Sasha lit the cigarette at last and blew out a large cloud of smoke into the damp air. He stared at the treetops over the walls of the nearby park. “Iris, go inside. Take the boys and go inside out of the rain, all right? I’ll be home in a bit.”
“Home in a bit? Where are you going?”
He handed her the umbrella. “Out.”
Iris opened her mouth to demand where, but he’d already turned to hurry up the pavement toward Abbotsbury Road, leaving her standing by the entrance to the building with an umbrella in one hand and Jack in the other.
With Mrs. Betts gone, their footsteps made lonely, clattering sounds on the parquet floor of the apartment. Iris made the boys take off their shoes and raincoats. Jack ran off down the long hallway to his room, shouting something about an airplane, while Kip wandered into the living room and slumped on the sofa, where he picked up a battered paperback from between the cushions. The light was dim and gray, not July at all. Iris wandered to the window overlooking the entrance to the block, where the Peabodys were coming up the sidewalk. （The pavement, she reminded herself.） Mrs. Peabody’s arm linked through Mr. Peabody’s elbow, and a child skipped from each of their outside hands. Mr. Peabody’s damp, pink face turned toward his wife; he seemed to be laughing at something she’d said.
Well, Sasha had warned her, hadn’t he? He’d told her at the beginning that the life of a diplomat wasn’t an easy one, that you would move to one city and make a certain set of friends, and then a few years later you moved a few hundred or a few thousand miles away and had to start all over again, and how could anybody form a real friendship that way?
It doesn’t matter, she’d told him. I’ll have you. You’re all I need.
Sasha returned just before dinner came out of the oven, a beef roast that would be made into soup, into hash, into sandwiches as the week went on, because meat was still rationed here in England, almost three years after the war had ended. His face was weary and he smelled of whiskey. After dinner he helped Iris bathe the boys and put them to bed. He read one of the railway stories, the one where Henry stops in a tunnel, speaking in all his funny voices.
Once the boys were tucked in, he took a long bath and then disappeared into his study until almost midnight. Iris was still awake in bed, reading a book. She didn’t say anything when he passed by, into the dressing room and the bathroom, brushing his teeth and so on. When he climbed into bed, one leg and then the other, she set the book on the nightstand and said, “Is it about these hearings? In Washington?”
“Following the news from America, are you?”
“Somebody mentioned it at the party last night.”
He was holding something in his hand, which he gave to her. “This fellow, maybe?”
It was a handkerchief, crumpled, bloodied in one corner—the one Iris gave him to stop the blood on his neck. Iris stared at it, bemused, until she noticed the monogram in the corner, plain black letters, pBh.
“Oh, it’s Philip’s! How funny. I must have put it in my coat pocket last night.”
“And what were you weeping about with Philip?”
Iris set the handkerchief on top of the book on her nightstand. “I don’t remember. Some silly thing. I might have had something in my eye.”
“You don’t need to lie to me, Iris. I’m not going to play the jealous husband, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Oh, Sasha. You can’t be—Philip? He’s very dear, he’s awfully kind to me—”
“I’m sure he is. He’s giving you a cottage, isn’t he?”
“And you just said you weren’t going to play the jealous husband. Anyway, the cottage is for us—the entire family, you included. And Aunt Vivian and the girls.”
He made a little groan. “I’d forgotten about Vivian.”
“You’ll love her. You need to get away from London, Sasha, you really do. All of this—the war’s over, you should be settled now, you should be happy in your work. Put all the past behind you.”
He started to say something and changed his mind. He lay on his back, staring straight up at the ceiling—a little like Kip. Iris turned on her side and put her hand on his chest.
“You didn’t answer my questions about the hearings.”
“Don’t worry yourself about that.”
“But you’re worried—”
“Just shut up about it, all right? There’s nothing you can do.”
“Do about what? Sasha, you have to tell me. If something happens to you—”