Fortress

70

She was sitting in a leather armchair with her back to him. When the porter announced him and she got up, his heart turned over. ‘Delphine!’

She smiled, lighting up the lobby. Under her trench coat she was wearing a low-cut black dress and black boots. Her hair was glossy and her skin glowed.

‘You look amazing.’

‘Well, I’ve had some time at home, time to relax.’

He was lost for words, still absorbing the surprise of seeing her.

‘And your mother’s been so kind. She’s offered me to stay for a few nights. I know you’re — busy.’

Tom felt a flicker of irritation: he had had enough parental interference for one day.

The possibility — myriad possibilities — hung in the air. She went on, ‘I’ve had a think.’

Tom was aware of the porter shifting uncomfortably behind his desk. He gently touched her arm — sending an electric charge through him — and steered her down the stone steps into the street. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

It was still light, though the street-lights had just come on. The air was cool on their faces.

‘I’ve been doing some thinking and I–I was wrong. Right to go home for a break, perhaps, but wrong to run away as I did.’

‘I don’t blame you.’

She looked down uneasily at the ground. ‘I do! I do blame me.’ She smiled again: that intoxicating beam of light. ‘I think we should try again. I know it’s very forward of me but you know what we French are like when we want something…’ She giggled flirtatiously, but there was an underlying nervousness.

Part of him would have liked nothing more than to leap into a taxi with her there and then and head off into the night, into the future.

‘I’ve missed you.’ That much he could say. ‘Life has been… rather complicated lately.’

‘I’ve missed you too — very much. Can we — go somewhere? Alone?’

Tom gestured back at the large old doors. ‘I’ve left Dad in there.’

‘No, I mean away. Somewhere hot and relaxing and…’

He could see the disappointment starting to cloud her gorgeous face. ‘Please believe there’s nothing I’d like more…’

‘But?’

She was clearly heartbroken. He fought with himself. Looking at her, standing on the damp pavement, her face so full of hope, he realized this was something he wanted now, had wanted all along, without knowing it, and it had come at the worst possible time.

‘But I can’t go anywhere right at this moment. It’s very complicated.’

‘Is it the man you’re working for? The fascist, Vernon Rolt? Your father told me.’

‘He did? It’s not how it looks. I’ll be able to explain, but not yet.’

He knew, even as he said it, that the last thing he could do was explain, probably ever.

‘So it’s true, then. In France in the papers they say he’s like Le Pen — even worse. What’s happening to you, Tom? Is this some kind of revenge for what happened with the Regiment?’

What else could he say? There was no explanation that would work right now. He was in too far and too deep. He reached out to her. If he could just get closer, maybe he could communicate how he felt, transmit the truth of his emotions without using words. But she pulled away.

‘I’m sorry, Tom. I’m sorry for this country, which I did love. And I’m sorry for you.’

She turned and walked briskly towards Piccadilly. He knew it was useless to follow.