The Diplomat’s Wife

Nine

June 1979, Roscoff, Brittany

Phil knocked on Emma’s cabin door as the ferry approached the rocky Brittany coast. He found his grandmother smartly dressed in a light blue jacket and skirt, but looking pale.

‘How’s your head?’

‘Better,’ said Emma. ‘Much better.’ She forced a smile. ‘But would you mind carrying my suitcase?’

They both perked up as Phil drove the TR6 off the ferry and into the pretty little Breton town of Roscoff. Emma was doing the navigating, and she had chosen the scenic route to Paris, avoiding the autoroute, and stopping for breakfast in Saint-Malo and lunch in Pont-l’Évêque in Normandy.

The sun was shining, the top was down, and Phil was enjoying himself. Emma had brought a couple of Édith Piaf tapes, whom he had never heard before, but who was undeniably and intoxicatingly French. After ten minutes, he got used to driving on the wrong side of the road, but overtaking was a bit tricky. He didn’t push it, waiting until there was a long straight stretch and confirming with his navigator before passing other cars.

They found a restaurant near the pont of Pont l’Évêque, where they sat on a terrace overlooking the River Touques. Phil ordered pâté to start followed by coquilles Saint-Jacques. Emma ordered a cold bottle of the most delicious white wine Phil had ever tasted. He remarked on it, but Emma explained its deliciousness wasn’t because the bottle was expensive, it was merely that wine tasted better in France, especially when drunk outside a restaurant in summer.

‘Here, I’ve got you something,’ Emma said. She reached down to a plastic WHSmith bag Phil had noticed she had brought with her from the car, extracted a yellow book and handed it to Phil.

Phil picked it up and examined the cover. ‘Teach Yourself Gaelic,’ he said. He opened up the book at chapter one. ‘This is ridiculous! What are all these ‘bh’s and ‘dh’s?’

‘It’s quite fun,’ Emma said. ‘But very difficult. You don’t have to learn it if you don’t want to. It’s just I know you like languages.’

‘And Hugh and you learned it forty years ago?’

Emma smiled. ‘Yes.’

‘Can you still speak it?’ Phil asked.

‘Chan eil fios agam. Faodaidh mi feuchainn.’

‘All right. I have no idea what that means. But I’ll give it a go.’

‘Good.’ Emma smiled. ‘I wasn’t sure...’ She seemed uncharacteristically uncertain.

‘No, it’ll be fun,’ Phil said. ‘I’ll take a look at it tonight.’ So he would be alternating War and Peace with Gaelic grammar over the next few weeks. That sounded a bit heavy. But he didn’t want to disappoint his grandmother.

‘No sign of your headache?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Emma replied, frowning.

‘You’ve seen a doctor about it in England?’

‘Yes.’

Phil wanted to find out more. He had been worried, and Emma had clearly been shaken.

‘Philip. I need to tell you something, something I haven’t told anyone else. But when I do, I will want you to do exactly as I ask, even though that may be difficult for you. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ said Phil. Part of him was excited that he was being cut into a big secret. But actually, more of him was scared it was a big bad secret.

It was.

‘I have a brain tumour. That’s what gave me the headache last night. That’s what may give me a headache tomorrow night. Or it may not.’

‘Oh no! Grams! How long have you had it?’

‘Who knows how long it’s been sitting there, biding its time? I started getting headaches about three months ago, and I noticed I was having difficulty with my balance. Eventually my GP sent me to Plymouth for a brain scan, and they found a big fat tumour sitting there, in my cerebellum, which is the bit of the brain that controls co-ordination, motor control and balance. It’s growing: I’ll need regular scans to monitor it.’

‘Is there anything they can do? Can they chop it out?’

‘No. Nothing. They can’t chop it out because of where it is — they would do too much damage getting to it. They want to give me radiotherapy when I get back, but they don’t think it will help much. It’s going to kill me.’

‘Christ! When?’

‘I wish I knew. Tonight? Next month? Next year? Maybe two years. If it stops growing, I might be OK, but that’s unlikely.’

The news hit Phil hard. He bit his lip. Suddenly the wine and the scallops didn’t taste so good.

Emma reached across the table and grasped his hand. ‘I’m sorry to give you this news, Philip. I know it can’t be easy for you. I intended not to tell you. But that’s not fair, especially if I start getting more headaches. And especially if something sudden happens. My balance might get worse, or my ability to move properly. Tumours can affect judgement and mood. I might become erratic, so my doctor says, or bad-tempered, or socially inappropriate, whatever that means.’

‘I see,’ said Phil, dully.

‘That’s why I wanted to go on this trip now. It might be the last chance I’ll have, and I want to do it before I die. It’s also why I asked you to come and drive me. I need a companion, and someone with me if something goes wrong.’

‘But I’m only eighteen,’ Phil said. ‘Surely Mum would have been better? Or one of your friends?’

‘You underestimate yourself,’ said Emma with a grin. ‘And remember I asked you to do exactly as I asked?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK. I understand you are upset now. But I want you to put that out of your mind. I don’t want sympathy, I don’t want pity, and above all I don’t want us both to be miserable for the next couple of weeks. This will be my last holiday and I want to enjoy it. Your job is to help me enjoy it. I’m not sure your mother would be able to do that, but I think you can. Do you understand?’

Phil took a deep breath. ‘Yes. I understand.’ He closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think about his grandmother dying. So he wouldn’t.

He would do what she asked.

He opened his eyes, forced a smile and picked up his glass of wine. ‘To a wonderful holiday, Grams!’

His grandmother smiled back, a genuine smile of pleasure and gratitude. ‘Cheers, Philip.’

The journey to Paris from Pont l’Évêque was less cheery than the morning drive. Emma’s news had shaken Phil. He thought about the gun he had seen in Emma’s suitcase. Was she planning to use it on herself?

No. Phil was being paranoid.

But if not herself, who was she planning to use the gun on? Old English ladies didn’t usually pack heat to protect themselves.

Was she planning to shoot him? No, that really was ridiculous.

Could it have something to do with that little chat with his French teacher’s friend Mr Swann in the Three Castles earlier that week?

Possibly.

He recalled the conversation. Swann leaning forward to sip his pint as he fixed Phil with his calm brown eyes, the soft yellow pub lighting reflecting off his smooth forehead.

‘This is what I want you to do, if you are willing,’ the mysterious civil servant had said.

Phil nodded.

‘I know about your grandmother’s trip. I believe she plans to revisit old haunts. Places she lived before the war. And she intends to see people she knew then.’

‘That’s the impression I got.’

‘One of them may be a man called Lothar. Lothar isn’t his real name; it’s a code name. He used other aliases. Bruno Fleischmann. Anton Bartkowicz.’

‘Is he some kind of spy?’

Swann nodded. ‘Or at least he was. A long time ago. We don’t know very much about him, or where he lives now. If your grandmother finds him, we would like to know about it. We would like to know where he is.’

‘If you can’t find him, how do you think my grandmother will?’

Swann grinned. ‘I’m sure it hasn’t escaped your notice, Phil, but your grandmother is a very intelligent lady.’

‘Why don’t you ask her directly?’

‘We have.’

‘And she said no?’

Swann nodded.

‘Yet you want me to tell you where this Lothar is behind her back?’

‘Yes. It’s very important to us. To our country.’ Swann hesitated. ‘To your country.’

‘Can you tell me why?’

‘I can. But when I do, you will realize why I insist that you keep quiet about this conversation to everyone, especially to your grandmother.’

Phil swallowed. He felt a little as if he was betraying Grams by just listening to this. On the other hand, it intrigued him. How could he not listen to it? There were few people he trusted more than Mr Parsons, and Eustace had vouched for this man.

‘OK.’

‘We believe that Lothar knows of the identity of a spy. Someone who has been working for the Russians since before the war. Someone who is now high up in our government or the intelligence services.’

‘You mean like Philby?’

‘Yes. Like Philby. Or Maclean or Burgess. And a number of others whom the public doesn’t know about.’

‘A mole?’

Swann grinned. ‘I see you have read your le Carré. We don’t call them moles, but yes, that’s exactly the kind of person we are looking for.’

‘And this Lothar can tell you the identity of your mole?’

‘We believe so. It’s even possible that you might come across some clues as to who this man might be. Keep your eyes and ears open and your wits about you. And Phil?’

‘Yes?’

‘I meant what I said about not telling your grandmother. It’s for her own safety — and yours. I’m sure you know how wilful she is. If she thinks that we are looking for Lothar, she might do something she will later regret. Something that puts her in danger.’

‘Like what?’

‘I can’t be specific. Just trust me.’

‘What do I do if we find Lothar? Or I discover who your mole is?’

‘How good is your memory?’

‘Pretty good.’

‘All right. Here is a telephone number.’ He reached into his breast pocket and extracted a simple file record card, on which a number was written in clear pencil. ‘Memorize it and then rip up this card. If you come across any information that might be useful, ring this number, reversing the charges if necessary, and ask for me by name.’

‘Mr Swann?’

‘That’s correct. Whoever answers the phone will know who you are, and put you through to me if they can. Otherwise, leave a message.’

Phil took the card.

‘Will you do that?’

Phil was eighteen. This was exciting. There was some risk — that was exciting too. He would be working behind his grandmother’s back, but he would also be doing something for his country. Phil was well aware that young men his age had done a lot more for their country in the past than travel around Europe with their grandmothers and make phone calls, even ones where you had to reverse the charges in a foreign language.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, Mr Swann. I’ll do it.’

Ten

Emma was watching him. She didn’t know what he was thinking, but she knew he was thinking something.

Phil remembered he was supposed to be cheering her up. He forced a small smile. Then with a supreme effort of will, he transformed it into a big grin.

‘Come on, Grams, let’s have some French pop.’

‘French pop? And where would I find that?’

‘On the radio.’

Emma twiddled the knobs and soon loud French punk music filled the car.

Or not exactly French. Phil recognized the song. ‘This is Plastic Bertrand, you know, Grams,’ he said.

‘Oh really?’

‘Yeah. But he’s not French, he’s Belgian. Not many people realize that. Or not English people anyway. I just wanted to impress you with my musical knowledge.’

‘I am impressed,’ said Emma. ‘Do you like it?’

‘I do,’ Phil admitted. ‘But for God’s sake don’t tell Mel. It will ruin my street cred.’

‘And what’s your street cred?’

‘That is a very good question.’

They drove along listening to ‘Ça plane pour moi!’ belting out across the Norman countryside.

When the song had finished, Emma spoke. ‘Not really my cup of tea, Philip. I think I agree with your sister.’

‘That is your right.’

‘Also — I think you’ll find that although Monsieur Bertrand was born in Belgium, his father was in fact French. Am I correct? I read an interview with him in The Times a couple of years ago.’

Phil shot his grandmother a quick glance. Her eyebrows were raised in serious curiosity.

Phil shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Grams. Somehow I suspect you are correct.’

She reached into her handbag and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. Embassy. She lit one.

‘I didn’t know you smoked?’ said Phil.

‘I gave up nearly ten years ago. But now... what the hell? Want one?’

‘No thanks,’ said Phil.

‘Very wise.’

The driving became much trickier as they entered Paris. The traffic was heavy, which was probably a good thing because it slowed everyone down. Nevertheless, Phil seemed to attract more than his fair share of blasts from other drivers’ horns.

Emma navigated flawlessly from some map in her head. She said she knew exactly where their hotel was. Soon they were driving along the Seine, on the north bank as far as Phil could tell, although he couldn’t remember whether north was ‘left’ or ‘right’.

The traffic moved in fits and starts involving rapid gear changes, hooting and acceleration and then braking and more hooting. Phil had never been to Paris before, but he recognized the Arc de Triomphe and the Eiffel Tower. They crawled down the Champs Élysées with its glitzy cafés and cinemas and approached a maelstrom of metal with a big stone needle in the middle of it.

‘This is the Place de la Concorde,’ said Emma. ‘Keep up your speed, don’t look in the mirror and go for it.’

Phil did his best. Swarms of Deux Chevaux and tiny Renaults driven by lunatics buzzed around the poor TR6, horns blaring, but somehow they all missed him.

Phil was spat out on to a smaller street. ‘Jesus! We won’t have to do that again, will we?’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Emma. ‘Once we get to the hotel, they will take care of our car for us. We’ll take taxis around the city — or the Métro.’

‘Thank God for that.’

They plunged deeper into the heart of Paris, turning into a cobbled square with some kind of obelisk in the middle.

‘Just here, Philip.’

‘Are you sure?’ Phil drew up beside a pair of grand doormen guarding an elegant facade from which white awnings proclaimed one word: Ritz.

Phil was wearing jeans and his David Bowie T-shirt. Lady Meeke looked appropriately elegant in her light blue suit. The scary doormen were clearly entirely used to elegant English ladies arriving with scruffy grandsons. As Emma had promised, a lesser, smaller flunkey whisked the car away somewhere and they entered the grandest hotel lobby Phil had ever seen.

Emma glanced at her grandson.

‘I think you and I might be going shopping tomorrow, Philip.’

Clothes shopping with your grandmother is always going to be excruciating, but Emma approached the problem sensibly, and Phil ended up with two jackets, a couple of shirts and a pair of nice trousers, to go with the black cords and beige V-necked sweater he had stuffed into his rucksack for smart occasions. All paid for by her. He also got his hair cut.

All in all, he didn’t look too bad, he was surprised to acknowledge.

After lunch in a small bistro, they walked along the smart Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré until they came to a high stone archway from which a Union Jack fluttered proudly. Emma had a word with the porter at the lodge by the gate, and they strolled through a courtyard into the impressive building itself. A secretary with a pleasant Yorkshire accent, which seemed oh-so-English in the Parisian surroundings, led them to a small room dotted with ornate green and gold furniture. Impressively bewhiskered and besashed Englishmen looked down on them from large oil portraits in heavy frames.

‘That one was the ambassador when I was here,’ said Emma, pointing to a distinguished if slightly raffish-looking grey-haired gentleman with a trim moustache and a monocle. ‘Sir George Clerk. Very charming, but a bit of a plonker, as you might say.’

‘Might I?’

‘Emma!’ They turned as a sleek man with a dark grey suit and thick, light grey hair swept into the room.

Emma rose to her feet and accepted his kiss on the cheek.

‘How lovely to see you!’ the man gushed. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t give you lunch — my lunches are spoken for weeks in advance these days. But you will have a cup of coffee with me?’

‘This is my grandson, Philip. Philip, this is Sir Cyril Ashcott, the ambassador.’

‘And former third secretary, a long time ago,’ said the ambassador with a grin.

‘You have done very well for yourself,’ Emma said. ‘The Paris ambassadorship is the plum posting, you know,’ she said to Phil.

‘I had a slight hiccup in my career here before the war,’ Sir Cyril explained to Phil. ‘But thanks to your grandfather, and your grandmother here, I survived. And prospered.’

‘I understand there is a Lady Ashcott?’ said Emma.

‘Yes, there is,’ said Sir Cyril with a grin. ‘And very happy she is too.’

‘Really? I am surprised.’

