Owain felt an unsettling brew of emotions. He himself had never married. His fiancée had abandoned him shortly before their wedding, leaving London to join her family on holiday in Venezuela, whereupon they deliberately sailed into US waters and were interned by the Americans. She’d sent him a note on perfumed paper to say that she wanted a better life.
Eight years ago. Caroline. These days whenever he thought of her it was merely as a deserter to her country rather than their marriage. There had been no one else until Marisa came along. But she was a married woman, even though his impression was that she had been duped into it by an older man taking advantage of her vulnerability. It was his own sense of honour and self-preservation that prevented him from even declaring let alone acting on his feelings. It was quite possible that Legister knew she was here.
“You must take more care,” she told him seriously. “They said you were lucky not to be killed. It was a bomb.”
He wasn’t sure whether this was a question or a statement.
“Of some sort,” he replied. “They’re still investigating. I don’t remember much.”
This, of course, was a lie; but he didn’t want to involve her in complications. Yet she might be able to help.
“What did your husband say?”
“Carl? He never speaks to me about official matters.”
“I thought you said he was talking to my uncle about it.”
“Only that there had been an incident. I heard him mention your name.”
“Apparently his men are doing the investigating. I’m surprised they’re involved.”
“Do you think he would explain things to me? I am only his little wife.”
She said this with resigned amusement rather than rancour.
“My driver,” he remarked. “His name was Maurice. Jamaican originally. They told me he was OK, but it would be nice to know.”
“Is it not possible to contact him?”
He couldn’t risk asking his uncle or Giselle, and it was unlikely he would be allowed access to personnel details without raising suspicions.
“It’s not encouraged,” he told her. “You know how these things work. But I’d just like to be sure, unofficially, you understand?”
He disliked being less than straightforward with her, but there was something slippery about the whole business; and Marisa was no fool. Staff details would surely be accessible at her husband’s ministry. Drivers were unlikely to have a high security classification.
“Of course I will do this for you,” she said. “With the uttermost discretion.”
She was grinning, pleased that she could help. “I’m so glad you’re safe,” she went on. “I missed you badly when you were away. You’re the only one who makes me feel I can be myself.”
Her candour unsettled him because the sentiments she expressed were so desirable.
“So how is Carl?” he asked.
“I hardly see him,” she replied. “Every day he is gone before dawn. Every day there are meetings, conferences, and I never know whether he will be home or not. Always at six in the evening he rings, often to tell me he will be late and I am not to stay awake for him.” She gave an exasperated sigh and said, “Am I bad to say I would prefer it that way except that sometimes it is hard to occupy my days?”
But she did keep herself busy. He knew she helped out at a local surgery, as well as doling out Red Cross parcels at refugee centres. She was also charged with exercising Legister’s pair of wolfhounds. Her evenings were spent watching Hollywood movies, many of which were now banned from public viewing following the deterioration in relations between the Alliance and the USA. They would meet up whenever their schedules and the vagaries of the telephone system permitted; she invariably phoned him from a call box to arrange the rendezvous. Of course it was furtive—that was part of the thrill. But anyone keeping an eye on them would have no evidence that they were doing anything more than innocently enjoying one another’s company.
Until now. It was the first time she had come to his apartment. He wasn’t sure quite what to do next. His shyness was quite in contrast to my own nature, which was more outgoing. The blinds were drawn on the windows so no one could peek in. I would have risked a kiss.
Marisa took off her fur coat. Without it she looked diminished, her slim body sleeved in a knee-length black dress. She wore sturdy furlined leather boots, hand-made by the look of them. Legister had never denied her material luxuries.
She rummaged in the deep inner pocket of her coat and produced a package wrapped in silver foil.
“A present,” she said, leading him into the kitchen.
She filled the kettle and put it on one of the gas rings before opening the package and holding it under his nose.
It was, as he’d suspected, fresh-ground coffee. He inhaled its pungent aroma gratefully.
“Costa Rican,” she told him. “I stole it from Carl’s special supply.”
He found a box of England’s Glory and lit the ring under the kettle.
“I bought you Belgian chocolates,” he announced. “They’re probably splattered all over Regent Street.”
“It was a kind thought. I am touchéd.”
He laughed, certain that this was a pun rather than another mispronunciation.
There had been good coffee aplenty available in Brazil, but he’d wanted to get her something overtly luxurious. And consumable. But such gestures didn’t come naturally to him, with the result that he’d flown halfway around the world and come back with chocolates she could have acquired herself through her husband. He’d picked them up during a stopover at Conakry Airport, selecting a big scarlet box with a gold ribbon. A little too ostentatious, really; as if he were buying a gift for a lover.
She opened the fridge and grimaced at its emptiness.
“I’ve been away,” he said unnecessarily. “There’s only powdered milk.”
She darted back into the living room, returning with a silver hip flask.
“Whisky?” Owain said. “Cream.”
“You certainly are well prepared.”
“A little celebration to welcome you back. Since you do not care for alcohol, I thought this would suffice. I missed you, Owain.”
She pronounced his name 0-wayne, which despite himself he found charming and intimate, her private name for him.
Yet he remained reticent. I had a strong feeling that it was something more than a simple matter of shyness or discretion. Clearly Marisa was attracted to him and was free in expressing her feelings by look and touch. But the very idea of greater intimacy attracted and dismayed Owain in equal measure, for reasons that remained inaccessible to me.
The kettle had started to sing. Marisa rinsed two army-issue mugs while humming a tune he didn’t recognise. Owain found some sugar and carried mugs and spoons through into the living room. Marisa joined him on the sofa, putting the cafetière down on the coffee table. He’d never used it since he’d occupied his quarters here the previous spring.
“You must tell me about your trip,” she said. “Not the military work. What places did you see?”
“Not much to tell. Most of it involved meetings in stuffy rooms.”
“Rio. Is it really beautiful there?”
There were times when her youth showed through. Or perhaps it was just a wilful determination to discuss matters that didn’t involve the war.
“I didn’t get out much,” he said, declining to tell her about the riots and epidemics, the squalor of the favelas. Neutrality bred its own discontents.
“You didn’t even visit the beach, dip your toes into the ocean?”
“Forgot my swimsuit.”
She screwed up her nose. “You should have found time, Owain. Life is short.”