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—”