His grandmother’s rudeness shocked Phil, but Sir Cyril took it in his stride.

‘As blunt as always, I see, Emma. Have you never met Penelope? We’ve been married ten years now.’

‘No, I haven’t. I think Roland did.’

‘Sure to have. Perhaps we can rectify that while you are here. Where are you staying?’

‘The Ritz.’

‘Jolly good. I’ll be in touch. I am sorry about Roland. And that I wasn’t able to attend the funeral. I think I was in BA at the time.’

Emma smiled.

‘Your grandfather was a fine man,’ said Sir Cyril to Phil. ‘Are you thinking of joining the diplomatic service?’

Phil looked confused. He had no clue what he wanted to do after university, beyond ensuring it wasn’t insurance. He suddenly realized this was ‘the old boy network’ in action, and was a bit surprised to see it involved him.

‘Oh, don’t worry about Philip,’ said Emma. ‘He can find his own job when the time comes. That’s not why we’re here. I just wanted to look around the place again. It was an interesting time.’

The ambassador examined Emma carefully. Then he smiled. ‘It was certainly that.’

They spent half an hour chatting about people in Paris in the 1930s, before the ambassador took his leave. But he suggested that they wander around the embassy, accompanied by Miss Stott, who, it turned out, was not just a secretary, but a modern-day third secretary. She was blonde and long-legged, and really quite attractive, Phil couldn’t help noticing. Twenty-five, at least. Way out of his league, obviously.

Miss Stott immediately realized, diplomatically, that Emma wanted to do the explaining, and kept quiet and listened as they walked around the embassy.

It was extraordinarily elegant, if not opulent. Known as the Hôtel de Charost, it had been purchased in the early nineteenth century by the British government from Napoleon’s sister, Pauline Borghese, and still retained the ambience of a city palace, imperial rather than royal. The overall effect was a mixture of French grandiosity and British pomposity, which Phil found overwhelming. Everywhere you looked there were delicate chairs, ornate lamps, brilliantly polished tables, extravagant flower arrangements, grand portraits of grand diplomats and melodramatic classical landscapes. The prevailing colours were gilded yellow, polished brown, and green and crimson fabric. The Hôtel de Charost had been home to a succession of peers and knights of the realm, in a line from the Duke of Wellington to Sir Cyril, all of whom had dined for England.

Emma led the way outside to a semi-circular courtyard. ‘This used to be the stable block,’ she said, pointing to a block emblazoned with two fine stone horses above its entrance. ‘Before they turned it into the Chancery. Has that changed?’ she asked the third secretary.

‘Oh no,’ she said with a smile. ‘The funny thing is, I always wanted to work in a stables when I was a girl.’

‘This is where all the work gets done,’ Emma said. ‘Roland had his office here on the top floor.’

They went around the side of the house to the garden. This was a little patch of England in the middle of Paris. Lawns, ancient spreading trees, beds of roses and exuberant borders of other flowers that Phil couldn’t name. All was quiet behind the garden’s high walls. The only signs of the city outside were the top of a gilded dome and the tip of the Eiffel Tower in the distance. The Faubourg Saint-Honoré itself was a relatively narrow road for Paris, certainly not one of Haussmann’s grand boulevards, and it was extraordinary how this oasis of calm and beauty could exist right next to it, in the midst of the Parisian bustle.

Emma could see what Phil was thinking. ‘I know. Amazing, isn’t it? Do you mind if we sit here for a while?’ she asked Miss Stott.

‘Of course. I’ll leave you to it. I’ve got one or two things to catch up with back in the Chancery.’

‘Nice girl, don’t you think, Philip?’ said Emma with a grin.

‘Yes, Grandmother, I thought she was very nice,’ he replied with fake primness.

‘Glad to see you have good taste. When Roland and I were here, they would never have allowed a woman to be third secretary. I hope she goes far. Maybe one day in thirty years’ time you’ll come back to Paris and she’ll be ambassador. I like the northern accent too.’

The shade of a large chestnut protected them from the afternoon sun, birds mumbled lazily from the bushes, and the leaves around them rustled in a gentle breeze. Emma lit a cigarette.

‘Now, Philip. I need to tell you about Paris.’

Eleven

May 1936, Paris

I was remarkably undiplomatic for a diplomat’s wife. I tended to say what I thought. If a question came into my head, I would ask it. If someone was evasive, or claimed to know something when they clearly didn’t, I would point that out. Poor Roland hadn’t anticipated that. I think he thought with my languages and my inquisitiveness I would be able to hold my own in conversation, and indeed I could. I know some diplomats actually liked me. But then again, some didn’t.

One of those that didn’t was the ambassador, Sir George Clerk. He was known for his charm and his urbanity. He seemed to me to be lazy and a little bit stupid. I think he realized I thought this, and unsurprisingly he didn’t appreciate such lack of respect from a twenty-one-year-old.

Poor Roland.

What was worse, his wife liked me. Lady Clerk was a nutcase. The previous ambassadress, Lady Tyrell, had also been a nutcase, but Lord Tyrell had been able to keep her away from Paris. This had raised eyebrows locally, so the Foreign Office had insisted that Lady Clerk be present in the embassy with her husband. They detested each other.

She was crazy, but I liked her. She was a painter and a sculptor. She set up shop in a room at the top of the building that had previously been occupied by a third secretary. She was also a faith healer. To the annoyance of the ambassador, all kinds of odd people would tramp through the embassy to see her: models, patients, fellow artists. I once bumped into Marc Chagall on the stairs on his way down. She offered to heal my twisted ankle for me, but I refused. I modelled for her once, naked, which was probably a little bit stupid on both our parts, but fortunately I couldn’t recognize myself in the resulting picture, and I assume no one else could either. Roland never knew.

Poor Roland’s job was to keep tabs on her at all times, so that the ambassador could make sure he never bumped into her. Roland frequently acted as an intermediary, passing messages about domestic arrangements between husband and wife. It was absurd.

Most of the other embassy staff were polite to me, as were their wives, who I suspected thought me a queer fish. Only Cyril Ashcott was friendly. I think he found my faux pas amusing, which was perfectly all right with me. He was a third secretary, and at twenty-six he was the nearest in age to me. He followed the ambassador’s lead in enjoying the good life that Paris had to offer, but perhaps not in exactly the same way.

Roland worked hard. He was first secretary, which meant he organized everything. He was clearly very good at his job, and well respected by the embassy staff and the wider diplomatic corps in Paris. We were invited to countless functions, where he gently prodded me into behaving a little more diplomatically. He was popular; I was tolerated, mostly, although I must have said something particularly nasty once to a Japanese diplomat without realizing it, for all the Japanese seemed to loathe me. I didn’t like them much either, or what they were doing in China.

Roland explained that while my assessment of the Chinese situation might make sense, it was exactly the kind of opinion I should keep to myself.

Despite all the parties and all the diplomatic chatter, I was lonely. Can you be lonely if you don’t really mind it? Perhaps I mean I was alone. Roland worked long hours at the embassy, and naturally I couldn’t possibly be allowed to get a job — that was frowned upon for a diplomat’s wife — so I had the days and most of the evenings to myself. Of course, I read. I obtained a reader’s ticket to the Bibliothèque nationale, I discovered the American Library on the Rue de Téhéran and I spent a lot of time and quite a bit of money at an English-language bookshop on the Rue de l’Odéon on the Left Bank. I found plenty of good books to read, and so I was content.

But I missed Hugh so much. I missed him because he was my brother and I loved him and he was dead. I missed him because I had no one to discuss my reading with: without him it had all become strangely purposeless. I missed him because I wanted someone to tell about all that I saw and heard at the embassy.

I did talk to Roland about my reading, and we certainly gossiped about the embassy, but it wasn’t quite the same.

I saw my mother frequently. She had taken to getting her dresses made at great expense in Paris, at Schiaparelli’s, and she was constantly coming for fittings. She had a number of friends in Paris, and she sometimes stayed with them, or at the Crillon, but never with me. She usually took me out to dinner, with Roland if he was available. I tried once to speak to her about Hugh, to remember him with her, but she was having none of it.

I had questions about Hugh. About his renunciation of communism. About the car accident. About the mysterious American woman. Why had he been on Dockenbush Lane? Was he really a spy? Had he really been murdered by the secret service?

I had thought Hugh was the person I knew best in the world, and then suddenly, right after his death, all that had been thrown into doubt. If I couldn’t answer those questions, did I know who he truly was? What kind of sister was I?

It unsettled me. It gnawed at me.

I told myself such speculation was preposterous, and tried to force it out of my head, but my questions needed answers more sensible than Freddie’s drunken ravings.

So I was pleased when I received a telephone call from Dick. He was in Paris and he wondered if he could drop by and see me.

He came for tea at our flat, a first-floor apartment with big shuttered windows that let in masses of sunlight. We lived in the Rue de Bourgogne, a quiet street near Les Invalides on the Left Bank. Dick wore grey flannel trousers, an open-necked shirt and a jacket with elbow patches. He looked so badly dressed and so English. I rather liked that. The embassy staff were all beautifully turned out at all times, the men in black coats and striped trousers from Savile Row, the women outfitted by local Parisian dressmakers.

Dick seemed pleased to see me too. He was writing a novel about the downfall of capitalism and had decided that Paris was the place to do it. He was planning to stay for three months.

We talked about Orwell’s Down and Out, which he too had read and claimed as the inspiration for his own novel, and then I asked him what was uppermost on my mind. I did that in those days. I still do that now.

‘You remember what Freddie said at Hugh’s funeral? That Hugh was a spy for Russia and that the secret service killed him? Was there any truth to that?’

Dick snorted into his cup of tea, a good English bone-china cup received as a wedding present from Roland’s aunt. ‘Absolutely not! Total tosh. Freddie talks absolute rot, especially when he’s tight. He was tight, you know?’

‘I thought perhaps he was.’

‘Appalling behaviour, I’m afraid. I say, you haven’t been worrying about that, have you?’

‘I’m afraid I have, rather. You see, Hugh and I had had a dreadful row the evening before he died. I told you about that — he claimed to have given up on communism — but it didn’t make sense to me. And I don’t know what he was doing on that back lane.’

‘Did the police have any suspicions?’

‘No, but they wouldn’t if the secret service had killed him, would they?’

Dick put down his cup. ‘I don’t know much about the secret service, but I don’t think they murder people whom they suspect of being spies. They try them and hang them. That’s different.’

He looked right at me. ‘And I really don’t think Hugh was a spy. I wouldn’t necessarily know for sure if he was, but I suspect I would have an inkling. I had none.’

I listened and sipped my tea. ‘Tell me about him,’ I said. ‘What was he like at school?’

Dick took out a pipe. ‘Do you mind?’

I shook my head and lit up a cigarette.

‘Everybody liked him,’ Dick replied as he filled the bowl with tobacco. ‘As at most schools, there was a split between the arty types, the “aesthetes”, and the hearties who played rugger, but Hugh seemed to span that. He played cricket and he wrote poetry and rebellious essays. The beaks liked him too.’

‘And which were you?’

‘I suppose I was an aesthete. I shared a study with Hugh in the Upper School. But Freddie was the one the hearties really loved to hate. He would wear silk scarves around his wrist and quote obscure Latin poetry at them. They loathed it.’

‘But Hugh and Freddie were good friends?’

‘Very good friends. I think Hugh admired Freddie’s rebellious streak. The way he didn’t care about authority. They started a magazine together, The Light of Youth. I contributed. Bad poetry, earnest essays, satire that we thought frightfully clever. It was banned in the end, but they gave it a good run.’

‘Is Freddie a homosexual?’ I asked.

Dick looked shifty. ‘Yes.’

‘Was my brother a homosexual?’

Dick blushed. I wasn’t sure if that was because he was embarrassed discussing the subject with a young lady, or if he was hiding something.

‘No,’ he said. ‘At least I don’t think so.’ He paused, puffing on his pipe. ‘No, I’m sure not.’

‘Sorry, I’m embarrassing you,’ I said. ‘Given all the books I read, I couldn’t help coming across homosexuality. I couldn’t possibly ask my parents about it, but I could ask Hugh, and he explained all. But there’s one thing I never understood. If you are a homosexual, does that mean you will always like just men, or can you change?’

Dick smiled nervously. ‘I’m not sure I completely understand that either. Many of the boys who experimented with it at school are now frightfully keen on girls. Others, like Freddie, have no interest in women at all.’

‘And my brother?’

‘He liked women. I think he always did. I really don’t think there was anything physical between him and Freddie, if that’s what you are asking.’

‘I was thinking more about Kay.’

‘He was desperately keen on her. He never mentioned her to you?’

‘No. I wish he had. I find it hard to forgive him for keeping her a secret from me. Who is she?’

‘She’s an American, from Chicago originally, I think, but then she moved to Vienna where she studied German. She went from there on the same Intourist trip as Freddie, Hugh and me. Hugh and she hit it off right away. After the trip, Hugh returned to London and they wrote to each other. Then she got herself a position as an assistant to an Austrian photographer in London, and moved there to be with Hugh. Hugh and she saw a lot of each other.’

‘Did you know he had asked her to marry him?’

‘No. I’m a bit surprised. But I can’t imagine she would lie about something like that.’

‘What did you think of her?’

‘She’s very attractive in an odd way. She’s earnest and sincere. Self-taught. A little like you. Perhaps that’s why Hugh liked her.’ Dick reddened again. ‘Sorry. That came out wrong. But I told you before how frightfully proud of you Hugh was.’

I smiled reassuringly. ‘That’s all right. What about Hugh’s communism? Had he really given it up? Did he ever actually join the party?’

‘When we went up to Cambridge in 1929, everyone was talking about poetry. By the time we did our finals, everyone was talking about Marx. It all changed. And it was the crash that did it, first on Wall Street in 1929 and then the banks in 1931. Capitalism is broken, that’s clear now. Suddenly socialism seemed the answer, or even communism.

‘Freddie was at Trinity reading History, but he switched to Economics so that he could be taught by a don named Maurice Dobb.’

‘I remember that name. Hugh mentioned him in his letters.’

‘He’s a Marxist, and he taught Freddie all about dialectic materialism and the dictatorship of the proletariat. Then Freddie joined a dining club called the Apostles — it’s supposed to be secret, but everyone knows about it. Keynes is the president, you know, the economist?’

I nodded.

‘Hugh was at King’s, Keynes’s college, and Freddie soon got him in. I was never a member, but I believe the idea was that someone gave a paper at each dinner and it was discussed. A lot of the undergraduate members were taken with Marxism, and they began to spread it around the university. Very effectively: we were all receptive. A former coal miner started the Cambridge University Socialist Society, and we all joined — I think they have a thousand members now. Freddie joined the Communist Party and got his little green party card, but I don’t think Hugh ever got around to it.’

‘Did you sign up?’

‘No. Almost. My father is a vicar, you may remember. He had a parish in rural Hampshire, but the General Strike made him think, and he asked to be transferred to a mining village in Durham. Which he was. It was quite a shock to the rest of the family. It wasn’t just that we were middle-class southerners; those villages are very Methodist — the Church of England is the enemy. But my father did a good job. I learned to play the trombone and the miners let me play in one of their bands. The poverty shocked me, the houses, the children going down the mines at fourteen, the coal dust everywhere.

