O'Farrell's Law (20 page)

He was putting it off, O'Farrell knew, putting off what he had to do.

FIFTEEN

T
HEY WERE
together so rarely as a family that the evening had an odd formality, a gathering of polite strangers intent upon doing nothing to offend the others. Rivera was smilingly solicitous to Estelle, who smiled a lot in response. And Jorge, whose twelfth birthday it was, gave each parent his open-eyed, respectful attention, alert to intervene at the first sign of discord between them, as he had learned to divert arguments before, when enough feeling had remained between them to stimulate arguments. It wasn't there any longer, but the child didn't know that.

Rivera had given some thought to planning the treat, going as far as discussing it in advance with Estelle, who agreed that an entire evening would be difficult for the two of them and thought the revival of
South Pacific
would be ideal. Before setting off from Hampstead for the theater, Jorge was given his presents while Rivera and Estelle made a conscious effort and sipped champagne. It was not the first effort either had made. An element of competition remained between them, and each had tried to outdo the other with the choice of present. Estelle had gone for the traditional, an elaborate designer bicycle heavy with every available extra—which certainly gave her the contest in actual appearance. Rivera explained to Jorge as he handed over the document that it was a contract for success-guaranteed hang-gliding lessons, and that the hang glider was too bulky to get into the drawing room but was waiting in the garage. The experienced child reacted with precisely the same level of enthusiasm to both, but Rivera considered himself the winner.

They had box seats at the musical, which turned out to be an excellent choice for Jorge. The boy sat enraptured, applauding loudly. Rivera found his seat uncomfortable in his boredom and guessed Estelle did, too. Occasionally he glanced across al her but she studiously ignored the attention, instead gazing fixedly at the stage as if she were as enthralled as their son.

Whose fault had it been that their marriage had turned out the disaster it was? Hers, he decided instantly. There'd never been love but he'd been prepared to make some attempt, establish a relationship in which they could both exist comfortably. But Estelle, who was eighteen years younger, had turned shrew almost from the moment the ceremony was over, practically gloating over her success in snaring a grateful middle-aged diplomat whose vocation would get her away from Cuba and into social strata where she felt she belonged; like Rivera's family, Estelle's had suffered by Castro's accession to power, but it had been slower to recover. Rivera brought his attention closer, to the boy. Part of that ensnarement, Rivera was sure, conceived the moment Estelle discerned his disinterest and feared he might end the marriage. Certainly he'd never believed she'd wanted to become pregnant; it was maneuvered, like the marriage itself. And it had been an absurd nine months, Estelle demanding nearly daily attention from the gynecologist and exercising constantly to maintain her figure. After the birth she'd been more concerned with regaining her waist than she seemed to be with Jorge, whom she immediately handed over to a nurse. No matter, thought Rivera philosophically; they were both making the best of it.

He wondered sometimes about Estelle's men: whether she slept with one particular lover or many. He pitied them, compared to the experience of sleeping with Henrietta. With whom he would have rather been now—even
out
of bed—than enduring a blaring musical on a seat built for dwarfs with a woman he didn't like anymore and who disliked him just as much in return. He felt far differently about Henrietta than he ever had about Estelle. Actually missed her; thought about her constantly.

Rivera chose the Caprice for dinner afterward, specifically because it was not a restaurant he and Henrietta often frequented and he didn't want intrusive headwaiter recognition. It appeared, however, to be a favorite of Estelle's, who was greeted as familiarly as he was examined curiously. There was even an offer of a better table, made as much to Estelle as to him. Rivera said they were content with the one they had.

“Do I need to order the aperitif, or will they know automatically?” said Rivera.

Estelle frowned at the petulance, surprised, and Rivera regretted the remark, surprised at himself. She said, “They'll probably know if you ask for the usual, but if the normal man is having the night off, it's a vodka martini with an olive,” and Rivera regretted it even more. To avoid the test, Rivera ordered Roederer Crystal, the champagne they'd had earlier.

