Sam Bourne - Pantheon

Without meaning to, James found himself telling the story — of the People’s Olympiad in Barcelona, of the outdoor swimming practice, of his confusion over Florence’s departure for Berlin. Dorothy nodded in the right places, asked the right questions. Not that he needed prompting. Once he started he found it hard to stop. He could hear his own voice, calmer and quieter as he talked about his wife and their life together. He found it comforting, as if the next best thing to speaking to Florence were speaking about her.

‘And you left Spain in thirty-nine, right?’

‘No, we left in thirty-seven.’

‘Why’s that? You lose faith?’

‘No. Not at all.’

‘Why then?’

‘I’d rather not talk about it.’

‘Oh, you never say that to a reporter, Dr Zennor.’ She lightly smacked his hand, the touch of her skin sending a current through him. ‘That just makes us more interested. Or in my case, intrigued. ’

‘What intrigues you exactly, Miss Lake?’

‘You, exactly, Dr Zennor.’

Feeling uncomfortable, he shifted the subject back to Florence, like a man returning to the warm part of the bed. He found himself describing her — her height, the muscles of her back, her posture. He was speaking about her athletic accomplishments, how she had trained for the Olympics, but the effect on him was more direct than that. Not for the first time, the physical memory of his wife recalled his desire for her. He had a memory of her stepping out of the shower, her skin glistening, the shape of her visible under the towel and how, when she spotted him gazing at her, she let the towel fall to the floor…

‘So what went wrong, Dr Zee?’ Dorothy Lake lit another cigarette, dipping her head to meet the lighter, so that James caught the scent of her hair. That too sent a charge through him, one that somehow combined with the yearning he felt for his wife, the longing for her touch, to produce an effect that confused him. He pushed away the sensation by trying to address her question.

‘You’d have to ask Florence.’

‘What would she say if I did?’

‘That I became unbearable. And that she feared for our child.’

‘Why?’

‘Because of the war.’ James, now smoking too, inhaled deeply. ‘And because of me.’

‘You? You didn’t hurt the baby, did you?’ For once the alarm was genuine, a look that made James wonder if this was Dorothy Lake’s real face, if the rest of the time she was posing.

‘Never deliberately.’ He saw Dorothy’s reaction. ‘I never hit him, for Christ’s sake! There was an accident with a boiling kettle. A near-miss. Nothing happened. But it could have.’

‘And you blame yourself?’

‘I deserve the blame.’

‘You’re very hard on yourself, do you know that? I’ve noticed that about you. It’s very unusual in a man.’

James looked up at her, with a faint smile. ‘How old are you, Miss Lake?’

‘I’m twenty-one.’

‘And yet you know all about men.’

‘I know plenty.’

‘Yes? And why’s that?’

‘Same way a birdwatcher knows about birds. I pay attention.’ She held his gaze after she spoke, lifting the cigarette to her lips, letting her eyes close for a fleeting moment as she sucked on it and inhaled, then looking at him again. In the end, it was he who broke the contact.

‘So what’s your story going to say then?’

‘I don’t think I have enough to go on yet. We need to find out more. The wife didn’t give us much, did she?’

‘No.’ He decided not to mention the widow’s impassioned, urgent final message.

‘Other than that she doesn’t believe Lund committed suicide.’

James sat back. ‘How do you know that?’ He pictured Lake on the other side of the closed door, her ear pressed to the wood, hearing Margaret Lund’s warning.

Not for my sake. For yours.

Dorothy took a sip of wine, licking her lower lip afterwards like a cat. ‘Oh, sometimes you just know, don’t you? Call it woman’s intuition.’ She briefly touched his hand as she said that, her fingers as cool as they had been when they had shaken on their deal all those hours ago.

‘It’s a lovely evening,’ she said as they headed outside. ‘I’m going to walk a bit. Care to join me?’

James looked at her — this young woman who knew how to get a man to talk and how to listen, whose hair was a perfect, lustrous honey-blonde, who through the cloud of cigarette smoke still managed to smell so alluring — and settled on his answer. ‘I’m tired, Miss Lake. I enjoyed our dinner very much, but I’m going to turn in.’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I’ll walk you back to the Club.’

The stroll was short, but seemed to take an age. His chest seemed to be crackling with a kind of static energy; he was breathing unevenly. Neither of them said a word.

At last they were at number four hundred and fifty-nine. He was about to knock on the door when he felt her hand on his arm. She guided him round so that they faced each other.

‘Good night, my handsome Englishman,’ she said, and she moved her face close to his. He could have moved at that moment, but he did not and, an instant later, he felt her lips touch his. Lightly, the slightest brush of her mouth, but the taste — of the wine, of her lips — was strong. Combined with the smell of her perfume, the freshness of her skin, it was intoxicating. One second became another and another, until he felt the first tiny touch of her tongue.

Suddenly, and without conscious volition, he sprung away from her, appalled. Reaching in his pocket for the key Walters had given him, he pivoted and opened the door of the Elizabethan Club, mumbling, ‘I really am dreadfully sorry. Good night.’ He stepped inside, shutting the door loudly behind him.

He pressed his head hard against the wall. What had he just done? What the hell had he just done? Florence’s last message to him, delivered twice, had been a declaration of love — and how had he rewarded her? By embracing an American girl, a perfect stranger. Kissing her…

But he had broken away, he told himself. He had resisted. But not straight away. He had held that kiss for at least a second or two; he had not rejected it immediately. No wonder Florence had left him. He was a loathsome rat, unworthy of her love. He lifted his head and let it fall against the wall and then did it again, harder this time. How could he have done such a thing?

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, sir.’

Immersed in guilt and self-disgust, James had not heard the butler approach.

‘It’s just I thought you’d want to know.’

‘Know what, Walters?’ James tried to compose himself.

‘That a lady came here looking for you today. An English lady — with a little boy.’

The butler might as well have slapped him in the face. The effect of Walters’s words was instant, as if he had been abruptly woken up. James stared at him for a while before speaking, then peppered him with questions.

‘When were they here?’

‘About four o’clock this afternoon, Dr Zennor.’

‘And how old was the child?’ He locked the butler with a gaze that did not waver.

‘I’m not good at these things. I’d guess he was-’

‘How tall was he? Show me how high he stood. Here? Or higher? And tell me again, what she said. Her exact words, please.’

‘I opened the door to her and she said she had heard an Englishman was staying here, a Dr James Zennor and she wondered if she could speak to him.’

‘And what did you say?’

‘Please Dr Zennor, you’re making me a little uncomfortable staring at me like this. Please. Let me tell you what happened my own way.’

James exhaled. He had to get a grip on himself, not to descend any further, not now. Florence and Harry here, in this very spot a matter of hours earlier: the very thought of it made him feel light-headed. He took a deep breath and followed Walters as he shuffled out of the hallway and into the first sitting room. Too agitated to sit, James grasped hold of the top of one of the high-backed leather chairs.