‘So I listened to the likes of Maurice Dobb, and I read the essays and the books, and I stayed up till two in the morning drinking college port and discussing Lenin. But I found the atheism of Marxism a problem. I still think “love thy neighbour” is the commandment to live by. Atheism appealed to most of the communist undergraduates; they believed the Church of England was hypocritical. That’s certainly what Hugh thought.’

‘All right, I understand,’ I said. ‘That’s how Hugh became a communist, but why did he give it up? He suggested to me that it was after your trip to Russia, but I remember him coming back from that more fired up than ever.’

‘He and Freddie seemed very taken with the Soviet system, as I told you, and Kay certainly was. We went to Leningrad and Moscow and then Kiev and Kazan. We saw the Hermitage and the Kremlin and we visited tractor factories and collective farms. It’s true that there isn’t a class system as far as we could tell, and the workers run things not the capitalists, and they are building all kinds of wonderful projects, and the people seem dedicated to making their country work. But we weren’t allowed to talk to anyone, or rather they were too scared to talk to us. The trains were terrible — I remember a nightmare journey to Kiev that took forever with no food or water. Life is tough and people are seriously poor, poorer even than the mining village at home, and that’s saying something. In Kiev they were literally starving, dying in the street.

‘Of course, Freddie and Hugh said it was because the economy had been broken under Tsarism, and it would inevitably take a while to sort it out. That may be true. But essentially they claimed that everything they didn’t like was a result of the Tsars, and everything they did like was a result of the new communist world order.

‘The thing is, it isn’t a free country.’ Dick grinned. ‘I remember Freddie leaping off the boat in Leningrad shouting “Free at last!” and tripping over a notice in Russian saying “Keep off the grass”. He was probably drunk.’

I laughed. ‘But you changed Hugh’s mind?’

‘My history tutor at Cambridge was originally from the Ukraine. He told me that there was a famine in the Ukraine that the government wasn’t admitting to. He said the secret police was at least as bad as under the Tsars, and that the country was just a giant prison.’

‘He must be a counter-revolutionary, then,’ I said.

‘That’s what Hugh said. At first. But I introduced them and I think he may have convinced Hugh.’

I frowned. ‘This history don sounds to me like a Russian bourgeois who can’t bear the people taking his property and giving it to the workers.’

Dick was taken aback. I don’t think he quite realized how closely I followed Hugh’s beliefs.

‘Emma. Don’t be hard on Hugh for changing his mind. He was a good man, probably the best man I know. Or knew. He was always concerned about the poor in our society, the people who have nothing.’

‘Then why did he want to become a diplomat?’ I protested.

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘It’s about as bourgeois as they come. Eating and drinking in the pursuit of monopoly profits for an imperialist country.’

Dick raised his eyebrows. ‘Isn’t that what your husband does?’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘And it makes me sick sometimes.’

‘Oh.’

‘Look, I’m sorry, Dick,’ I said, afraid I had gone too far. ‘I am a hypocrite, I know it. At least you have lived in a mining town and tried to help the people there. I just read books and have servants wait on me. I hate myself for it. And sometimes I hate Hugh for it.’

I felt my eyes sting with tears. I didn’t cry often. When I did, it usually had something to do with Hugh or his memory.

Dick put down his cup. ‘I must be going. It was lovely to see you again, Emma.’

‘Oh, Dick. I am sorry. I’ve scared you off! As you can see, I am still upset about Hugh and it affects me in silly ways. But I did enjoy talking to you. Can I see you again?’

Dick smiled, what seemed to me a genuine smile, although I’m not always very good at telling. ‘Yes, I’d like that.’

‘Tell you what. There is a gruesome cocktail party at the embassy tomorrow night in honour of a whisky distillers’ delegation from Scotland or something. We’re trying to get the French to drink more whisky. Can you come? They always want people to make up the numbers.’

‘When you put it like that, how can I refuse?’

Twelve

The room was heaving. I should have anticipated that a delegation of whisky distillers would be more popular than the screw manufacturers from Birmingham who had visited the embassy the week before.

Roland was working hard introducing Scotsmen to French politicians and wine merchants. I was sipping malt whisky with Dick and Cyril. And coughing.

‘You must remember never to put ice in a good malt,’ Dick said. ‘And no soda either. Just a drop of water.’

‘This is good stuff,’ said Cyril, who seemed to have taken to Dick. Cyril was so slim he was almost emaciated, his body long and concave, but in a room full of elegant men, Cyril was one of the most elegant.

‘Ah, there is the Vicomte de Montfaucon. I must introduce him to Mackenzie. I know the vicomte likes his Scotch.’

Cyril left us to attend to his duties.

‘You know what we were saying about Freddie,’ said Dick, nodding after Cyril’s retreating figure.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Really! How can you tell?’

‘It’s just a feeling. I may be wrong, of course.’

‘I never would have guessed. I have always thought Cyril was quite good-looking.’

‘So does the vicomte,’ said Dick. It was true: the middle-aged elegant Frenchman was touching the sleeve of the young elegant Englishman. They did seem quite taken with each other.

‘Good evening, Emma.’ A small trim man with a small trim moustache took my hand, bowed over it and clicked his heels.

‘Kurt! How nice to see you! How did you get in here?’ I spoke in German.

‘I am the second secretary at the German Embassy with special responsibility for whisky,’ the man said with a smile.

I introduced the German diplomat, whose name was Kurt Lohmüller, to Dick. ‘Kurt, do you think Cyril Ashcott is a homosexual?’ I switched to English for Dick’s benefit.

Kurt raised his mobile eyebrows. His face was intensely mobile, unlike his body, which retained a Germanic stiffness. I liked him.

‘I have absolutely no idea,’ he said.

‘Dick here thinks he is.’

Dick blushed rather sweetly, pinkness appearing on his cheeks and reddening his neck. ‘I was merely speculating, Emma.’

Kurt looked over the room to where Cyril and the vicomte were deep in conversation. ‘I hadn’t thought of it, but Dick may be right.’

‘It’s very clever of him. Mind you, I can spot communists in the same way,’ I said. ‘Like you, for example, Kurt.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ said Kurt with mock shock.

‘Don’t deny it. I’ve spoken to you enough about politics.’ That was indeed the reason Kurt and I were friends. We would seek each other out at the end of diplomatic functions, when we were both a little tipsy and Kurt’s diplomatic duties — such as they were — had been discharged. I would explain my ideas about politics, and Kurt would listen with a mixture of amusement at my naivety and interest at what he said were my original opinions.

I liked the attention.

‘I can assure you, Mr Loxton, I am not a communist,’ Kurt said to Dick. ‘I admit Emma and I have discussed Soviet politics at length. Before Paris, I was stationed in Moscow.’

‘Bosh,’ I said.

‘I have no idea what “Bosh” means. I assume something like “Absolutely, Herr Lohmüller”?’

‘Double bosh.’

‘Unless you mean “Boche” and are accusing me of being German?’

‘You know jolly well what I mean.’

‘As a matter of fact, Mr Loxton, I am a good National Socialist,’ Kurt said.

‘More bosh.’

‘It’s true! I have just joined the party.’

This brought me up short. ‘Oh, no. Really?’

‘I have to. We diplomats were exempted for a while, but now we all have to become members.’

‘But what about your principles, Kurt?’

‘My principles are clear. I serve my country. Just like your husband.’

‘I say, Emma, isn’t that your ma?’

Dick nodded behind me, and I turned.

‘Emma, darling! I just bumped into Roland and he told me you were here.’

‘And you were invited?’

‘I came with Antoine Meyronne.’

He was the new agriculture minister, I remembered, a man whose thick moustache rivalled Clémenceau’s. I made sure to memorize all the French ministers as they came and went, which they did with bewildering speed. France had already held two elections that year, and it was only May.

‘I had no idea you were coming to Paris.’ But I had to admit it wasn’t much of a surprise. She almost never warned me of her arrival.

‘I have a fitting tomorrow. But perhaps you could join me for luncheon afterwards. At the Ritz?’ Then she turned to Dick. ‘Aren’t you Hugh’s friend, Dick? How nice to see you!’

‘I am, Lady Chaddington.’

My mother charmed Dick and also Kurt. Dick treated her like his best friend’s mother. Kurt showed a different kind of interest. At forty-five, my mother was still an attractive woman. She wore her hair short and curled; her nose was tiny but pointed and seemed to be constantly sniffing out titbits. She was tall and slim; good clothes looked magnificent on her. Although her milky-white complexion was etched with tiny, barely visible lines, it still seemed fresh.

Frankly, it was hard to tell we were related.

I felt a flash of jealousy at Kurt’s interest, and a touch of anger that no one mentioned Hugh’s name, after Mama’s initial identification of Dick.

I interrupted my mother in mid-sentence as she was discussing a trip to Lake Annecy Kurt was planning to take the following month.

‘Did Hugh like whisky, Dick?’

Mama glared at me, whether it was for my rudeness or for the reminder of my brother and her son, I didn’t know and didn’t care. As Dick answered me, my mother floated off to find her minister.

Thirteen

‘Are you related to the portrait painter?’

Colonel Vivian seemed nonplussed by my question. We were in one of the smallest rooms in the Chancery building. Roland had asked me to meet ‘two fellows over from London’. Why, I had no idea.

‘Yes, I am,’ said Vivian, looking at me suspiciously through his monocle. He wore a toothbrush moustache. I distrusted toothbrush moustaches. He was accompanied by a much younger colleague, Kenneth Heaton-Smith, who was clean-shaven, alert and rather good-looking.

‘Comley Vivian?’ I persisted. ‘I’m not too keen on his portraits, but I once saw a very good painting of a Venetian palazzo by him.’

I realized I had said the wrong thing. I really needed to up my game, especially amongst embassy people, if I was going to avoid embarrassing Roland. I should probably have talked about the weather. ‘It’s a bit hot today,’ I added.

Vivian frowned, and then decided to ignore my babble. ‘Thank you for coming to see us, Mrs Meeke,’ he said. ‘I want to speak to you about a somewhat sensitive issue. When you hear what I have to say, you will understand that you mustn’t repeat any of it to anyone.’

‘Not even Roland?’

Vivian hesitated. ‘Not even your husband. The less discussion there is on this matter within the embassy, the better. Although it was your husband who suggested I speak to you.’

‘All right.’

‘I’ve come from London to follow up on indications that sensitive information has been leaked to a foreign power from here in the Paris embassy.’

My mind raced. The foreign power must be Russia! They knew about Hugh. They thought I was a spy.

‘I see,’ I said, trying and possibly succeeding to keep my tone neutral.

‘Naturally we have been interviewing the staff here, but your husband suggested that we speak to you. He said you had particularly strong powers of observation.’ Colonel Vivian permitted himself a smile. ‘I must say I liked my father’s Venetian paintings too.’

‘Oh,’ I said. It sounded as if I was not to be accused of anything. And neither was Hugh.

‘So, have you noticed anything?’

I hesitated. ‘It would help if you could tell me to which foreign power you are referring.’

‘Oh, yes, of course. Germany.’

‘Ah.’ My mind darted around the embassy, its diplomatic staff, the other wives, the domestic staff. ‘I’m afraid not,’ I said. A thought occurred to me. Perhaps I was under suspicion after all. I decided to take the bull by the horns. ‘I am rather good friends with one of the diplomats from the German embassy in Paris. Herr Lohmüller. I’ve always had the impression that he wasn’t frightfully keen on the Nazis.’

‘Yes, we know that,’ said Vivian.

‘Is there anything I could say to him?’ I asked. ‘Obviously nothing directly. But some stratagem?’ My brain raced. ‘I don’t know, perhaps you could plant some false information that only certain people may have seen, and I could check whether Kurt knew it?’

Vivian smiled. ‘I like the way you think, Mrs Meeke. But please don’t mention any of this to him. For now. But if we do come up with a... stratagem, we will bear you in mind. I’m confident we will find the leak. In the meantime, if you do think of something, do let Mr Heaton-Smith or me know. Mr Heaton-Smith will see you out.’

And he did. As we emerged from the old stable block and into the semi-circular courtyard, Heaton-Smith chuckled. ‘Nice job, Mrs Meeke. It’s rare for people to put Vee-Vee on the back foot like that.’

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘Here’s my card,’ he said. ‘If you need to get in touch with me back in London. Although I will be based at the embassy here in Paris for the next few days.’

We stopped in the courtyard, and Heaton-Smith looked straight at me. ‘You thought the “foreign power” was Russia, didn’t you?’

I almost answered ‘yes’ immediately, but then I hesitated. Was this attractive young man getting me to lower my guard? About Hugh? About my own communist leanings?

At that moment I saw a figure I recognized emerge from the main embassy building.

‘Freddie!’ I called.

It was indeed Freddie Pelham-Walsh, looking very dapper, his pink silk handkerchief matching his pink silk tie.

‘Emma, my dear!’ He grinned widely. ‘I was rather hoping I might bump into you here.’

I turned to introduce Freddie to Heaton-Smith, but the spy, or counter-spy, or whatever he was, had beaten a retreat back to the Chancery building.

‘I had no idea I would bump into you!’ I said. ‘What are you doing in Paris?’

‘Oh, a bit of work, you know. But actually just now I was visiting Lady Clerk. She is an absolute scream. Do you know, she offered to cure my backache? How did she even know I had backache?’

‘I think she has faith or something,’ I said.

‘Her painting is much better than I expected. Some of it I would rate as highly as mediocre.’

‘Such a generous critic, Freddie.’

‘Always. Mind you, there was one rather lovely nude. I asked her who the model was, but she wouldn’t say.’

I could feel my face burning. Suddenly the enormity of my idiocy at allowing myself to be painted naked became very clear to me. Why had I done it? Sometimes I was just very very stupid. As was Lady Clerk.

Freddie grinned. ‘Don’t worry, my dear. I am quite sure most people won’t notice. I have an eye for these things. What are you doing now? Do you have time for a little something?’

So we found a café on the Faubourg, I had a cup of coffee, Freddie took a glass of cognac — even though it was barely eleven o’clock — and he prattled on. I enjoyed listening to him. Partly because I needed a link to Hugh at that moment, partly because he was amusing company.

He was in Paris visiting the offices of an international communist student organization I had vaguely heard of. Some friends in London had recommended he drop in on Lady Clerk, and he was hoping to meet some more fashionable ‘indigenous artists’, as he called them, while he was in Paris. He asked me whether I knew Gertrude Stein, the American critic, and I admitted I had met her a couple of times, although she probably wouldn’t remember who I was. We didn’t talk politics, at least not then. I was wary after my conversation with Colonel Vivian. I did tell him that Dick was in Paris, something he didn’t know, and gave him Dick’s address on the Île Saint-Louis.

But as I walked home over the Pont de la Concorde, I couldn’t help thinking about my conversation with Colonel Vivian. Someone had been giving ‘sensitive information’ to the Germans.

Who?

