Brian Freemantle - Betrayals

Her mother had smiled gratefully and helped her from her disheveled bed and Janet had forced herself not to think of the anguish she was going to cause the woman, sure her own anguish was greater. She said she felt a lot better and was going to take a long soak, to avoid her mother becoming alarmed and forcing her way in before the pills had time to work. Immediately inside the bathroom Janet had pressed back against the locked door, not frightened at all, her feeling rather one of impatience to get started, in a hurry to die. From outside her mother asked if she was all right and Janet called back that she was, turning the taps on in further reassurance.

And then she’d opened the bathroom cabinet to find every pill bottle gone. The frustration had whimpered through her as she scrabbled through what remained, thinking they might be hidden by something else, and then whimpered again at the awareness that her mother had cleared them out. Her mother called again and Janet made a sound back, slumping on the bath edge, emptied so completely she was unable even to think.

The bathroom was small and mirrored, to make it seem bigger, and when Janet had finally looked up, to turn off the water before it overflowed the bath edge, her instant and absurd reaction had been to wonder whose reflection she was seeing. The shock at realizing it was herself actually made her gasp.

Janet had always been fastidious, even at boarding school, before going up to Oxford: the girl whose dormitory place was never disarranged and whose drawers were always allocated, item for item, and whose shoes were always clean and whose hair was always neatly held and clipped and whose uniform was never stained or torn or borrowed or lost. She was-or had been until that moment-physically uncomfortable with untidiness and dirt and neglect.

Her first thought was that Hank would have been disgusted with her, because he had been as meticulous as she was: that she was letting him down. Her hair-which was naturally red and which she’d hated at boarding school, because it was so different from the other girls’, and which she’d only really come to like after Hank had told her it was beautiful-was matted and tangled, straggled around her face. Which looked appalling. She was gaunt from not eating and not sleeping, the sallow skin strained over her high cheekbones and her green but now blank eyes deeply sunk into blackened surrounds. It was already the face of a dead person. And then she thought again that she was letting Hank down and determined abruptly, at that moment, not to give up: not to die.

Inherent though it already was, taking care of herself became privately something she did for Hank, for his memory, like other private and secret things: like sometimes, when she was sure she was quite alone, talking aloud as if he could hear her, imagining what he would say back.

She did it now, when she was almost ready. “You don’t mind, do you?” she said, staring at her own reflection in the full length mirror, knowing what the answer would be. He hadn’t known how to be jealous, not from the moment they’d first met, and not because he didn’t care but because he trusted her, completely. “Only going out for the evening,” she said. “That’s all: just dinner. You know that, don’t you? Of course you do.”

The fuller, looser shirt with the jacket on top was better, Janet concluded: she’d matched a sweater with the checked skirt first but when she’d examined herself, half turning sideways, she thought it looked as if she was trying to make her breasts obvious and she didn’t want to do that. She considered wearing her hair loose, the way Hank had liked it best, but quickly corrected that, too, pulling it back away from her face and twisting it into a chignon. The style meant she had to wear earrings. She chose gold studs to accompany the single gold chain but no other jewelry. She wore her engagement and wedding rings, of course.

Promptly at six, the time they’d agreed, the security clerk buzzed to say Sheridan was in the foyer and Janet said she would be down at once. She’d considered inviting him up for a drink, remaining unsure even while she was dressing, before dismissing the idea as a mistake, like wearing the sweater.

Sheridan asked if there was any place she would like to go and Janet said no, she’d leave it up to him, expecting he’d choose somewhere in town. Instead he drove out into Virginia to a beamed and rough-stone inn proudly proclaiming its one hundred and twenty year history. There was a log fire in the open hearth and they ate oysters and fresh trout and drank a French-bottled Sancerre. Janet found it as easy to talk to him as she had the night of their escape from the party. When he said he had worked for a while out of the American embassy in Cairo she asked if he’d known her father, who had been Third Secretary at the British legation there, but the postings had not been contemporary. Because it was her subject and from the talk of Egypt she thought he might have an interest she asked him what he thought about the Lebanon and he said it seemed a completely lost and collapsed country. About Iran, Sheridan said he didn’t have any positive idea, either, but he thought another sort of revolution was possible after the death of the Ayatollah Khomeini. She asked how it had been possible for America to have been so wrong-footed about the overthrow of the Shah and then so helpless after the seizure of the U.S. embassy hostages in Teheran and he said he didn’t know but agreed with her that it had been incredibly inept.

On the way back towards Washington Sheridan said he’d enjoyed the evening and Janet agreed that she had too, considering and once more dismissing the idea of inviting him in for a drink. When he stopped the car outside the apartment he asked if he could call her again and she said of course and he let her out as he had before but made no attempt to kiss her. When she looked down from her apartment window, he’d vanished again.

Sheridan called the same week to invite her to a performance of The Taming of the Shrew that the touring English Shakespearean Company was giving at the Kennedy Center. That evening she did suggest his coming in when they got back to Rosslyn. Sheridan drank coffee and brandy and looked at her bookshelves and said Paul Scott and Graham Greene were two of his favorite English authors, too. He enquired if she liked Updike and Janet said not much and asked him if he’d ever read anything by le Carre or Deighton. Sheridan replied that he didn’t enjoy espionage fiction. Again he left without trying to kiss her.

Janet confessed the outings to Harriet at that Sunday’s brunch and Harriet said why the hell not, and when they met later in the week Harriet admitted quizzing her friend on the senator’s staff who’d originally invited Sheridan to the party. The man knew nothing at all about Sheridan except that he was a higher than average squash player, generous without being stupid in the clubhouse afterwards, never made passes at other guys’ wives or girlfriends and never talked about himself. Janet remarked, unthinkingly, that Sheridan hadn’t made a pass at her either and Harriet suggested that maybe he was gay, to which Janet replied that was more Harriet’s problem than hers because she wasn’t interested anyway. Harriet said: “Oh yeah!”

Janet felt a jump of excitement in immediately recognizing Sheridan’s voice on the next call, which she answered hoping it would be him. That time they went to the National Theater, downtown. Afterwards they had drinks at the restored Willard where he recounted the names of the presidents who’d used it in the past and how the word “lobbying” had originated there to describe the favor-seekers waylaying President Grant, and later still they ate in Chinatown, Janet deferring to Sheridan’s obvious knowledge of a Sichuan menu. He seemed to expect to come up to the apartment that night and the conversation was almost stilted. There developed an odd difficulty-an unspoken anticipation-between them and Janet became apprehensive. Which she needn’t have been. When he got up to go after finishing the brandy he merely leaned forward and kissed her cheek, which she offered, and this time she watched from the window as he drove off in the Volkswagen.