needs to complete his misery. 'That's a serious step, Daphne. I know how you feel, but there are your children . . .'

'They're at school. I only see them in the holidays. Sometimes I think that it was a terrible mistake to send them to boarding school. If the children had lived at home, perhaps Dicky would have had more to keep him from straying.'

'Sometimes it works the other way,' I said, more to comfort her than because I believed it. 'Sometimes children at home make husbands want to get out.'

'Will you arrange it?' she said. 'In the next few days?'

'I'll try,' I said. I heard Dicky upstairs.

Daphne had the trays all ready. 'Could you open the wine, Bernard, and bring the paper napkins? The corkscrew is in the drawer.'

As she held the refrigerator door open for me to get the wine, she said, 'Wasn't that a surprise about Mr Rensselaer? I'd always liked him.' She closed the door and I waited for her as she pushed the hot sandwiches onto the serving plate with flicking motions so that she didn't burn her fingers.

'Yes,' I said.

'Stealing a Cabinet memo and giving it to the Russians. And now they're saying he tried to get you all killed.' She saw the surprise in my face. 'Oh, I know it's still the subject of an enquiry, and we mustn't talk about it, but Dicky says Bret is going to have a job talking his way out of this one.' She picked up all three trays after piling them one on top of the other. 'It must be a mistake, don't you think? He couldn't really be a spy, could he? He's such a nice man.'

'Come along, come along,' shouted Dicky from the next room. 'The titles are running.'

'Dicky's such a mean pig,' said Daphne. 'He can't even wait for us before starting the film.'

'You said you wouldn't be late.' Gloria was in bed and my coming into the bedroom had wakened her.

'Sorry,' I said. Our relationship had developed — or should I say degenerated? — into that of a married couple. She spent each weekend with me and kept clothes and makeup and jewellery in my house. To say nothing of countless pairs of shoes.