Fourteen

June 1979, Paris

Emma and Phil spent the afternoon sightseeing. They started with the Jeu de Paume, a short walk from the British Embassy. It was a couple of years since Phil had visited an art gallery — the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square — and he was amazed by the paintings. He vaguely remembered seeing a couple of impressionist paintings in the National, but he was sixteen at the time, and not that interested.

He must have changed in the last couple of years. Seeing so many fantastic pictures by Renoir, Van Gogh, Monet, Cézanne and all the others overwhelmed him. Emma was amused by his reaction. They spent two and a half hours there. Afterwards, they walked through the gardens of the Tuileries and examined the queue for the Louvre, deciding to leave it for another day. But then Emma took him to an amazing church on a nearby island in the Seine, whose soaring interior was lit up by sunshine streaming through stained-glass windows. Once again, Phil was overwhelmed by the beauty of it.

His parents had traipsed around Wells Cathedral with him the previous summer. Was that as beautiful? Or had he simply not noticed?

Phil felt as if his eyes had been opened, as if for the first time he had been allowed to see all that stuff he had found boring as a child, but as an adult he would appreciate. The idea was exciting. Beyond Paris stretched a whole continent of these pleasures, which had been tantalizingly outlined in the pages of the Hitch-Hiker’s Guide that he had pored over so thoroughly.

It might have been more fun to be exploring the continent by himself, or with a friend. But Phil didn’t want to be ungrateful. It was very generous of Emma to give him this opportunity, when his father would have had him working on a building site or, failing that, filling out a UB40 for the dole like some of his friends were planning to do over the summer.

Emma was tired. They stopped in a café on the way back to the hotel for a light supper of croque-monsieurs and salad.

‘I’m exhausted,’ Emma said. ‘I think I’m going to turn in when we get back to the hotel. Read a book in my room. But if you would like to go out and explore Paris, please do. I can give you an advance on your wages.’

So, armed with a hundred francs, Phil set off from the Ritz into the night.

He had consulted the Hitch-Hiker’s Guide, which had informed him that the neighbourhood to go to meet students was the Place Saint-Michel on the Left Bank.

Armed with a map he had requested from the front desk in successful French, Phil took the Métro and emerged eventually at a junction surrounding an ornate building that turned out to be a fountain. The place was indeed filled with people his age.

Actually, they were slightly older than him. They were students; they were already at university. Phil suddenly felt like a schoolboy. The Guide had blithely spoken about a great place to meet students, but what exactly was he supposed to do? Walk up to a group of them and say, ‘Hi, I’m Phil. What’s your name?’ Or even worse: ‘Bonjour. Je m’appelle Philip. Je suis élève.’ Or something equally dumb.

He needed to buck his ideas up. He decided to find a bar, have a beer and regroup.

He picked a narrow street at random — there were lots of bars. He chose one that was full but not packed, found himself a tiny table, and after considering whether a glass of red wine would be the proper French thing to order, or even a Pernod, settled on a glass of Stella Artois, which most of the men in the bar seemed to be drinking.

Except, wasn’t that Belgian? Just like Plastic Bertrand. He grinned. He should have asked Emma for her recommendation.

The bar was full of young people, about half of whom looked French and half of whom were tourists of some kind. Just across from him was a table of three girls, who sounded as if they were Dutch. Quite attractive, especially the small dark-haired one. A little older than him, twenty or twenty-one. If he had been there with a friend he would have given it a go. But how did one school kid chat up three women?

He finished his beer, considered moving to another bar, but decided to stay. He liked the atmosphere of this one, so he ordered another Stella Artois from the waitress.

Through the crowd, he caught a glimpse of a face he recognized — the long-haired guy from the ferry who looked a bit like Frank Stapleton. He realized this was an opportunity to speak to someone. What could be more natural than: ‘Hey! Aren’t you the guy I saw on the ferry from Plymouth?’ If the guy was friendly, and why shouldn’t he be, then Phil might become part of the crowd rather than apart from it.

He stood up to try to catch the guy’s eye, but he had turned and was pushing his way through the crush to the street. Phil considered following him, but he had a beer on its way.

The waitress weaved her way expertly through the crowd towards him with his beer when a small body barrelled into her, knocking the glass to the floor. It shattered and the noise level in the bar momentarily dropped as the crowd turned to look.

‘Scheisse!’

A slight girl with straggly blond hair started to apologize to the waitress in bad French. The waitress was not impressed as she left to get a cloth and a dustpan and brush. The girl turned to Phil and apologized too. When the waitress reappeared the girl helped her clear up.

‘Do you want another beer?’ she asked Phil in heavily accented French.

‘No, that’s OK,’ Phil replied in German, having identified her expletive.

‘You speak German? I owe you another one. I can’t believe how stupid I am. You must take it.’

The waitress seemed not only to agree with the German girl about her stupidity, but also to think it was the girl’s duty to buy Phil a replacement beer, so he accepted.

The girl sat on the empty stool at Phil’s small table. She was holding her own glass of wine. She was really very pretty — small, thin, with bright blue eyes and a pointed chin, strands of hair that was so light it was almost white hanging down against her cheeks. She continued apologizing in German. She seemed to Phil to be agitated, and more than just from spilling his drink.

The waitress returned with another Stella Artois, and Phil raised it to the girl. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘Do you mind if I sit here?’ the girl said.

‘No. Not at all. Aren’t you with other people?’

‘I was,’ said the girl darkly. ‘One other person.’

‘Oh. My name is Phil, by the way.’

‘Heike,’ said the girl. But she barely looked at him. She seemed preoccupied.

Phil sipped his beer. The girl, Heike, looked seriously upset and not really in a mood to talk to him. She had taken the chair because it was one of the only spare seats in the bar. Phil thought about giving her her privacy.

But she was very attractive.

‘You look like you are having a bad evening,’ he said in German.

At first he thought she was going to ignore him. Then she turned to him and smiled. ‘You can say that again.’

‘What happened?’

‘My moron of a boyfriend. Turns out he slept with my best friend from university.’

‘He just told you that?’

‘He just admitted it. I made him tell me. And then I told him to piss off.’

‘Just now?’

‘Just now. That’s why I barged into that waitress and spilled your beer. I was too upset to watch where I was going.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Phil. And he meant it. The girl looked seriously unhappy, the corners of her mouth pointed down and she seemed near to tears.

She drained her glass, and looked out at the street. She turned to Phil. ‘Do you mind if I stay here a bit? I told my boyfriend to make sure he was out of our hotel room by the time I got back. I need to give him a bit of time.’

‘No. Of course not. Can I buy you another drink?’

‘I didn’t mean that. I’ll get it.’

‘We’ll split it.’ Phil somehow got the waitress’s attention.

‘You’re English?’ Heike said.

‘You can tell?’

‘You have the accent. But you speak good German.’

She took out a pack of cigarettes and offered Phil one. He accepted — he barely ever smoked, it seemed ridiculous to him to waste fifty pence on twenty cigarettes, but he grabbed the opportunity to seem that little bit older, that little bit cooler, than he was.

‘Are you here alone?’ she asked. ‘Or have you just dumped your own girlfriend?’

Phil laughed. He was about to claim that he was in his second year at Edinburgh and he was hitch-hiking around Europe by himself, when he thought better of it. She seemed like a nice girl, she’d had a bad evening and she would be a lot easier to talk to if he didn’t lie or try to make out he was someone he wasn’t. No more cigarettes.

‘I’m driving my grandmother around Europe,’ he said. ‘She’s back at the hotel, but she let me out for the evening.’

This went down well. ‘Oh, I’d love to drive my Oma around. What a great idea! She is this tiny little old lady with the sweetest kitten. She bakes the most delicious cakes for me.’

‘That doesn’t sound much like mine,’ said Phil. ‘She’s not even really old, and she’s a little scary and a little strange.’

‘But you like her,’ said Heike. ‘I can tell.’

‘I do like her,’ said Phil. He felt a lump in his throat. ‘She told me yesterday she is going to die. She has a...’ He searched for the word and couldn’t find it. ‘A stone in her brain.’

‘Hirntumor?’ Heike touched his sleeve. ‘I am sorry. That puts losing my shithead boyfriend into perspective. I should be happy he’s gone. I am happy he’s gone.’ She said the last words defiantly and drank more of her wine. ‘This is good stuff,’ she said. ‘Shall we get a bottle?’

So they bought a bottle. And drank it. Heike was good company. Phil soon admitted that he had just finished school, but that didn’t seem to bother her. She came from Braunschweig and was at university studying engineering, but she had read Günter Grass, and was happy to talk to Phil about it. She even laughed at his jokes. Phil found the German coming easily once he warmed up, and with the lubrication of a bit of alcohol.

They bought a second bottle. By this time Heike was becoming quite drunk, and Phil’s German was slurring. There must have been a moment when drink-fuelled good humour became sloppy incoherence, but it took a while for Phil to notice it. Eventually, he did, and he suggested that they leave.

‘I am seriously drunk,’ Heike said deliberately. ‘Shitfaced. But at least Jürgen will have cleared out of my hotel room by now. Thank you for entertaining me, Phil.’

‘Are you going to be all right getting back to your hotel?’

Heike stood in front of Phil on the street, swaying. ‘Maybe not.’

‘Here, I’ll take you back.’

It was a twenty-minute walk to Heike’s one-star hotel; Heike leaned into him the whole way. They found it eventually. Phil considered trying to ask himself in, but decided in a moment of lucidity that one way or other it would screw up what had been a great evening.

‘Do you want to meet up again tomorrow night?’ he suggested. ‘Same place? Eight thirty?’

Heike looked up at him and frowned. Then she smiled. ‘OK,’ she said, and pushed herself through the hotel entrance.

It took Phil three-quarters of an hour to walk back to the Ritz through the streets of Paris, but he grinned all the way.

Fifteen

Five and a half hours later, Phil’s travelling alarm clock wrested him out of a tumbling sleep. He rolled out of bed, dragged on some clothes and made his way down to breakfast in the Ritz’s grand dining room, with its confusing ceiling of blue sky and clouds.

Emma was waiting for him, perusing The Times over a pot of tea.

‘Philip! You look dreadful.’

‘I love you too, Grams. Is there any coffee?’

Emma smiled. ‘I take it you enjoyed yourself last night?’

Despite the piston engine in his head, Phil responded with a smile of his own. ‘I did.’

‘I trust you didn’t get yourself into that state alone?’

‘No. I, um, I met someone.’

A broad grin from his grandmother. ‘I’m very pleased to hear it. What’s her name?’

‘Heike.’

‘German?’

‘Yeah. From Brunswick.’

‘And did you speak to her in German?’

‘I did,’ said Phil proudly.

‘Good for you.’

Emma refilled her cup of tea, and Phil attacked the chocolate croissants. His stomach demanded food urgently.

‘Grams, I hope you don’t mind. I said I’d meet her again this evening. At half past eight. Is that OK? Do we have anything planned for tonight?’

‘We do, as a matter of fact,’ said Emma. But then, seeing Phil’s disappointment, she continued, ‘But we’ll get you wherever you are going in time.’

‘What are we doing?’

‘You’ll see.’

After breakfast they retraced Phil’s journey of the previous evening, taking the Métro to Saint-Michel. Emma led Phil down towards the river and an old bookshop facing the back of Notre-Dame Cathedral, the words ‘Shakespeare and Company’ painted on a yellow board above its door.

They entered a warren of little rooms, random steps up and down, musty old sofas, and books, hundreds, maybe thousands of books lining the walls from floor to ceiling. There was a profound smell of dust. The till at the front door was presided over by a middle-aged man with a pointed grey beard reading a novel by Armistead Maupin. Various ‘customers’, mostly young, lounged about reading the stock. It didn’t seem to occur to anyone to actually buy anything.

‘Pick something out you’d like,’ Emma said. ‘I’ll get it for you.’

Phil and she split up and wandered around the shelves. Phil was reluctant to buy anything, since he still had over a thousand pages of War and Peace to go, but Emma arrived at his elbow clutching Catch-22 by Joseph Heller.

‘I’ll get you this,’ she said. ‘Just in case you get an idea in your head to join the army. Or the air force.’

‘I’ll join the air force if I want, Grams,’ Phil said, partly to wind her up, partly because he didn’t like being bossed about even by his grandmother, and partly because although he knew he would never become a jet fighter pilot, just as he knew he would never play centre forward for England, he didn’t want to rule the possibility out.

‘Of course you will, dear,’ said Emma. ‘Just read this book first.’

With difficulty, she roused the bloke at the till to take her money for Catch-22 and a book about linguistics by a man called Noam Chomsky. Or was Noam a woman’s name?

They left the shop, with Phil carrying the books.

‘I loved Shakespeare and Company when I was here in the thirties,’ Emma said. ‘But that’s not the original shop.’

‘It doesn’t exactly look new,’ Phil said.

‘It doesn’t, does it? It has its charm, but the original location was on Rue de l’Odéon. I’ll show you.’

It was about a fifteen-minute walk. Normally Emma’s long legs would have eaten up the distance with no difficulty, but she started veering a little to the right as they walked, and so she threaded her arm through his. A worrying sign of the insidious damage being done to her brain.

The Rue de l’Odéon was a short, straight street that led gently uphill from the busy Boulevard Saint-Germain towards the classical columns of the Odéon theatre. They stopped outside Number 12, a yellow stone house with a small wrought-iron balcony above the front door.

‘This used to be Shakespeare and Company. It was run by an American woman named Sylvia Beach. I spent a lot of time here, and also at the French bookshop that used to be right opposite. Sylvia was famous by the time I got to Paris. She had published James Joyce’s Ulysses in the 1920s, and the likes of Ernest Hemingway used to drop by there. And Gertrude Stein. But by the 1930s the shop was in trouble, and I actually helped bail her out financially. All kinds of writers, French and British as well as American, did readings. I loved it. And I spent a lot of money here.’

They walked back down the hill to the roaring traffic of the Boulevard Saint-Germain, and headed towards the tall church of that name.

‘The Deux Magots?’ Phil said spotting a large café opposite. ‘Isn’t that where Jean-Paul Sartre used to go?’

‘That’s right. And the café opposite, where we are going for a cup of coffee now.’

It was the Café de Flore. They took a seat outside on the pavement, watching the cars hurl themselves down the boulevard.

‘Back in the thirties, these places were a hotbed of socialism. In those days artists and writers really did wear berets and smoke Gauloises cigarettes and argue about philosophy or dialectic materialism. It was not exactly forbidden, but it was certainly frowned upon, for diplomats to be seen in places like this, but I used to stop here for a petit café after visiting Shakespeare and Co.’

Phil looked around. There were plenty of tourists like him and Emma. There were a few well-dressed, well-heeled Frenchmen and — women. But Phil was pleased to spot an immensely wrinkled old man reading Libération with a fag end of ash drooping precariously from his cigarette, a little glass of red wine at his elbow.

‘I bet that bloke was here back then,’ Phil said.

‘Probably.’ Emma grinned. ‘This is where I met Freddie and Dick.’ Her smile disappeared. ‘And where I learned something that destroyed my life in Paris.’