Aware of her advantage in the exchange, Estelle spoke to Jorge but directed the remark at Rivera, as a continuing taunt. “The liver is always very good. That or the lamb.”

It had been his own stupidity, Rivera knew; she had every right to use the ammunition he'd supplied. He said, “I think I'll go for fish,” and recognized that as a mistake, too; he should have taken one of her recommendations.

Estelle smiled at him. “That's what I often have, too,” and stayed waiting for him to react.

He had to back off, Rivera realized. It offended him to do so, because he didn't like losing even the most inconsequential exchange with her, but he was conscious of Jorge's apprehension and refused to let a ridiculous sparring match over a restaurant menu mar the child's evening. Straining, as always, for impartiality, the boy chose chicken. Estelle had the lamb.

The musical formed the safest subject of conversation and Rivera guided it easily along, pleased that Jorge genuinely seemed to have enjoyed it. When they exhausted that subject, they talked about hang gliding, which Rivera decided gave him the victory in the present-buying contest. Estelle offered no more challenges. Rivera was careful about everything he said, before he said it, so there was nothing against which she would feel she had to fight back.

They drove directly from the restaurant back to the Hampstead house, where Rivera had to park outside because of the hang glider. With the evening over and with it the risk of any confrontation, he opened^ the garage doors to show the apparatus to Jorge. It was still packed but Rivera made holes in the covering for the boy to see the color, and there was some excited talk about buying a trailer to transport it. Jorge wondered, when he was qualified, if he could fly from Hampstead Heath itself and. Rivera said he didn't know but he expected it was possible, and anyway he'd find out.

Inside the house Jorge thanked him for what he called a wonderful evening and they kissed and Rivera made gratefully toward the drawing room again, unsure if it were too late to call Henrietta; it was a simple code, when her husband might be home, leaving the telephone to ring three times before disconnecting, allowing a few minutes for her to get near a receiver, and then dialing again. It
was
later than he usually telephoned, but Rivera decided to do it; they'd spoken that afternoon but Rivera wanted very much to talk to her again, although there was nothing to say.

Rivera stopped short immediately inside the door, not expecting Estelle to be there. She was in one of the fireside chairs, a brandy snifter already cupped between both hands.

“What's he think of his hang glider?” Estelle asked conversationally.

Rivera went to the liquor tray and poured brandy. “He's excited about it.” Too weary to bother with more contests, he said, “He's delighted with the bike, too.”

Estelle was smiling when he turned back to her, but it was not the usual contemptuous expression. “I'll concede if you want me to: yours was the better gift.”

“I don't want you to concede anything,” Rivera said, honestly. How long before she went to bed! He couldn't remember the last time she'd joined him for an after-dinner drink—the last time she'd even been home at this hour, which for Estelle was early.

“It was juvenile tonight, wasn't it?”

Still conversational, practically friendly if that weren't impossible, Rivera judged. He was confused. Go along with the discussion until the point emerges, he thought, the professional diplomat. He said, “Yes, very juvenile.”

“Don't you think it's time we did something about it?”

“Something about it?” Rivera's confusion worsened.

“Why don't we get divorced?” she blurted. “There's absolutely no purpose in making the pretense anymore. We only did it for Jorge, and did you see him tonight? Poor little bastard was tighter than a spring, trying to please both of us. Ready to act as a mediator, if necessary. It's cruder to stay together than it would be to break up.…” The nonchallenging smile came again. “I know what he means to you, what having a son means to you. I'd agree to your having permanent custody, with my having visiting rights. Let's be civilized about it.”

Rivera had fully recovered, his mind grasping and placing everything she'd said in order of priority. Adjusting his own priorities, his own necessities, too. Irrespective of his thoughts in the theater that night—and all his previous reflections—Rivera had never contemplated the breakup being at Estelle's instigation. Not that Cuba mattered, because he had no intention of ever returning there, but a divorce at her instigation would make him a laughingstock there. He could imagine the gibes:
Rivera, the man with no cojones
. She must be mad, imagining it was even a subject for discussion between them. Not a subject for her to initiate, anyway. But what about him and Henrietta? He'd already thought about it, after all.

