Once in our suite, I drop the hand and hurry to the dressing room. The chambermaid has unpacked our suitcases and laid out our toiletries in the bathroom. I brought a silk negligee of the kind a bride would wear, and I shimmy it on now and brush my teeth and slather on the cold cream. When I’m finished, I step into the living room and tell Fox the coast is clear.
By arrangement, I’m to sleep on the giant bed in the bedroom, and Fox on the sofa nearby, covered by a blanket. For the record, I did protest. I said that as Fox was twice my weight, he should have the bed—my God, think of the embarrassed explanation should the delicate sofa come to grief in the night. But Fox only regarded me gravely and said that he wouldn’t sleep a wink in that case.
So I climb alone onto the giant bed—some kind of elaborate relic of the Russian Empire, or else a convincing reproduction. The chambermaid has already turned back the heavy brocade bedspread, and a piece of chocolate lies on the pillow. I eat the chocolate even though I’ve already brushed my teeth. I hear faint noises from the bathroom, rushing water and so on, and a moment later Fox appears in a pair of silk pajamas that hang strangely on him.
I point to the walls. “Hello, handsome.”
“Hello, yourself.”
I pat the mattress next to me. He walks across the gilded room and lowers himself on the bed. He doesn’t exactly move with the fluid grace you might expect of an athlete, but then he never has. I haven’t asked him about the prison camp. I’ve always thought there are things nobody wants to talk about, especially to a woman you hardly know. He has a slight limp to his walk, which you only notice if you pay close attention, and the motion of his left hip isn’t quite what it should be—again, too subtle for the casual observer, but by now I’m no longer a casual observer. He lays his hands on his knees and looks sheepish.
“What an evening,” I say. “I think I might have had a little too much wine. I’m just so nervous about seeing my sister. It’s been years.”
“Nervous? You?”
“Yes, nervous! You’ve never had a twin sister, or you’d understand.”
“I wouldn’t worry. She wouldn’t have asked you to come if she didn’t want to mend fences, would she?”
“Or unless she’s that worried about the birth. Do you think she’ll be all right?”
“I’m sure they have terrific doctors here. She’ll be fine. And you’ll be here to help her.”
I lay my head on his shoulder and pat his thigh. “Darling, thank you again for coming with me. Putting your work on hold like this and everything. You’re the best husband a girl could ask for.”
“Well, what else was I supposed to do for my best girl? I couldn’t let you travel halfway across the world without me, could I?”
At this point, I should reveal—if you haven’t guessed already—that we’re not exactly speaking off the cuff. During our many long hours of preparation, we sketched out conversations like this, for the edification of anyone listening—it might not convince them, Fox said, but it would give our story a little more credibility. We had to pull it off right, though. We had to make it sound natural. No scripts, no set speeches. Spontaneity, that was the ticket. Did I think I could manage that? I said I thought I could.
What I don’t expect is how naturally Fox carries off the act.
“Mmm,” I purr, as if snuggling into his chest. “You’ll love Iris, darling, even though she’s not a bit like me.”
“No? But I love every bit of you!”
I giggle, which is no stretch, believe me, as drunk as I am. “She’s sweet and quiet and never puts a foot wrong. Never has too much to drink!”
“Aw, I don’t mind that. I like a girl who likes a good time.”
“Oh, Sumner, stop! I’m so awfully tired.”
“How tired?”
“Tired enough to go right to sleep. Do you mind?”
“I sure do. A husband has his needs, you know.”
“So does a wife, but not after a day like today. Now be a good boy and kiss me good night like a gentleman.”
“Good night, darling.” He kisses me, a little noisily, so I almost laugh. I put my arms around his neck and pull him down with me, so the bedsprings squeak.
“Oh, don’t be naughty! I really can’t!” I cry.
His shoulders shake. He rolls me over.
“Darling, please. Rain check?”
“Oh, all right. As long as I can cash it in tomorrow, with interest.” He makes a noise like a dog with a bone. When he looks up, he’s smiling this grateful smile—relieved—a wonderful and unguarded expression that transforms his face, and I realize this is the one part of the operation he hasn’t planned out, or even allowed himself to consider, and I’ve come up trumps, haven’t I? I mean, you couldn’t have finessed that scene any better if you tried.