Sixteen

May 1936, Paris

I was a little late to the Café de Flore. Dick had telephoned me and suggested that I join him and Freddie there at nine o’clock. I was beginning to appreciate and abide by Parisians’ tendency to add a petit quart d’heure to any meeting time, and decided to add an extra quarter-hour on top of that to be on the safe side. I had dined alone at home — Roland was on his way back from a day of meetings with ship-owners in Le Havre.

Freddie was already there, as was Dick, but they had somehow inveigled themselves on to a large table of voluble Frenchmen and a couple of Americans, many of whom I recognized from the readings at Shakespeare and Company. As I arrived, Freddie was haranguing a particularly famous and formidable poet in surprisingly good French about the poet’s misunderstanding of love. I sat down next to Dick and watched in something approaching fear.

But the poet broke into uproarious laughter, as did his colleagues. They thought the idea of being lectured to by someone whom they assumed was an Englishman on the subject of love a huge joke. An outcome, I realized, Freddie had anticipated.

Freddie saw me and introduced me to his new friends, who expressed varying degrees of enchantment at my presence. There were two women present of about my own age, an American named Frances Piggott whom I had spoken to briefly at the bookshop, and her friend Ellen. I sat next to Dick, and listened to the conversation.

The talk switched to Spain, and the recent elections won outright by the Popular Front coalition, and some discussion and then dismissal of rumours that the army was planning a coup. In France, everyone was sure that a general strike was on its way, of which they all seemed to approve, especially Freddie. It was strange seeing Freddie, so dapper in his well-tailored suit, espousing the cause of the workers with such enthusiasm. The French seemed to like it, and I began to see why Hugh had liked it also.

I was fascinated, although it meant I would be unlikely to get the chance to question Freddie about my brother.

‘I’m finding it hard to keep up,’ said Dick to me. ‘My French isn’t quite up to it.’

‘It’s funny,’ I said. ‘These are exactly the same topics of conversation the diplomats chat about, but from an entirely different angle.’

‘Your friend is quite sure of his opinions,’ said Frances, who was sitting on Dick’s other side. ‘And they are a sight more left-wing than I would expect from an English gentleman.’

Dick smiled. ‘They certainly are. But he’s Irish. Sort of.’

Dick, Frances and I carried on our own little side conversation in English. I would rather have stayed listening to the others, but I felt sorry for Dick for his lack of French. It turned out Frances was a student at a New England college and was spending a year at the Sorbonne. She seemed nice. I noticed Dick thought so too.

‘Oh, I saw your husband today,’ Dick said. ‘At a restaurant in the Bois de Boulogne. He was—’

‘It can’t have been him,’ I interrupted.

‘Oh, it was. I didn’t speak to him, but it was definitely him. I don’t think they saw me.’

‘No. He spent the day in Le Havre.’

‘But...’ Dick hesitated.

I noticed. I wondered.

‘Was it him?’

‘Um.’

‘You said you were sure it was him?’

‘Yes. I thought it was him.’

‘With whom was he lunching?’

‘Two men,’ Dick said, after a pause. ‘Frenchmen, probably.’

The tips of Dick’s ears went red. ‘The tips of your ears have gone red, Dick,’ I said.

‘Have they? It must be the wine.’

I fell silent. We listened to the conversation, which had moved on to the German occupation of the Rhineland a couple of months earlier and whether the French government should have kicked up more of a fuss. Except I wasn’t listening.

Dick was lying.

Lying about what? About seeing Roland today? No. Why would he lie about that?

If he had seen Roland, then Roland’s lunch had not been above board. Two possibilities suggested themselves, both of which scared the hell out of me.

‘Dick?’

He tried to ignore me.

‘Dick!’ Louder.

He turned to me reluctantly.

‘Was there any chance that the two Frenchmen Roland was having lunch with were, in fact, German?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Dick. ‘Maybe.’ He seemed relieved by my question.

He was looking for a lead from me. One of the possibilities, prompted by my conversation with Colonel Vivian, had been that Roland had been lunching with German contacts at an out-of-the-way restaurant to give them secret information from the embassy, and that Dick had realized this and that was what he was lying about for some reason. But his uncertain response, and his relief that I was taking that tack, didn’t seem to fit that.

The other possibility seemed more likely.

Should I explore it? Shouldn’t I just let it go: pretend Dick had never told me what he had just told me? Dick would go along with that.

That’s probably what I should have done. It’s what a lot of other married women would have done.

But not me.

‘You said Roland was lunching with two other men. Did you really mean that he was lunching with one other woman?’

Dick opened his mouth. Closed it. Kept quiet.

Frances was watching us both. She understood what was going on. She turned away, out of politeness.

I considered forcing Dick to admit it, but he just had.

Roland had lied to me about going to Le Havre. Instead he had gone to a discreet restaurant with another woman, and Dick had seen him.

My husband was having an affair.

I had to get out of there. I pulled myself to my feet, apologized that I was feeling unwell and had to leave, and pushed through the door to the pavement outside. I took a deep breath. My emotions, as yet unidentified, were roiling. Rage. Shame. Embarrassment. Sadness. Despair.

‘Emma! Emma, I’m sorry.’ It was Dick. He had come out on to the street to follow me. He did indeed look desperately sorry.

‘Sorry you lied to me, or sorry you told me the truth?’ I said.

‘I don’t know. That I lied to you. No. Both?’

I touched his arm. ‘It’s not your fault, Dick. It’s Roland’s fault.’ I took another deep breath. ‘Did you know the woman?’

‘No.’

‘What did she look like?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Oh come on! If you saw Roland clearly, you must have seen her.’

‘I didn’t, actually. She was facing away from me. She had dark hair and was wearing a cream-coloured dress.’ He hesitated. ‘That’s all I can say.’

‘How old was she?’

Dick shrugged. ‘I’m so sorry, Emma.’

‘Please leave me alone.’

He left me, on the street. Alone.

I walked the mile or so back to our apartment in the Rue de Bourgogne. I walked slowly. It was half past ten. The Paris streetlamps were throwing off their strange purple glow and, in the distance, I could see jags of light flashing from the Eiffel Tower. Roland would probably be home from Le Havre, or the Bois de Boulogne. I didn’t want to see him.

So my husband was having an affair. Was it possible? Of course it was. He was in his early thirties, he was good-looking, he was charming. Women found him attractive. And he was in Paris, for God’s sake, where everyone was supposed to be having affairs.

And it wasn’t as if everyone in England was faithful either, especially in my social set. I didn’t exactly have a social set; what I meant was my sister’s set, or Roland’s. Sarah was constantly telling me about affairs real or imagined amongst her and Tubby’s friends. Was Tubby at it too? Was she?

I had trusted Roland. I loved him. I had believed that he loved me. I had believed that he was different from other men.

And what grounds had I for that?

None.

I was a fool. An absolute bloody fool.

The tears came. A couple arm in arm, about ten years older than me, stared at me. I glared at them. They probably weren’t even married. Or they were, but to other people.

My pace slowed as I neared my apartment.

What if I was wrong? What if Roland had stayed in Paris, after all? What if he was lunching with another woman for a perfectly legitimate reason?

Maybe. Maybe.

I was clinging to this last desperate hope when I entered the flat. Roland was already in bed, reading.

‘How was Le Havre?’ I asked. My heart was pounding. Surely he would explain how the trip had been cancelled at the last minute.

‘Deadly dull. How was the Café de Flore?’

‘Interesting. But I’m terribly tired.’

I got into my pyjamas and slipped into bed. Roland moved towards me.

‘Not tonight,’ I said.

I closed my eyes tight. You see, not only was Roland hiding something from me. I was hiding something from him.

I was pretty sure that I was pregnant.

Seventeen

I was fortunate that I didn’t have to spend much time with Roland over the next couple of days. His diary was full, which was par for the course for a diplomat. The following evening he went to a reception at the Japanese Embassy, and the evening after that he was dining at the Paris Travellers Club with some British journalists.

Or was he?

I debated grilling Cyril Ashcott to verify Roland’s movements, but decided there was no point. Trying to keep tabs on my husband for the rest of our married life was not the answer. I had no clue what was.

The cold light of day didn’t bring clarity, just confusion. I supposed that countless women had found themselves in the situation I was in. But so soon after getting married? It was less than two years. I wasn’t even twenty-two yet.

What would Hugh have said? I had no idea of that either. Before he had died, I had felt with certainty I would know what Hugh’s opinion on anything was. But after the confusion of his death — his renunciation of all he believed in, all we believed in, that strange American woman, Freddie’s drunken speculation that Hugh was a spy — the strength and support he had always given me had dissipated. And then he had died.

Sarah was a better bet. She was a woman of the world, or at least this world of adultery and deceit. I considered telephoning her in London. Maybe I would. Maybe I should. But I held back. It was partly a question of pride; I was humiliated, and I didn’t want to share that with my beautiful, successful sister. I knew Tubby adored her; I knew he wasn’t unfaithful, and she would know that too.

The truth was, I didn’t know what to think, how to react. I couldn’t face talking to Roland about that or anything else, so I didn’t. I knew there was a risk that by ignoring him I might alert him to my suspicions, but that might prove in itself a relief. If he gave me a choice, forced me to decide between one path or another, it would be easier to make up my mind. I would avoid him, and hope in time things became clearer.

And then there was the baby, if indeed there was a baby. The thought filled me with an explosive mixture of happiness and dread. I had always wanted a baby. Since he had proposed to me at Boulestin, I had wanted a baby with Roland. But now? Now, I didn’t know. I decided to put off going to the doctor for confirmation. I would rather not be certain, at least not yet.

I was fortunate that my mother rang that morning to postpone our promised luncheon for a couple of days, saying she was leaving Paris to see a friend. That nose of hers would have sniffed out trouble.

The second evening, I went out by myself to Shakespeare and Company, and a reading of difficult poetry by an Irish writer in a mixture of English and French. Sylvia, the owner, welcomed me warmly. Not only was I a persistently good customer, but I had joined the whip-round to stave off her bankruptcy the year before. It wasn’t just that, or even partly that. Sylvia liked me because I liked books, and I found that comforting. James Joyce was in the audience, dour in his eye patch beneath his glasses; I recalled the poet had been his secretary for many years. Present too were the French writers from the Café de Flore and Frances Piggott, the American student, who took a seat next to me.

‘Did you understand that?’ she asked at the end of the reading.

‘Some of it,’ I said. ‘Maybe. I still have a lot to learn about poetry.’

‘Hmm. Perhaps this guy does too,’ said Frances with an irreverent grin.

I decided to sneak out immediately after the reading, but as I was leaving, I heard a voice I recognized from somewhere.

‘Miss Brearton?’

I turned. It took me a moment to place the tall woman who was staring at me uncertainly from beneath thick, dark eyebrows.

‘Miss Lesser?’

She smiled. ‘That’s right. I was sitting right behind you, and I was sure I recognized you. Eventually I figured you were Hugh’s sister.’

I wanted very much to speak to this woman. Alone. ‘I’m just leaving,’ I said. ‘But I haven’t had supper yet. Would you like to dine with me?’

Kay Lesser hesitated. ‘Perhaps a drink?’

We found a small café around the corner from the bookshop. We ordered a carafe of red wine.

‘What are you doing in Paris?’ I asked.

‘Learning French. The only reason I went to London was to be near Hugh. After he died I moved here. I’ve found a job as a photographer’s assistant, but it pays next to nothing.’ Kay’s accent was distinctive; I assumed that Americans had regional accents just like the English, and this was what they sounded like in Chicago. Her face was distinctive also: long, uneven, odd angles of cheek, chin and nose. Intriguing.

‘I take it you like Europe then?’

Kay smiled. ‘I just love it. And I enjoy learning languages. Like Hugh. And like you, from what Hugh was saying.’

‘That’s true.’ I still liked the fact that Hugh talked about me to his friends, even this one.

‘What about you?’

‘I married a diplomat. You may have met him at Hugh’s funeral. Roland Meeke? Thin moustache?’ I almost said ‘dark complexion’ but something held me back from describing my husband that way. Was it shame at his Indian heritage? I didn’t like that idea. ‘Dark complexion,’ I added.

‘There were a hell of a lot of folks at Hugh’s funeral,’ Kay said. ‘I don’t recall many of them. But I do remember you.’

‘And I you.’

I sipped my wine. There was a question I had been dying to put to her for two years. I put it.

‘Miss Lesser. You probably don’t remember, but you told me that Hugh asked you to marry him. I asked you your reply, but you never told me.’

The tall American woman leaned back in her chair, studying me. Then her lips twitched into the hint of a smile. An unbending. ‘First off, call me Kay.’

‘All right,’ I said. ‘Kay. And I’m Emma. Emma Meeke now.’

‘I should never have told you Hugh did that. I haven’t told anyone else. I was upset, and I needed to tell someone, to tell his family, to tell you that he loved me.’

‘So did he ask you to marry him?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘And what did you say?’

Kay sighed. ‘I said “no”.’

I felt an absurd irritation that this woman had rejected my brother, mixed with a slightly less absurd relief that she had.

‘Why?’

‘See, I’m not sure I believe in marriage. I loved Hugh. But I wasn’t sure I loved him in a way that would mean I would never love anyone else. And one day he would have become Lord Chaddington and I would have become Lady Chaddington and that went against everything I believed in. Still believe in.’

‘I understand,’ I said. ‘At least you were honest.’

‘I’m always honest,’ said Kay. ‘That’s one of my many failings.’

Strangely, I felt myself beginning to like this woman, even though I couldn’t begin to understand her.

‘In that case, please tell me: was Hugh spying for the Russians?’

Kay looked away from me, towards the street lights outside the café’s windows.

I waited.

She made her decision. She turned back to me.

‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘Hugh was a spy. But for the Comintern, not the Russians.’

Eighteen

It was a delightful party in a beautiful house — almost a palace — in the Rue de Grenelle, not far from our apartment: fabulous food, distinguished wine, an accomplished hostess and charming guests. And me.

Roland and I had been invited to a dinner for twelve given by the Comtesse de Villegly. It was part of a diplomat’s job to hobnob with the natives, to take the temperature of the host country, and Roland was very good at it. The comtesse had an agenda. Her brother had died in the last war and she wanted to make sure that there wasn’t going to be another one. To achieve this she cultivated the British and the Germans in Paris, in an attempt to bring them together. I suspected it went further than that: that the comtesse rather admired the way the Germans had subdued their unruly republic and brought it to order and that she thought France might have something to learn from them.

I had no doubt that Roland was right to engage with the comtesse and her salon, but it occurred to me that he should also have been in the Café de Flore, talking to the French poet and his acolytes. True, it might be difficult for a middling British diplomat to be accepted into that circle. For a moment it occurred to me that I might be the one to do it, and report back.

But I didn’t want to report back to Roland on anything.

To my confusion about Roland had been added my confusion about Hugh. The two men whom I trusted most in the world, whom I had relied upon, had turned out to be not at all who I thought they were.

Freddie had been correct after all; my brother had been a spy. An honest-to-goodness spy. A man who passed his country’s secrets on to his country’s enemies.

A traitor.