“I see,” Rivera stalled. Estelle had clearly rehearsed what she'd just said. And revealed a lot in her eagerness. He said, “Does he want to marry you?”

Estelle blushed, obviously, something he could never recall her doing before. She said, “He's telling his wife tonight as well.”

“Who is he?”

“His name's Lopelle, Albert Lopelle. He's the military attaché at the French embassy.”

“Military attaché” almost automatically meant French intelligence. Certainly there'd be an investigation by Cuban counterespionage which would create an excuse to extend that probe into his own private affairs. Rivera didn't want that, any more than the spotlight of newspaper publicity on a divorce. He said, “How long?”

Estelle shrugged, as if it were unimportant, which it was. “Almost a year. We met at a Foreign Office reception celebrating the Queen's birthday. You were there.”

Rivera couldn't remember the event, but it was the sort of social occasion that was important to Estelle. He was fairly confident he knew how to handle it now, although he wished he were better able to gauge Estelle's reaction.

“No,” Rivera said bluntly.

“What!” Estelle blinked up at him, clearly shocked.

“I said no,” Rivera repeated. “Under no circumstances will I consent at this time to a divorce between us.”

“But …” Estelle stumbled, and stopped. “You must!” she started again, disclosing how readily she had expected his agreement. “There's nothing between us, except dislike! There's no
point
in going on!”

“At this time I need a wife, a hostess, officially,” said Rivera. “Which is what you will remain, my official wife. I'll make no other demands upon you, apart from that. You can come and go, spend as much time with this man Lopelle as you want, providing it does not clash with any official function we have to attend together—”

“But that's precisely what we do now,” she cut in.

“If you try to force any sort of divorce action upon me, I shall see that you are returned to Havana and that all travel permission is withdrawn. You'll never see Lopelle again.”

“Why!” Estelle wailed.

“I said ‘at this time.' “

“Please explain that,” Estelle said, subdued.

“To my timing and to my choice you can have your divorce,” Rivera said. “It's the timing to which I object.”

“When?” she asked eagerly, smiling hopefully.

“I don't know, not specifically. Not a long time.” The current deal with Belac should be over before the year's end, Rivera thought. Which was when he'd already decided to quit and find that Paris home. In passing, Rivera was caught by the coincidence of his deciding to live in France and Estelle choosing a French lover. “Well?” he said.

“It's hardly a choice, is it?”

“I think so,” Rivera said. “My way gives you everything you want with just a delay, that's all.”

The smile came again, not as easily but still a smile. “I suppose it docs, really. You do mean it, don't you?”

“I promise you,” Rivera said.

“Not long?” Estelle pressed.

“That's what I said,” Rivera reiterated. “And during that time, perhaps we could have a little less hostility.”

“I'd like that, too,” Estelle said sincerely. “And thank you.”

The idea of having Estelle returned to Cuba and held there had come suddenly to Rivera, without any forethought, but considering it more fully, he decided it would be an excellent ploy when he decided to leave London. His planning would have to be precise, officially informing his intelligence people about her association with a French spy to absolve himself from any suspicion, but it shouldn't be too difficult. He certainly didn't intend to be cast aside publicly at her whim, in favor of another man. She was stupid not to know better.

O'Farrell had moved into the second guest house toward evening and afterward went to the Christchurch Hill house to try to spot any obvious security precautions, like guard dogs or patrols. He was startled to see Rivera emerging with his family and on impulse followed them to the theater. It was impossible for him to get a ticket so late, but he had their car as a marker and spent the time in a pub from which he could see it, strictly rationing himself to three drinks. He was ready a good half hour before they left, and he followed them again to the restaurant.