In her lunch hour Tamara went across to the ballroom to see if she could help, and she found Nick floundering. There was a huge cake in the kitchen waiting to be decorated, twenty waiters hanging around for instructions, and a jazz band from Mali called Desert Funk sitting outside under the raffia palms smoking hashish.
Nick was a tall man with a big head, big nose, big ears, big chin. He had a relaxed, friendly manner and a sharp intelligence. He was a highly competent diplomat but he was no party organizer. He was keen to do it well, and he walked around with an eager look, having no idea why things were going so wrong.
Tamara got three cooks icing the cake, told the band where to plug in their amplifiers, and sent two embassy staff out to shop for balloons and streamers. She told the waiters to bring in huge containers of ice and set the drinks to cooling. She moved from one task to the next, chasing details and chivvying staff. She did not go back to the CIA office that afternoon.
And all the time Tab was in her thoughts. What was he doing right now? What time would he arrive? Where would they go after the party? Would they spend the night together?
Was he too good to be true?
She just had time to run to her room and put on her party frock, a dress made of silk in the vivid royal blue that was popular here. She was back in the ballroom minutes before the guests were due.
Shirley arrived a moment later. When she saw the decorations, the waiters with their trays of canapés and drinks, and the band holding their instruments ready, her face was suffused with happiness. She threw her arms around Nick and thanked him. ‘You’ve done so well!’ she said, not hiding her surprise.
‘I had crucial assistance,’ he admitted.
Shirley looked at Tamara. ‘You helped,’ she said.
‘We were all driven by Nick’s enthusiasm,’ Tamara said.
‘I’m so glad.’
Tamara knew that what made Shirley so happy was not so much the success of the arrangements as Nick’s wish to do it for her. And he was happy because he had pleased her. That’s how it should be, Tamara thought; that’s the kind of relationship I want.
The first guest came in, a Chadian woman in robes of a bright red-white-and-blue print. ‘She looks so great,’ Tamara murmured to Shirley. ‘I’d be like a sofa in that.’
‘But she carries it off wonderfully.’
California champagne was always served at embassy parties. The French politely said it was surprisingly good, and put their glasses down unfinished. The British asked for gin and tonic. Tamara thought the champagne was delicious, but she was on a high anyway.
Shirley looked speculatively at her. ‘You’re very bright-eyed this evening.’
‘I enjoyed helping Nick.’
‘You look as if you’re in love.’
‘With Nick? Of course. We all are.’
‘Hmm,’ said Shirley. She knew when she was getting an evasive answer. ‘I’ve learned to read what silent love hath writ.’
‘Let me guess,’ said Tamara. ‘Shakespeare?’
‘Ten out of ten, and a bonus point for avoiding the original question.’
More guests arrived. Shirley and Nick went to the doorway to meet them. It would take an hour to greet everyone.
Tamara circulated. This was the kind of occasion on which intelligence officers could casually pick up gossip. It was remarkable how quickly people forgot about confidentiality when the drinks were free.
The Chadian women had got out their brightest colours and most vibrant prints. The men were more sombre, except for a few youngsters with a sense of fashion, wearing stylish jackets with Tshirts.
At such affairs Tamara sometimes suffered an uncomfortable flash of realism. Now, drinking champagne and making small talk, she pictured Kiah, desperate to find a way to feed her child, contemplating a life-threatening journey across the desert and the sea in the hope of finding some kind of security in a far country about which she knew so little. It was a strange world.
Tab was late. It was going to be weird, seeing him for the first time since their night together. They had got into his bed, he in a T-shirt and boxer shorts, she in her sweatshirt and panties. He had put his arms around her, she had cuddled up to him, and she had fallen asleep in seconds. The next thing she knew, he was sitting on the edge of the bed in a suit, offering her a cup of coffee, saying: ‘I’m sorry to wake you, but I have a plane to catch, and I didn’t want you to wake up alone.’ He had flown to Mali that morning with one of his bosses from Paris, and he was due to return today. How was she to greet him? He was not her lover, but he was certainly more than a colleague.