It’s true that part of me was relieved to learn that Hugh had not renounced his communism after all. I assumed that had been an act for the benefit of the British authorities. I had asked Kay whether that was the case, but she had refused to confirm it, or to say if she knew anything about Hugh’s death, or indeed to say anything about him at all. She seemed overwhelmed by the barrage of questions I had flung at her, evading responses to them and quickly excusing herself.

I was grateful she had told me that much.

On the other hand, Hugh was a true communist, but was he a true Englishman? I could understand working towards a communist Britain, but helping a foreign power? I had a vague understanding that technically the Comintern was an international organization but, as far as I knew, it was headquartered in Moscow and funded by the Soviet Union, and the Soviet Union was a possible enemy. That was a step too far, even for me. I was a firm believer that furthering the communist agenda was an act of patriotism — it would lead to a fairer, better Britain. But betraying your country’s secrets to a foreign power wasn’t.

I had thought that would be a step too far for Hugh too. I wished I had had the chance to talk to him about it. And I felt rejected. If Kay was right, Hugh had still deceived me, this time by including me among the people he had lied to about his changed political ideas. Deceiving my parents was fine, deceiving his new employer, the Conservative MP Sir Patrick Bettinson, was fine, even deceiving Dick was fine. But me? Couldn’t he have trusted me?

I looked around the table. There were three Germans there: Kurt Lohmüller, a banker named Schaber, and Otto Abetz, who was a Francophile like Kurt and a young man to watch, according to the comtesse. I was seated between Kurt and the comte, a gentleman who looked to be in his forties, but who acted much older. I liked him. Unlike most of the French aristocrats, who amused themselves with flirting with any Englishwoman they came into contact with, the comte was more interested in animals. Killing animals. A bit like my father, really.

Time to do my job.

‘I hadn’t realized that there were still wolves in France, Comte?’ I said. I had done my research on wild boar, wolves and bears in the American Library that morning. I was hopeless at returning aristocrats’ witticisms or simpering at their absurd flattery, but properly prepared I could talk to this man about dangerous animals. I was learning to be a good diplomat’s wife.

The comte’s eyes lit up, and we chatted happily through the foie gras and the fish course.

As he turned to the woman on his right, Frau Schaber, the German banker’s wife, my eyes scanned the table. My husband was charming the comtesse.

She was at least ten years younger than the comte, in other words about Roland’s age, and an entirely different kind of person to her husband. She was intelligent, witty and beautifully dressed. I suddenly realized something that had been staring me in the face the whole time I had been in Paris. It wasn’t just a case of French aristocrats flirting with Englishwomen. French aristocrats’ wives flirted with Englishmen.

I could see it right there. Roland was charmed by the comtesse, and was in turn charming her.

The Comtesse de Villegly’s hair was dark. And no doubt she owned a cream dress.

Was this what life was going to be like from now on? Every time my husband charmed a woman, I would look on in a state of uncertain jealousy?

‘Are you all right, Emma?’

It was Kurt, speaking to me in French.

I was about to assure him I was, when I held myself back. Why not speak the truth?

‘No. I’m not.’

Kurt glanced at my husband and the comtesse. ‘I see,’ he said, his tone studiedly neutral. But at that moment, the neutrality said it all. He did understand my suspicion, but also my uncertainty. He understood my difficulty in speaking about it. And he sympathized.

I smiled at him. For a moment I felt absurdly grateful to him. I felt as though I had a friend.

He smiled back. Then his expression hardened slightly.

With the wine, the volume around the table had risen, and the party had broken into a number of separate animated conversations. ‘There is something I need to tell you, Emma,’ Kurt said in murmured German. His lips smiled, but his eyes were deadly serious.

‘Yes?’

‘Before I do so, you must understand it is very important that you don’t tell anyone else you heard it directly from me — certainly not your husband. If you do, you may place me at considerable risk.’

‘All right,’ I said. A few days before I might not have taken his warning seriously. Now I did.

‘This is how you will say you heard it. After the meal, I will ensure that I spend a couple of minutes speaking to Herr Abetz alone. I want you to approach us as if you mean to speak to me, but in such a way that you are behind my back and I don’t see you. You pause, and pretend to have overheard our conversation. That will be your explanation. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, I do,’ I said.

‘Good. Now smile. Or laugh. Or something. What I am going to tell you is serious, but you shouldn’t make it appear as such.’

I understood. ‘Kurt, that’s ridiculous!’ I said, with a look of mock horror.

Kurt smiled. ‘Very good. Here goes. It’s about your favourite third secretary, Cyril Ashcott.’

Nineteen

I telephoned Heaton-Smith at the embassy the following morning, half an hour after Roland had set off for work. He agreed to meet me immediately at a café on the Rue Saint-Dominique near our apartment. Apparently, Colonel Vivian had left Paris for Rome, where someone had pinched the ambassador’s wife’s necklace, leaving Heaton-Smith in charge in Paris.

I told him that I had overheard Herr Abetz and Herr Lohmüller discussing Cyril, and I had also overheard the word ‘Erpressung’, which is German for ‘blackmail’. I decided to let the secret-service man join the dots. If Dick could tell that Cyril was a fairy, then Heaton-Smith could too. And Heaton-Smith could work out that it was Cyril who was passing secrets to the Germans. Codebooks, according to Kurt.

Heaton-Smith seemed pleased with my story. ‘Thank you, Mrs Meeke. I will certainly follow this up. Have you told your husband?’

‘No,’ I said.

Heaton-Smith raised his eyebrows.

‘Colonel Vivian told me not to.’

‘So he did. And he was absolutely right; the fewer people who know, the better, especially within the embassy.’

‘I say. If it turns out that Cyril is completely innocent, you will let me know, won’t you? It’s just that I like him, and I don’t want to be suspicious of him with no cause.’

‘Yes, I will,’ said Heaton-Smith. He smiled, displaying a disconcerting gap between his two front teeth. He shook my hand. ‘Your husband was absolutely right to urge us to talk to you. You did well.’

As I walked back to my apartment, I wondered if I had done the right thing. With everything else that had been going on, I hadn’t questioned what Kurt had asked me to do, I had just done it. It seemed like the ‘right thing’. But what did it say about my loyalty? About whom I trusted?

I liked Cyril, but if he was betraying his country, even his right-wing capitalist country, he should be caught and punished. Maybe not punished if he was a victim of blackmail. But he should be stopped.

He probably would be punished severely. I didn’t understand homosexuality, nor did I understand society’s reaction to it. Everyone, apart from me, seemed to know when people like Freddie or Cyril were homosexuals, which they all seemed to tolerate or even find amusing, until the poor men were caught by an official, whereupon they somehow deserved severe criminal punishment and social ostracism. It didn’t make sense. And more concretely, it meant the likes of Cyril Ashcott could be blackmailed.

My brother had betrayed his country. Would I have sold him out as I had just sold out Cyril?

Then there was the way I had trusted Kurt. Not just that the information about Cyril was correct, but, more importantly, that I should hide from the British authorities that Kurt had given me that information intentionally. Why hadn’t I told Heaton-Smith that Kurt was willing to betray his country to the British? It was an opportunity for Heaton-Smith to recruit Kurt as a spy for us.

Because Kurt had asked me not to. Because he had put himself in great danger by telling me what he knew, and he trusted me more than the British secret service to keep his name out of it.

But why was Kurt betraying his country?

I knew the answer. Despite his protestations, he, like me, was a communist. It takes one to know one. As a communist, he hated Fascism. He hated Hitler. And he recognized that in me. By exposing Cyril, he and I together were doing a little bit to restrain a loathsome dictator.

I liked that.

Maybe I had done the right thing after all.

When I returned to the flat, the telephone was ringing. I picked it up.

‘Emma? It’s Dick.’

‘Oh, hello, Dick.’ I was actually glad to hear his voice. We hadn’t spoken since the Café de Flore.

‘Look, I’m sorry I mishandled things the other night. Can I take you to the cinema tonight to make amends? Or partial amends?’

Suddenly, that idea seemed very attractive to me. I would like to see Dick, and a film would stop me stewing and help stave off awkward conversation between us.

‘That would be lovely. What’s on?’

‘There’s rather a good western that has just got to France. Blue Steel. Have you seen it?’

‘I don’t think I have ever seen a western in my life,’ I said, somewhat coolly.

‘Well, it’s jolly well time that you did,’ said Dick. ‘The cinema is on the Champs Élysées.’ He gave me the address. ‘Seven o’clock.’

I hesitated, trying to think what Roland was doing that evening. Then I realized I didn’t care.

‘I will see you then.’

I was looking forward to the cinema. But I had to deal with luncheon with my mother first.

Mama varied venues for our meals in Paris between Larue’s and the Ritz, but I suspected the Ritz was her favourite. She liked the mixture of grandeur and high-society wickedness that the place exuded at that time. I hoped if I could get her chattering I might avoid any searching questions about why I was looking down in the dumps. But if she did ask, what would I say?

Perhaps I would tell her the truth?

If anyone might have good advice on how to deal with this situation, then it would be my mother. She must have oodles of friends in the same boat as me. The thing was, if I was humiliated by the idea of admitting Roland’s infidelity to my sister, the idea of telling my mother was mortifying.

And then there was the fact that she was about to become a grandmother. While many mothers would be overjoyed at the news, I knew my mother wouldn’t like the idea that she was on the cusp of grannyhood at all. I couldn’t tell her, at least not yet.

I decided to walk to the Place Vendôme. As I crossed the Seine, I came up with a stratagem.

My mother seemed in fine fettle, as she ordered a gin and It before lunch. To her surprise, I ordered one too. The Ritz’s opulent dining room was full of Paris’s beautiful people, some of whom even I recognized: the Italian ambassador lunching with one of the legions of former French cabinet ministers, and a famous French actress toying with a millionaire motor manufacturer.

I had slightly lost touch with my mother’s whereabouts, but it turned out she had spent a couple of days in the Loire Valley at the chateau of an old school friend, Googoo. I had heard about Googoo on and off for all of my life, but it sounded a ridiculous name for an adult woman when uttered in the dining room of the Ritz. I think her real name was Gertrude. She was a Scotswoman who had married a French aristocrat.

‘Do you think Googoo’s husband is faithful to her?’ I asked.

‘What an extraordinary question!’

I realized that, as usual, I had been a little too direct. Still, my mother should be used to that. ‘Is it?’

My mother smiled. She was wearing a new cloche hat, a pale blue dress I also hadn’t seen before and her favourite everyday pearls. She had perfected the art of lipstick — her lips traced a perfect bow. She looked the equal of any of the other women in the room, except perhaps the actress, which wasn’t bad for an Englishwoman.

‘No, I suppose it’s not so extraordinary.’ She glanced at me, deciding whether to confide. ‘I don’t think Jean-Pierre has been faithful, no.’

‘And how does Googoo take that?’

My mother sighed. ‘She puts up with it. It’s almost inevitable in this country.’

‘Does she speak to you about it?’

‘She has done, sometimes. Over the years. Why do you ask?’

I paused while the waiter took our orders.

Time for part two of the stratagem. ‘I have a friend at the American Embassy. Her name is Frances. She’s married to a diplomat, like me. And she has just learned that he has been unfaithful. She’s frightfully upset and I am the only one she has confided in. I don’t know what to advise her. Should she confront him? Should she throw him out? Should she leave him? Should she divorce him? Or should she just ignore it and pretend it didn’t happen?’

My mother’s small nose was twitching. ‘Is she sure her husband has been unfaithful?’

‘Yes.’ I swallowed. Somehow that one question had undermined my confidence, which until that point had been going strong.

‘Oh, my poor darling!’ My mother reached out for my hand. I gave it to her and she squeezed it. ‘My poor, poor darling.’

‘It’s not me,’ I said, fighting to control the tears. ‘It’s my friend. Frances.’

‘Of course it’s you, darling. If someone asks for “a friend” it’s always them. Don’t you even know that?’

The ‘even’ emphasized my naivety. But I was naive. I was only twenty-two for God’s sake! I wasn’t supposed to know about all this stuff.

‘Do you know who it is?’ she asked.

I gave up any pretence that I was talking about anyone other than myself. My mother’s sympathy seemed genuine, and now at least I could get the advice of someone more experienced in life than me.

‘I’m not sure. I think it might be Sophie de Villegly. Do you know her?’

‘I do slightly. She’s very pretty. She is his age. And she does have a bit of a reputation.’

I withdrew my hand. This was not what I wanted to hear.

‘I’m sorry, darling, but it’s much the best if you know whom you are dealing with. How long has it been going on for?’

‘I have no idea. I only became suspicious in the last couple of days. But you know how I sometimes miss things. It could have been carrying on for months. Years, maybe.’

For some reason, I hadn’t considered this before. Perhaps the affair had started before we were married.

‘I thought Roland loved me,’ I said, despising the self-pity in my voice.

‘He probably does love you,’ my mother said. ‘I’m sure he’s very fond of you; I can see that.’

‘Then why does he take a...’ I searched for the word. ‘A mistress?’

‘Who knows why men do that? The thrill of the chase? The danger? The excitement? I sometimes wonder whether humans were meant to be monogamous at all.’

‘So you think it’s possible for Roland to love me and love Sophie de Villegly as well?’

‘Having seen this many times, I would say it is perfectly possible. And he may not even love Sophie de Villegly.’

That hadn’t occurred to me.

‘You said she had a reputation. Does Roland?’

‘He did, a bit, before you were married. There were a couple of married women he was rumoured to have seduced. NSIT.’

I remembered that from my deb days. Not Safe In Taxis.

‘So what do I do, Mama? Do I divorce him?’

‘God no. It will cost heaps of money, there will be a scandal and then you will get married to another man who will just do exactly the same thing.’

‘But that’s a dreadful idea! It’s too horrid.’

‘It’s the truth. So don’t do it.’

‘So I don’t do anything?’

‘I didn’t say that. You need to lay down the rules of the game and enforce them. What those rules are is up to you, but I would suggest at a minimum nothing in public. You don’t want him to make you look a fool. If possible try and let him know you know without actually telling him. Roland is clever; he’ll catch on.’

‘So I let him carry on?’

‘He will carry on. This way you let him carry on, but on your terms. That’s what Googoo does, and it works.’

‘For him, you mean.’

‘And for her.’

‘Does she sleep with other people too?’

My mother didn’t answer.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘It all seems so sordid. I’m not sure I could ever just “carry on”.’

‘My poor darling! You are upset and angry, of course you are. Don’t do anything rash. Let it settle. And then you will see I am right.’

Our soup came, consommé, and I mulled over what my mother had said as I sipped it. I wasn’t sure that I could ever follow her advice. But it was meant well. And I had a horrible feeling that she might be right.

Twenty

I felt dreadful when I left the Ritz. I still didn’t know what to do. Or, part of me knew what I should do — take the pragmatic option my mother was suggesting — and part of me rejected that. It was tearing me apart.

I resolved to treat myself to some books.

I walked across the river to Shakespeare and Company. The books all around me calmed me down, as did the familiar faces of the browsers. I went to the philosophy section, but that wasn’t where the answer to my dilemma lay. Fiction?

