Len Deighton - Spy Hook

'Hands washed?'

'Yes, Auntie Gloria,' they both chorused with their palms held high. Doris held her hands up too and smiled shyly. Newly slimmed, this quiet – and hitherto overweight – girl from a little village in Devon had been with the children a long time now. Having started as a nanny she now shuttled them back and forth to their respective schools, gave Sally some lunch at home, did some shopping and scorched my shirts. She was of about Gloria's age and sometimes I wondered what she really thought about Gloria setting up home with me. But there would be little chance of her confiding any such thoughts to me. In my presence Doris was inscrutable, but with the children I could often hear her yelling and joining in their noisy games.

'Billy can plug the trolley into the electricity socket for me,' said Gloria. I sat down. Doris was fidgeting with the cutlery. Abstaining from eating chocolate seemed to have given her chronic withdrawal symptoms.

The trolley with the built-in warmer – to say nothing of the brightly coloured casseroles, and striped pot-holders – was Gloria's idea. It was going to revolutionize our lives, as well as being wonderful when we gave dinner parties.

'Chipolata sausages!' I said. 'And Uncle Ben rice! My favourites.'

Gloria didn't respond. It was the third time in a week we'd had those damned pork sausages. Perhaps if I'd had a proper lunch I would have had sense enough to keep a civil tongue in my head.

Gloria didn't look at me, she was serving the children. 'The rice is a bit burned,' she told them. 'But if you don't take it from the bottom it will be all right.'

She served two sausages to each of us. She'd had the heat too high and they were black and shrunken. She put the rest of them back on the warmer. Then she gave us all some spinach. It was watery.

Having served the meal she sat down and took an unusually large swig of her wine before starting to eat.

'I'm sorry,' I said in the hope of breaking her tight-lipped silence.

In a voice unnaturally high she said, 'I'm no good at cooking, Bernard. You knew that. I never pretended otherwise.' The children looked at Doris, and Doris looked down at her plate.

'It's delicious,' I said.

'Don't bloody well patronize me!' she said loudly and angrily. 'It's absolutely awful. Do you think I don't know it's all spoiled?'

The children looked at her with that dispassionate interest that children show for events outside their experience. 'Don't cry, Auntie Gloria,' said Sally. 'You can have my sausage: it's almost not burned at all.'

Gloria got to her feet and rushed from the room. The children looked at me to see what I would do.

'Carry on eating your supper, children,' I said, 'I must go and see Auntie Gloria.'

'Give her a big kiss, Daddy,' advised Sally. 'That's sure to make everything all right.'

Doris took the mustard away from Billy and said, 'Mustard is not good for children.'

Some days with Gloria were idyllic. And not just days. For week after week we lived in such harmony and happiness that I could hardly believe my good fortune. But at other times we clashed. And when one thing went wrong, other discords followed like hammer blows. Lately there had been more and more of these disagreements and I knew that the fault was usually mine.

'Don't switch on the light,' she said quietly. I went into the bedroom expecting to face a tirade. Instead I found Gloria inappropriately apologetic. The only light came from the bedside clock-radio but it was enough to see that she was crying. 'It's no good, Bernard,' she said. She was sprawled across the bed, the corner of an embroidered handkerchief held tightly in her teeth as if she was trying to summon up enough courage to eat it. 'I try and try but it's no use.'

'It's my fault,' I said and bent over and kissed her.

She lifted her face to me but her expression was unchanging. 'It's no one's fault,' she said sadly. 'You try. I know you do.'

I sat on the bed and touched her bare arm. 'Living together is not easy,' I said. 'It takes time to adjust.'

For a few moments neither of us spoke. I was tempted to suggest that we sent Doris off to cooking classes. But a man who lives in a house with two women knows better than to sprinkle even a mote of dust upon the delicate balance of power.

'It's your wife,' said Gloria suddenly.

'Fiona? What do you mean?'

'She was the right one for you.'

'Don't talk nonsense.'

'She was beautiful and clever.' Gloria wiped her nose. 'When you were with Fiona everything was always perfect. I know it was.'

For a moment I said nothing. I could take all this admiration of Fiona from everyone except Gloria. I didn't want Gloria implying that I'd been a lucky fellow; I wanted her to say how fortunate Fiona had been to capture me. 'We had more help,' I said.

'She was rich,' said Gloria and the tears came to her eyes again.

'It's better the way we are.'

She seemed not to hear me. When she spoke her voice came from very far away. 'When I first saw you I wanted you so much, Bernard.' She sniffed. 'I thought I'd be able to make you so happy. I so envied your wife.'

'I didn't know you ever met my wife.'

'Of course I saw her about. Everyone admired her. They said she was one of the cleverest women to ever come and work in the Department. People said she would be the first woman Director General.'

'Well, people were wrong.'

'Yes, I was wrong too,' said Gloria. 'Wrong about everything. You'll never be happy with me, Bernard. You're too demanding.'

'Demanding? What are you talking about?' Too late I recognized that it had been my cue to say how happy I was with her.

'That's right; get angry.'

'I'm not getting angry,' I said very quietly.

'It's just as well that I'm going to Cambridge.'

She was determined to feel sorry for herself. There was nothing I could say. I gave her a kiss but she didn't respond. Her grief was not to be assuaged.

'Perhaps Doris could help more,' I said very tentatively.

Gloria looked at me and gave a bitter smile. ' Doris has given notice,' she said.

' Doris? Not Doris.'

'She says it's boring here in the suburbs.'

'Jesus Christ!' I said. 'Of course it is. Why else does she think we came here?'

'She had her friends in central London. She went to discos there.'

' Doris had friends?'

'Don't be a pig.'

'She can go up on the train.'

'Once a week. It's not much fun for her. She's still young.'

'We're all still young!' I said. 'Do you think I don't want to go with Doris 's friends to discos?'

'Making jokes won't help you,' said Gloria doggedly. 'We'll be in a terrible mess when she goes. It won't be easy to get someone who will get on well with the children.' Outside the rain kept coming down, thrashing through the apple tree and banging on the windows, while the wind buffeted against the chimney stack and screamed through the TV antenna. 'I'm going to see what the agency can offer, but we might have to pay more around here. The woman in the agency says this is a particularly high-wages area.'

'I bet she did,' I said.

Then the telephone rang on my side of the bed. I went to get it. It was Werner. 'I've got to see you,' he said. He sounded excited, or as near excited as the phlegmatic Werner ever got.

'Where are you?' I asked.

'I'm in London. I'm in a little apartment in Ebury Street, near Victoria Station.'

'I don't understand.'

'I flew to Gatwick.'

'What's happened?'

'We must talk.'

'We've got a spare room. Have you got wheels?'

'Better you come here, Bernard.'

'To Victoria? It will take half an hour. More perhaps.' The idea of dragging up to central London again appalled me.

'It's serious,' said Werner.

I capped the phone. 'It's Werner,' I explained. 'He says he's got to see me. He wouldn't say that unless it was really urgent.'