she says, clapping her hand over the mouthpiece, and yells at somebody in what sounds like an empty house. I can’t hear words but I can hear the echo of them like fogged voices at sea, first Florence’s, then a man’s. Then back to me, en clair and businesslike:
‘Yes, Nat?’
‘Well, hullo again,’ I say.
‘Hullo.’
If I am expecting a note of contrition, there is none in the voice and none in the echo.
‘I called because I said I would and we seem to have unfinished business,’ I say, surprised that I am having to explain myself when the explaining should be all on her side.
‘Professional business or personal business?’ she demands, and I feel my hackles rise.
‘You said in your text that we could talk if I wanted,’ I remind her. ‘Given the manner of your departure, I thought that pretty rich.’
‘What was the manner of my departure?’
‘Sudden to say the least. And remarkably inconsiderate towards certain people in your care, if you want to know,’ I snap, and in the long silence that follows regret my harshness.
‘How are they?’ she asks in a subdued voice.
‘The people in your care?’
‘Who do you think?’
‘They miss you rotten,’ I reply more gently.
‘Brenda too?’ – after yet another long silence.
Brenda, stable name for Astra, Orson’s disenchanted mistress, primary source for Operation Rosebud. I am about to tell her with some asperity that Brenda, on learning of her departure, has refused further service, but the choke in Florence’s voice is all too noticeable so I water my answer down.
‘Managing pretty well, all things considered. Asks after you but fully understands that life must go on. You still there?’
‘Nat?’
‘What?’
‘I think you’d better take me out to dinner.’
‘When?’
‘Soon.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘All right.’
‘And fish presumably?’ I say, remembering our fish pie at the pub after her presentation of Rosebud.
‘I don’t give a fuck what we eat,’ she replies and rings off.
The only fish restaurants I knew were on Finance section’s affordable list which meant we were liable to bump into Service colleagues dining their contacts, the last thing either of us needed. I plump for a fancy restaurant in the West End and draw a wad of cash from a machine because I don’t want the bill featuring on our joint Barclaycard account. Sometimes in life you get caught for sins you haven’t committed. I ask for a corner table but needn’t have bothered. London is sweltering in the endless heatwave. I arrive, as is my habit, ahead of time and order myself a Scotch. The restaurant is almost deserted and the waiters are sleepy wasps. After ten minutes Florence appears wearing a summer adaptation of her Office fatigues: stern military blouse with long sleeves and high neck, no makeup. At the Haven we had begun with nods and progressed to air kisses. Now we were back to ‘hullo’ and she’s treating me as the ex-lover that I am not.
Under cover of an enormous menu I offer her a glass of house champagne. She reminds me curtly that she drinks red burgundy only. A Dover sole would be fine, she concedes, just a small one. And a crab and avocado to begin with if I’m really having one. I am. I’m interested in her hands. The man’s heavy gold signet ring that she wore on her wedding finger has given way to a scruffy silver ring peppered with small red stones. It’s loose on her and not a natural fit over the pale imprint of its predecessor.
We get through the business of ordering and return our enormous menus to the waiter. Hitherto she has effectively avoided eye contact. Now she is looking straight at me and there is not a hint of contrition in her stare.
‘What did Trench tell you?’ she demands.
‘About you?’
‘Yes. Me.’
I had assumed I would be asking the hard questions, but she has other ideas.
‘That you were over-emotional and a mistake, basically,’ I reply. ‘I said that wasn’t the you I recognized. By then you’d flounced out of the Office, so it was all pretty academic. You could have told me during our four at badminton. You could have called me. You didn’t.’
‘Did you think I was over-emotional and a mistake?’
‘I just told you. As I said to Trench, this wasn’t the Florence I recognized.’
‘I asked what you thought. Not what you said.’
‘What was I supposed to think? Rosebud was a disappointment to all of us. But there’s nothing exceptional about a special operation being called off at the last minute. So naturally I did think that you