Perhaps I needed escape rather than answers.

‘Emma?’

I recognized the voice. It was Kay.

‘Hello,’ I said. We were in an out-of-the-way corner of the bookshop, alone apart from an old lady reading a detective novel by the window.

‘I’m glad I bumped into you,’ the American said. ‘I’m sorry I left when you had so many questions for me last night.’

She was very tall. Her expression was earnest, sympathetic even, as she looked down on me.

‘It was rather a bombshell,’ I said.

‘If you want me to answer your questions now, I can.’

We went to the same café we had visited the night before, and ordered the same carafe of red wine. I didn’t usually drink in the middle of the afternoon, but I needed one.

‘OK. Shoot,’ she said.

‘All right.’ I scrambled to get my thoughts in order. ‘I suppose I was relieved to learn that Hugh was still a communist when he died. But I am surprised that he spied for the Soviet Union against England. He always seemed in favour of international socialism, rather than Stalin’s socialism in one country.’

‘He liked what he saw in Russia,’ said Kay. ‘I was with him.’

‘That’s true. But to betray his own country?’

‘I guess he didn’t see it that way,’ said Kay. ‘You’re right, he believed in freedom for the workers of the world, and not just Russia. He was also worried about Fascism. Mussolini, the Nazis. The Cagoulards here in France. But most of all he wanted to actually do something, rather than just talk about it. Also, he wasn’t actually spying for Russia; he was spying for the Comintern.’

‘Is there any difference?’

‘Hugh thought there was.’

‘But isn’t the Comintern based in Moscow?’

‘Of course it is! Where else could it be based? The Soviet Union is the only communist country in Europe. In the world. But it’s a truly international organization. It’s devoted to spreading Marxism throughout the entire world. There are delegates from all over Europe and from America and China and India. If there is to be a world revolution, then it has to be nurtured in Russia.’

‘I remember Hugh saying that.’

‘The whole point about Marxism is that it aims to encourage the workers to rise up everywhere. That’s what the Comintern is doing. Class consciousness is something that transcends national borders, just like monopoly capitalism does. The British worker has more in common with his German or French or Russian comrade than he does with an English capitalist. That’s what Hugh believed, anyway.’

It was true. That was what Hugh believed.

‘So that’s why he applied for the Foreign Office?’ I asked. ‘To be able to spy for the Comintern?’

‘Sure. And to get in he had to demonstrate that his communism was no more than a student phase. He had to deny it.’

‘I just wish he had told me what he was really up to.’

‘He wanted to. He used to speak about you plenty. He said you talked more sense than most of the socialists he knew at Cambridge. But they wouldn’t let him.’

‘“They”? Who are they?’

‘I don’t know. The people from the Comintern he was speaking to, I guess.’

Kay was watching me closely under her thick black eyebrows.

‘What about you?’ I said. ‘“They” let him speak to you?’

‘That’s true,’ she admitted.

‘Why? Are you one of “them”?’

‘Not exactly,’ said Kay. ‘But I did put Hugh in touch with them.’

‘You did.’

Kay nodded.

Who was this woman? ‘How long have you been a communist? I didn’t know there are communists in America.’

Kay smiled. ‘Oh, there are. Plenty. There are communists all over the world. That’s why we need the Comintern to bring us all together. You, me, Hugh, Freddie, Rosa Luxemburg, Maurice Thorez here in France and, yes, Comrade Stalin.’

She hesitated. ‘I’ve been a communist all my life. As has my father. My grandfather emigrated to America from Lithuania in the 1880s. The entire family ended up working in factories in Chicago. I went out to work at the age of twelve.’

‘But you escaped?’

‘I sure did. My father was self-taught and he taught me.’ She smiled. ‘A bit like Hugh teaching you. I got myself involved in labour organizations and I ended up in Europe.’

‘Is Kay your real name?’

‘It is at the moment.’

I had more questions. ‘So how did Hugh die? Do you believe it was an accident? Was Freddie right? Did the British secret service kill him?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Kay, for the first time looking troubled herself. ‘They may have done. It was very convenient for them, after all. And you said yourself you didn’t think Hugh’s death was an accident.’ She took a deep breath. ‘If they did kill him, I cannot forgive them.’

I was reminded that this woman loved my brother too.

‘Nor can I,’ I said.

We sat in silence for a moment.

Kay spoke. ‘You know I said I put Hugh in touch with people?’

‘Yes.’

‘I could do that for you. You could continue Hugh’s work.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous! Anyway, what possible use would I be?’

‘Your husband is doing real well in the diplomatic service. He will go far. I’m sure he trusts you.’

‘You want me to betray his trust?’ The words were out of my mouth before the irony hit me.

Kay shrugged.

‘And betray my country?’

‘These are the people who killed your brother.’

‘So you say. You don’t know that.’

‘I believe it’s likely.’

Was it? I didn’t know. I remembered Dick’s assertion that that wasn’t the kind of thing that happened in England, and I wanted to believe him, not Kay.

But...

‘Anyway,’ Kay went on. ‘You wouldn’t be betraying your country. Not really. You would be helping the world’s workers. The poor. The people whose lives are being destroyed by the capitalist system every single day. British people, your countrymen. And you would be stopping the Fascists, the Fascists who hate Jews like me and who are just as keen to suppress the working classes but will use even worse methods than the capitalists.’

I didn’t say anything. I was listening.

‘Hugh did it. I’m just suggesting you should too.’

I took a gulp of my wine and shook my head. ‘No. I won’t be a traitor. I know you mean well — I know Hugh meant well.’ I leaned back in my chair. ‘It’s rather a lot to take in. Especially with everything else that’s going on.’

Kay watched me carefully.

‘You mean your husband?’ she said.

‘My husband?’ Something close to panic rose in my chest. ‘What about my husband?’

‘You spoke about betrayal?’

‘You know? How do you know?’

Kay shrugged. ‘I know. I just wasn’t sure you did. But it makes me wonder.’

‘Wonder what?’

‘Wonder why you would shy away from betraying your husband? After what he did to you, what he’s still doing to you.’

I swallowed.

‘And who he’s doing it with.’

I leapt on that. ‘Who with? Do you know who he has been seeing? Is it the Comtesse de Villegly?’

‘You don’t know?’

I shook my head. It clearly wasn’t the comtesse. Suddenly I wasn’t sure I wanted Kay to tell me.

But then I knew who it was. Who would be worse than Sophie de Villegly? It was all suddenly so clear.

‘My mother.’ I said the words quietly.

‘It’s my mother.’

Kay nodded.

‘Are you sure?’

Kay nodded again.

It all fitted. Everything fitted. Once you accepted the premise that in the real world anyone could be unfaithful to anyone, then Roland could be unfaithful to me, and Mama could be unfaithful to Papa. Of course there was their age difference, but my mother was unquestionably still a beautiful woman, and Roland liked beautiful women.

My mind raced. My mother had been visiting Paris much more frequently since Roland had been posted here. She was in Paris the day that Dick saw Roland with another woman. Dick had said that that woman had had dark hair, but he must have been lying to protect me. I recalled that when he had first mentioned he had seen my husband in the restaurant he had been about to tell me whom Roland was with when I cut him off. If it had been a woman Dick hadn’t known, rather than simply his mother-in-law, Dick would have been more suspicious, and wouldn’t have told me about it so blithely.

How long had it been going on? It must have been soon after we were married. Or perhaps before? Since Roland had come to stay with us in Devon the weekend Hugh had died?

Then a darker thought occurred to me. Was the whole thing camouflage? Had their affair already been going on when my mother invited Roland down to Devon? Which meant his wooing of me was just an elaborate cover; by getting Roland respectably married off to me, they were enabling the two of them to see each other whenever they wanted.

I knew the way my mother thought. She would love that. It would be a means of controlling him, and asserting her total superiority over her useless bluestocking daughter. Me.

I pulled some francs out of my purse and put them on the table.

‘I’m sorry, Kay. I have to go.’

Twenty-One

June 1979, Paris

‘But, Grams, that’s terrible!’

‘It was.’

‘I can’t believe he did that to you. And with your mother! Yuk! I’m glad I never met her. Or at least I don’t remember meeting her.’

‘You didn’t. She died when you were two.’

‘No wonder no one talks about her. Does Mum know all this?’

‘No, she doesn’t. We didn’t talk about it in the family. My generation are experts at sweeping things under the carpet. I’m sure she realizes something went badly wrong, but she doesn’t know what. That’s probably why she never told you much about our history. You might understand now why I brought you along instead of her.’

Phil did some quick sums in his head. ‘She was the one you were pregnant with?’

Emma nodded.

‘Do you want me to keep it from her?’

‘When I’m alive, yes. When I’m gone, it’s entirely up to you. I didn’t want my story to die with me, which is why you are here.’

She pulled some francs out of her purse for the bill. ‘Let’s go.’

They left the Café de Flore and walked along the busy Boulevard Saint-Germain. Phil was still trying to get to grips with what he had heard.

‘But I liked Grandpa.’

‘I know you did, darling.’

‘I can’t believe he did that to you. What happened?’

‘You’ll find out.’

Phil was tempted to insist Emma fast forward to the end of her story, but he knew his grandmother wanted to tell it in her own way, at her own pace. He felt privileged that she trusted him to hear it.

There had been no mention of Lothar yet, the Russian spy whom Swann had mentioned. Nor of any mole.

And there was that revolver in her suitcase. Somehow that was related.

They left the boulevard and walked down increasingly chic streets of yellow stone buildings bearing intricate wrought-iron balconies. Boutiques sold fabric, women’s dresses, antique furniture, art, old books and exuberant flower arrangements. This was the Paris of wealth, sophistication and style. Midday was approaching, the streets were hot and, here, mostly empty. Every now and then they passed a woman in sunglasses, a silk scarf around her neck, browsing the shops, her subtle scent following them along the pavement for a few yards.

They turned into a street lined with high walls and imposing buildings, many given over to government business.

‘This is the Rue de Grenelle,’ said Emma. She stopped outside a wall above which, set back from the road, stood what looked like a mansion. A complicated multicoloured flag hung from a pole pointing out towards the street, the insignia of an oil-rich Middle Eastern nation. ‘This was the Comtesse de Villegly’s house,’ she said. ‘Seems it’s an embassy now.’

‘Wow,’ said Phil. ‘Very grand.’ It was hard to imagine real people living there. But then the Comtesse de Villegly didn’t sound like a real person, or not like any person Phil knew.

They walked down towards the river, past an abandoned railway station and then on to the buildings of the National Assembly, guarded by policemen with sunglasses and machine guns, who seemed to be staring at them. Creepy. And not at all like the lone bobby in front of 10 Downing Street.

They turned up a narrow street, the Rue de Bourgogne. This was less swish than the others, the buildings and the shops were less grand: a butcher, a greengrocer, a tabac, a hairdresser.

They stopped outside a thick wooden door. ‘This was our building,’ Emma said, looking up at some large windows protected by blue shutters, closed at that moment to keep out the sun. ‘We lived on the first floor.’

‘Looks nice.’

‘It was.’

Phil took a couple of steps back, to let Emma remember.

After a minute or so, she turned to him. ‘Are you hungry?’

‘Always.’

‘Let’s go to the Voltigeur. It’s just down the road. I used to drop in there for a cup of coffee sometimes.’

The Voltigeur hadn’t changed much, according to Emma — a simple cramped café on a corner — although the leather-jacketed guy playing the pinball machine was definitely a 1970s addition. They ordered croque-monsieurs, which Phil was becoming partial to, with a beer for Phil and a glass of Evian for Emma.

‘What did you do about Roland?’ Phil asked.

‘It was an agonizing decision,’ Emma said. ‘And even now, I’m not sure I did the right thing.’

Twenty-Two

May 1936, Paris

I blundered down the street towards the river, and took the steps to the bank. I found a spot free of fishermen, sank down to the ground and sobbed.

I don’t know who passed me, who saw me, and what they thought. I didn’t care.

Eventually, the sobbing dried up. I looked up at the back end of Notre-Dame cathedral. A tug chugged past, dragging a long barge behind it, a young boy watching me curiously from on top of a pile of what looked like coffins secured to its deck. Dozens of coffins — new, not used, presumably.

I couldn’t pretend I hadn’t heard what I had just heard. I couldn’t follow my mother’s advice, however worldly-wise. I had to deal with this my own way.

Directly.

I climbed the steps up to street level and hailed a taxi. It dropped me off outside the Hôtel de Charost. I nodded to the porter and made my way to the Chancery building.

I strode past Muriel, Roland’s secretary, and into his office. He was on the telephone. He saw my face and hung up.

‘What is it, darling?’ His smile was innocent, concerned.

‘I know who your mistress is,’ I said.

His eyebrows rose. ‘What mistress?’

‘My mother. Your lover.’

‘I beg your pardon? I don’t understand what you mean.’

‘Yes, you do. You’re...’ I searched for the word I wanted and couldn’t find it, so I settled on a poor substitute. ‘You’re fornicating with my mother. Your mother-in-law. It’s disgusting. You disgust me.’

Roland pulled himself to his feet, his face full of concern. For a second I doubted myself, but only for a second.

‘I think you must have got the wrong end of the stick, my darling. Why do you think your mother is my mistress? That’s absurd.’

‘Because you were seen with her when you were supposed to be in Le Havre talking to some shipping tycoon.’

‘Oh, that!’ Roland smiled reassuringly. ‘I can explain that. Let me tell you what happened.’

‘No, Roland. I don’t want to hear your lies about what happened. I don’t want to speak to you ever again. When you get home this evening, I won’t be there. Goodbye.’

With that I turned on my heel and left his office. I passed a preoccupied-looking Cyril on the stairs on my way out to the courtyard, but I ignored his half-hearted greeting.

I made my way to Dick’s flat an hour before we were supposed to meet at the cinema, lugging my suitcase. I had his address: it turned out he lived at the top of an ancient, unsteady building squeezed into the middle of the Île Saint-Louis. An ancient, unsteady concierge let me in, and pointed up to some stone steps. I climbed them and rapped on a door under the eaves.

‘Emma?’ he said as he opened it. ‘I thought we were meeting at the cinema?’

Then he saw my suitcase, and his expression changed from surprise to concern. ‘Come in.’

His flat was really nothing more than a room with a bed, a washstand, two armchairs, a gas heater and a hob. And a desk bearing a typewriter with a view over the rooftops to the river and the buildings of the Left Bank beyond. It reeked of pipe tobacco.

It was the classic Parisian artist’s garret; evidence of Dick’s writings lay all over the desk.

‘Sit down, Emma,’ he said. ‘I take it you’ve found out?’

I sat down. ‘It was my mother,’ I said. ‘Roland was seeing my mother.’ I looked up at him, almost in supplication, praying that he would inform me I was wrong.

But he didn’t. I could tell immediately from the expression in his eyes, a mixture of kindness and pain. ‘Yes. I saw him with your mother.’

