‘Sorry, colonel.’ The young inspector – so thin he looked as if taking nourishment would be an exhausting business – gave a shake of his head. He might not have been on the job long but marital spats and women who stormed off because of them were beneath his purview. ‘If the local police ask for our help, then we’re all hands on deck. Until then?’ He raised his hands in the air, indicating that they were not on deck in the slightest.
Archie hated to betray emotion but he was afraid he did. A hand, raised to his brow, shading his eyes. He pulled it away at once, horrified the inspector might think he was crying. Archie thought – the way he wouldn’t have otherwise – of his last night with his wife. Why had he indulged himself so? Mightn’t she have taken it better if he’d left well enough alone? Or what if he’d never been enticed by Nan in the first place, when he saw her from a distance on the golf course, best swing he’d ever seen from a woman? That same afternoon there she was again, drinking a gin and tonic on the patio. He had strode over as if he had every right to her, and she had blinked through the sunlight as she offered her hand, looking both demure and knowing, a smile twitching the corner of her lips. As if she knew everything that was about to happen. How do you do, Colonel Christie. Her voice was so low, so beautifully modulated, he couldn’t believe when she said she was Stan’s secretary.
What a mistake. What a bleeding, terrible mistake. Nan had used her acquired manners to befriend her employer’s daughter and gain entry to the country club. He ought to have let her remain their guest, never becoming his own. Agatha didn’t need to acquire manners, she was born with them. She was from Archie’s world. A.C. and A.C. They fit. In the midst of this family emergency, Nan seemed a foreigner, someone who’d elbowed her way in. Troublesome at worst, irrelevant at best.
Out on the street, Archie blinked into city daylight. Crowds bustling about as he stood on the pavement, undecided. Across the street, a tallish woman with a particular stride caught his eye. He knew it wasn’t his wife but all the same found himself crossing. The woman wore a dark fur coat. Surely Agatha had one just like it. She turned down one street, then another, then rounded a corner. When he turned the same direction, she was gone. As if she had melted into thin air.
Nonsense. She’d probably just gone into one of the buildings. With no one to chase, Archie reclaimed his car and navigated the streets to my flat. He sat parked on the street, staring up at my window. No sign of life. It could be I had gone to work. Work! In the midst of all this mess. What a luxury it would be, to pretend to business as usual. Perhaps he should go straight to his office. Perhaps if he behaved as though everything were normal, it would become so. Agatha would return – breeze right in without knocking, as she had last week, fashionable and cheery and trying too hard. This time she’d find him alone. He’d gather her in his arms and give her a proper kiss. Of course I’d love to have luncheon with my beautiful wife.
How had he missed it, what she’d been on the brink of? Or was it that he’d seen it but simply hadn’t cared? Once upon a time, he’d been so protective of Agatha, so jealous, he couldn’t bear seeing even a waiter talk to her. He’d told her he never wanted to have a son, because he never wanted to see her doting on another man. Her doting belonged to him and him alone.
He got out of the car. Hands in his pockets. Staring up at my window as though waiting for a sign. If he saw any movement, he’d run up and knock. And if I opened the door, he knew – despite all his very real feelings, and the desire to find his wife and change the course he’d so rashly set her upon – he would gather me up in his arms and lose all this terrible commotion for a while. He deserved that. No matter what, a man deserved that, to forget his troubles. Until Agatha came home nothing could change what he’d done, and if he’d known that night at the Owens’ was the last time he’d make love to me, well, then, surely he’d have savoured it a bit more. The way he had with Agatha.
A pretty young woman bustled by in a worn winter coat. She scowled at Archie as if she’d read every one of his thoughts. He looked away from her, up towards my window, watching for any passing shadow.