‘Nine thirty,’ he repeated, and then the moment had passed and he was smiling once again. He turned his back on Slater and asked Bannerman, ‘Are you in Brussels for anything special?’
‘Just scratching around,’ Bannerman replied, and beyond Gryffe he saw, with a sinking feeling, the approaching Schumachers. This was not his night.
‘Well, Mr. Bannerman. Isn’t this a surprise? Just fancy meeting you here.’ Mrs. Schumacher, flushed from too many sherries, blustered in on the three men, Henry Schumacher following quietly in tow. He smiled his habitual embarrassed smile. But his wife had no inhibitions. ‘God, I have to admire you, Mr. Bannerman. You’re a real fast mover.’ She paused to take breath and straighten down her dress. ‘Well, are you not going to introduce me to your friends?’
Bannerman smiled awkwardly. ‘Mr. and Mrs. Henry Schumacher, Mr. Robert Gryffe, Under Secretary of State at the British Foreign Office, and Timothy Slater, a journalist.’ Slater looked positively hostile, but Gryffe remained quite unruffled. He shook both their hands.
‘Please to meet you,’ he said.
‘And we are so pleased to meet you, I can assure you, Mr. Gryffe,’ Laura-Lee Schumacher gushed. ‘My husband is with the US Government at NATO. Perhaps you’ll have heard of him?’
‘I’m afraid...’
But Laura-Lee would not let him finish. The pretence must be maintained at all costs. ‘I do so think there should be more contact between the politicians of our two countries. Socially, I mean. Wouldn’t you agree? Perhaps you would lunch with us one day.’
‘I’d be delighted,’ Gryffe lied.
Mrs. Schumacher took his arm confidentially and steered his eyes towards Bannerman. ‘Has this young man been trying to sell you vacuum cleaners?’
Bannerman watched Gryffe’s face with amusement while Schumacher’s embarrassment grew more acute. ‘I think perhaps you should come and sit down, Laura-Lee,’ the American blurted with a painful seif-consciousness.
‘Oh nonsense, Henry. Don’t fuss so. I’m sure Mr. Gryffe doesn’t mind.’
‘Not at all,’ Gryffe said.
Bannerman noticed Platt watching them curiously from a leaning position against the far wall, a glass clutched tightly in his hand. He turned to Mrs. Schumacher. ‘I’m sorry to have to break things up, but I’m afraid I have to leave.’ And to Slater. ‘I’ll see you later.’ Pause. ‘Goodnight.’ He turned abruptly and made his way towards the door.
‘Well, that’s a shame,’ Laura-Lee said. ‘Such a nice young man. He doesn’t really look like a vacuum salesman.’
‘A what?’ Gryffe asked, puzzled for the second time.
‘A vacuum salesman. He works for the... what was it, Henry? The name of the firm?’
‘The Quick-Clean Vacuum and Brush Company, I think he said,’ Henry offered.
Gryffe smiled with genuine amusement. ‘I think our Mr. Bannerman has been pulling your leg,’ he said politely.
‘Oh?’ Mrs. Schumacher glared at him. ‘Who does he work for then?’
‘He’s the investigative reporter of the Edinburgh Post. A man with quite a reputation.’
Mrs. Schumacher let go Gryffe’s arm and he took a relieved step back. ‘You hear that, Henry?’ she barked. ‘A reporter. Why on earth should he tell us he sold vacuum cleaners?’ Henry Schumacher’s face echoed Gryffe’s puzzlement of a few moments earlier.
Platt watched Bannerman leave and thought, I wonder what he’s up to? He drained his glass and peered at the faces of European society through a haze of alcohol and cynicism, wincing slightly as his ulcer issued the first warnings of a troublesome night. He took a tablet from a bottle in his pocket and chewed on its chalky mintness. It was not worth staying much longer, he thought. There was no copy in this. His news desk would be upset in the morning, but they could go to hell. It was not his kind of job anyway. Dinner suits and smoked salmon. Though he knew he could not push his luck too far. It was a long time since he had turned in a good story. But he would show them. Rémy and Clerck and the rest. There was no way he would lose this job too. He was happy in his exile, anonymous safe from the failed years in Scotland, safe from the single end, the endless hard-drinking pubs, the sole milk bottle on the doorstep and the letters of complaint from the woman across the landing. He signalled a waiter and told himself this would be the last whisky tonight. Now he had Bannerman. An arrogant young man, yes, but a bloody good reporter. Something must have brought him to Brussels. Something big. And if Platt played his cards right, maybe he could get a piece of the action, whatever it might be. He chuckled to himself. After all these years he might get some mileage out of Bannerman yet.
Sally sat listening to the slow interminable tick, tick of the clock on the mantelpiece. There was no sound from the child’s room and the apartment was still and quiet. Her book lay open on the table beside the settee. She had been unable to read, unable to watch television. She was thinking about Bannerman ever since last night. He had had an odd effect on her. His quiet, powerful presence, like the taste of a good wine. It was intoxicating. There was something dark and secret about the man, something that she wanted to reach out and touch. But somewhere deep inside her there was that fear of commitment and then betrayal. No man had affected her like that since...
She heard the key in the door and looked at the clock. It was only eleven. They were early. She had not expected them back until around two. But there were no voices, only the quiet closing of the door and soft footsteps in the hall. The door opened into the living room and Bannerman stopped in the doorway. He smiled and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’d forgotten you’d be here. My mind was on other things.’ He swayed slightly as he closed the door and she saw that he had been drinking. He slipped off his coat and threw it over the back of the settee.
‘You’re drunk,’ she said.
‘No.’ He shook his head again. ‘A little bit drunk, a little bit sad.’ He walked unsteadily past her to the window where he drew back the curtains and stood looking out into the blackness. He could not have seen anything for the light in the room, but she could see his face reflected darkly on the glass. He sunk his hands deep in his pockets and she saw his eyes closing. She said nothing, and the moments of silence dragged out. Then he said unexpectedly, ‘You know, there is no way of escaping the things you regret. They’re always there, shaping the way you are, even when you don’t know it. And then something or someone brings it all back and it seems all the more bitter for the years you have buried it.’ Sally did not know what to say. He would not, she knew, say these things if he had not been drinking. ‘First the child, Tania,’ he went on, ‘and then Platt, and maybe even you in some way.’
She eased herself out of the settee and moved towards him. ‘Don’t say any more.’ She put her hand up to his lips and he kissed it before pulling it gently away.
‘I need someone...’ he whispered.
She shook her head. ‘You should sleep on it.’
‘Alone?’
‘Alone.’ But she felt afraid again. It would be so easy. And it had been so long.
He let her take his hand and lead him out of the living room and into his bedroom. The shutters were open and the light from the streetlamps shone in bright yellow flecks through the drops of rain on the window, like tiny needles of light in the darkness. He let her slip off his jacket and tie and begin undoing the buttons of his shirt, and all the time he watched her green, speckled eyes. He still felt warmed by the drink, and the sadness was still there also. He felt her lips on his chest and he reached out and pressed her head close into him. It felt small and fragile and precious in his hand, her hair soft and silky so that it was almost like touching nothing. He felt the softness of her body pressing against him. All the curves and hollows. She stretched up and he kissed her and they slipped back on to the bed so that he felt all the nakedness of her skin against his — and he could not remember her having undressed.