‘Then why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I was going to. In fact, I almost said “I saw your husband and your mother today,” but you interrupted me. Then when you said that you thought Roland was in Le Havre, I shut up. It became clear that you thought he had been seeing a woman, a mistress, and I suddenly realized that he had, and that that mistress was your mother.’

‘So why hide that from me?’

‘I didn’t want to hurt you. I thought admitting he was seeing another woman was bad enough.’

I was determined not to cry again in front of Dick.

‘Look, Emma, I can tell you are having a rotten day. Let me give you a glass of wine.’

I nodded. Dick opened a bottle of simple rough red, and poured us both a glass. He sat down opposite me. ‘How did you find out?’

I looked at those kindly eyes. Hugh’s friend. I wanted him to be my friend too. I badly needed a friend.

And so I told him. About meeting Kay at Shakespeare and Company. About how she had claimed that Hugh was a spy for the Russians, or at least the Comintern, and then how Kay had told me not only that Roland was betraying me, but that he was doing it with my own mother.

‘Do you believe her?’

‘I do,’ I said. ‘As she was telling me, it all slotted into place. In fact, I even suspect that this was their plan right from the beginning. To invite Roland down to Devon to meet me and marry me. I suspect my mother arranged the whole thing.’

‘But that’s grotesque!’ exclaimed Dick.

‘It is, isn’t it?’

‘And what about that bit about your brother being a spy?’

‘I think that’s true too. Don’t you?’

Dick blew out through his cheeks. ‘I’m not so sure: I don’t think Hugh would do that. Unlike Freddie, I always thought Hugh loved his country. Why did Kay tell you all this?’

‘She wants me to be a spy for the Comintern too. Like Hugh.’

‘Are you going to?’

‘No. Of course not.’

‘Are you going to tell the authorities about her? Someone at the embassy? The French police?’

‘No. I’m not going to do that either. But I did go and see Roland to say I knew about him and Mama.’

‘Was that wise?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t think I had any choice.’

‘Did he deny it?’

‘He acted confused. He was convincing. Roland is always convincing.’

‘You don’t believe him?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t.’

‘Look,’ said Dick. ‘We can’t go to the flick now. There’s a traiteur just around the corner. I’ll be back in a moment with some food for supper. Stay here.’

He left me, and ten minutes later returned with some bread, some pâté, some rillettes, some cornichons and another bottle of red wine.

We ate and we drank and I talked. Dick was kind to me.

Eventually he and I crossed the street to the small hotel opposite. They had a single room. It was cheap and basic and the bed sagged alarmingly, but it would do. Exhausted, my brain fogged with the wine and the emotions of the day, I bade Dick goodnight and fell almost instantly asleep. But then I woke up, just as the bells of Notre-Dame struck midnight, and I lay on my back staring up at the ceiling until morning came.

Twenty-Three

I watched as a thin strip of colour slid beneath the shutters of my room, grey then yellow. A bug scurried across the floor and stopped for a think beside the washstand. It turned out he had friends. I hadn’t noticed them the night before.

I slipped out of bed, put on some clothes and emerged into the street. Although the Île was bang in the middle of Paris, it felt more like a medieval village than a city centre. A cockerel tucked away in a courtyard somewhere vigorously reminded me it was dawn. A tortoiseshell cat explored the new day. A mongrel, part-poodle part-sheepdog, eyed the cat suspiciously, before raising its leg on a lamppost. The street smelled of early-morning Paris — the stale garlic from the previous night’s cooking lacing the aroma of that morning’s bread seeping out of countless ovens throughout the city.

None of the cafés was open yet, but the street cleaner was out with his extra-long-handled broom and his buckets, washing the main road that ran along the middle of the island. A horse and milk cart clopped past, the horse leaving a little something extra on the cobbles for the cleaner to work on. I wandered down a narrow alley and leaned on a wall overlooking the river. Shrouds of mist twisted and turned a couple of feet above the water as it flowed urgently by on its long journey to the English Channel.

Thoughts that had jostled incoherently in my head began to settle. I couldn’t live with Roland a moment longer. Nor could I stay with my mother in Chaddington. I could hole up in a hotel for a few days but eventually I would have to go somewhere. England, probably. To stay with my sister Sarah, probably. I was sure she would have me.

But that decision brought questions, questions with no good answers.

And there was the baby. What kind of family was the baby coming into?

The baby would be all right. One way or the other, I’d make sure of that. I smiled. I could use a tiny ally in this complicated, bewildering world.

The baby would be all right.

A few yards down the street the moustachioed proprietor of a café was opening it up, winding down the awning and arranging tables and chairs, all the while favouring a gammy leg — a war wound no doubt. An old woman, her sabots clattering on the cobbles, sauntered by, muttering to herself and ignoring the gruff greeting from the café owner. A boy of about twelve pedalled up with a bicycle cart piled high with the bread I had smelled baking, and made his delivery to the café. I took a table outside, ordered a cup of coffee and some of that fresh bread, and tried to think.

Should I divorce Roland? Should I make our split public? Should I tell Sarah who the other woman was? Should I tell my father?

Should I tell Papa?

He was the person who would be hurt the most if the affair became public. I would cope with the humiliation; it was not as if I had heaps of friends who would gossip about me. I hoped that a scandal might hurt Roland and my mother, but in reality, knowing the circles they moved in, the affair would just add to their illicit glamour.

Sarah would be upset. She was strong; she would cope in the end.

But my father? It would destroy my father.

I loved my father very much, even though we were very different people and barely understood each other. He liked farming — the old way. The old ways were always better. He liked hunting and shooting and drinking late into the night with old friends from Devon, barely speaking. He never read a book. I had the feeling that I had much more in common with his father, my grandfather, the man who had built the library at Chaddington and stocked it so well, the man who had astutely sold a couple of farms on the estate before the war and invested the proceeds in Standard Oil in America, which was where most of the family’s income still came from these days. That investment was something that would never have occurred to Papa.

My father never understood me, but he always loved me, and loved me for who I was — a queer bookish girl with few friends. Unlike his wife, he loved me no less than his other two children: his brilliant son and his glittering elder daughter.

A burst of rage burned through the despair and confusion I felt. My mother and my husband had conspired together to ruin my life and quite probably the lives of those others whom I loved. I hated them. I hated them both. It was wrong: wrong, wrong, wrong!

What would Hugh have done?

An idea began to form.

I popped into Shakespeare and Company a few minutes after it opened, putting as bright a face on as I could with Sylvia. I spent twenty minutes browsing the shelves looking for something to entertain myself for the day with. I needed something familiar, comforting. I chose A Tale of Two Cities and settled myself in the corner where the woman had been reading the detective novel the day before.

I had just reached page thirty when Kay showed up, as I knew she would. I could tell she was pleased to see me. We repaired to what was becoming our habitual café around the corner. This time, I eschewed the glass of red wine but stuck to a petit café.

‘Well?’ said Kay.

‘Tell me what I can do.’

Twenty-Four

I met ‘Lothar’ two days later by the Mare de Saint-James, one of the ponds in the Bois de Boulogne. Kay had given me detailed instructions on how to get there, including where to walk, where to hail a taxi, and where to take the Métro. As far as I could tell, I wasn’t followed.

I thought I had spotted Lothar when an elegant man wearing a straw boater and swinging a cane strolled by, all the time looking at me. For a moment I thought he was about to speak to me, but he seemed to think the better of it, and wandered on. Just another French gentleman staring at a young woman, I realized.

‘Excuse me?’

I turned to see a tall man with thick blond hair brushed back from a broad forehead. He was wearing a light grey summer suit, and a striped tie.

‘Yes?’

‘Can you tell me the way to the Porte Dauphine?’

‘Certainly, monsieur,’ I said. ‘It’s that way, past the Royal Pavilion.’ I then pointed in the wrong direction as instructed.

The man sat next to me and smiled. ‘Good morning, Mrs Meeke. My name is Lothar. Kay has told me all about you.’

We spoke French, but Lothar spoke it with a German accent — Austrian possibly — rather than Russian. There were plenty of Russian émigrés in Paris at that time, and I was pretty sure he wasn’t one of them. He was friendly, and a very good listener. He examined me with intense eyes of the darkest blue as I spoke. His chin, which jutted outwards, gave his face an aura of quiet strength. He asked me all about myself, about my childhood, my family, and Chaddington. He seemed to know quite a lot about me already — more than Kay could possibly have known or told him.

We had been talking about Sarah and Hugh, and I felt it was time for me to ask a question. ‘Did you know my brother?’

Lothar smiled. ‘Yes, I knew your brother. And I am very sorry that he died. He was a good man.’

‘Did he work for you?’

‘Yes, he did. He had only just begun. The intention was that he would join the Foreign Office and work his way up.’

‘Did he give you any secrets?”

‘He never got the chance. We knew we would have to wait several years before he could provide anything of use. But Hugh was willing to commit to that. He was prepared to devote his life to the cause. I admired him.’

‘Do you think he was killed?’

‘Murdered, you mean?’

‘I suppose I do.’

Lothar paused, considering his words carefully. ‘We don’t know for sure. But we think so — by the British secret service.’

Could that really be true? Could Hugh have been killed by his own government?

‘Do you have any proof of that?’ I asked.

‘No absolute proof; that’s rare in our game. But we have strong indications.’

‘What exactly are “strong indications”?’

Lothar shrugged. He wasn’t telling. I noticed that he was missing the tip of the little finger of his left hand. In those days there were a lot of Britons, Frenchmen and Germans missing bits and pieces of their body, and Lothar seemed to me to be just about old enough to have served in the war. Presumably for the Austrian army, or perhaps the German.

‘What exactly do you want me to do for you?’ I asked. ‘And who are you? The Comintern? The Russian secret service?’

‘Those are fair questions, and I will answer them in time,’ Lothar said. ‘But first I need to ask you something. Why do you want to work for the cause of international communism?’

‘Lots of reasons,’ I said. I had expected the question and had thought through my answers. ‘My brother taught me that the workers are systematically exploited by the capitalist classes throughout the world and I happen to believe that’s both true and deeply wrong. I understand Hugh helped you; perhaps I can too. I have read a lot about communism and socialism and inequality and injustice. I believe in it all, but I am the daughter of a landowner. I don’t work, my father doesn’t work really, we don’t consider ourselves to be particularly rich, but I know we are. I realize I am a hypocrite. Working for international communism would give me a chance finally to do something to help the cause. I am pretty sure that must be why Hugh became a spy.’

‘I think you are right,’ said Lothar. ‘Hugh told me he wanted to do something rather than talk about other people doing something. He was very worried about Mussolini and Hitler. I think he liked Russia, but he wasn’t spying for Russia against Britain. He was doing his bit to fight Hitler and Mussolini and stand up for the working class, and he thought working with Russia, rather than for Russia, is the best way to do this. And he’s right. That’s what I’m doing. To answer your earlier question, I work for the Comintern, not the Soviet Union. I’m not Russian.’

‘Where are you from?

‘Lemberg, as was. It was part of the Austrian Empire; it’s now in Poland and it’s called Lwów.’

‘So you speak Polish?’ I suddenly had a strong and rather odd desire to know what language this man spoke.

He smiled. He understood. ‘There are a lot of languages spoken in Lemberg. From what Hugh told me about you, you would like the city. I speak Polish and German, and a bit of Ruthenian, but we spoke Yiddish at home.’

‘Yiddish? Are you Jewish?’ He didn’t look it.

‘I’m a citizen of the world,’ he said. ‘As is Kay. As was Hugh. As you are.’

I didn’t contradict him; I understood what he meant.

He looked at me closely. ‘Is there anything else? Any other reason you want to work with us?’

‘Should there be?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Lothar. His dark blue eyes were studying me; I had the feeling they would miss nothing.

I hesitated. ‘There is,’ I admitted, my voice suddenly wobbling. ‘Kay probably told you that my husband has been unfaithful with my mother? Actually, you probably told her.’

‘I did know that,’ said Lothar.

‘Right. Well, I did have some misgivings about betraying my country. But I have no misgivings at all about betraying Roland. He represents all that I hate about the ruling classes; after all, if you are right, it’s people just like him who murdered my brother. What I’m doing isn’t betrayal — it’s vengeance. It will be my pleasure to give his secrets away to those who can make good use of them to help the workers from Britain or France or even Russia — from wherever.’

‘You know this means you will have to go back to your husband?’ Lothar said. ‘You will only be of use to us if you are married to him and living with him.’

‘I know. But I am willing to do that. You see... if I leave Roland then people will learn everything. There will be a scandal — my sister will find out, as will my father. I don’t want to hurt them. But I also don’t want to be the poor foolish wife who isn’t brave enough to leave. Especially since...’

Lothar waited.

‘Especially since I think I am expecting a baby.’

Lothar smiled. ‘Congratulations,’ he said tentatively.

‘Thank you.’ It struck me how absurd it was that the first person I had told was a complete stranger. Except I couldn’t trust anyone closer to me, and for some reason, I did trust him.

‘But this way, I stay with Roland, my child has a father and I keep my self-respect because I will know that I am helping you and hurting him. Do you understand?’

‘I think I do,’ said Lothar. ‘That’s enough for today. Let’s meet again next week. In the meantime, work out how you can return to live with your husband.’

‘That’s going to be difficult.’

‘Very difficult. Can you do it?’

I nodded. ‘I can do it.’

He made me memorize a complicated procedure for meeting the following week at an address in the Marais, and then we parted.

It was the first of many meetings between us.

I decided to walk all the way back from the Bois to my hotel on the Île Saint-Louis. Walking helped me think, and I had a lot to think about.

I liked Lothar. I trusted him. I liked that Hugh had trusted him.

And I was coming increasingly to believe that the British government had killed Hugh.

Sometimes, when I have a difficult decision to make, I choose a path and then immediately doubt myself. This was not one of those times. In a situation of extreme murkiness, betrayal and distrust, deciding to work for Lothar and the Comintern felt like simply the right thing to do. It was as if I had fallen into a dark river, with weed tangling my legs, and silt stirred up in the water all around me. I had caught a glimpse of the surface and sunlight and kicked upwards. Soon I would be free of the mud and water, break the surface into fresh air and breathe.

There would be consequences. I would have to live with Roland. I would have to speak to my mother as if nothing had happened. I would be giving my country’s secrets to a foreign power: despite Lothar’s protestations about working for the Comintern, it was safest to assume that everything I gave him would eventually get to the Soviets. I ran the risk of being caught; I wasn’t sure, but I believed that traitors faced the death penalty in England. Or I might find myself wrapped around a tree on a country road like my brother.

But it would be a just cause, a cause my brother had believed in, a cause he might even have died for, and I would be proud to follow that cause in his stead. I would be doing it for him and for me, and for all the millions of the poor all over the world, people who were infinitely less fortunate than me, who were being exploited by a capitalist system that was demonstrably broken.

I would be free.

Lothar had asked me how I would get back together with Roland. There was no need to rush that. In fact, too immediate a rapprochement would be suspicious, which was fortunate because right then the very idea of him made my skin crawl. I would hole up in the hotel for a few more nights.

It would be good to see Dick during that time, but I decided not to tell him my decision. In retrospect, I was glad I had rejected the idea of spying for Kay so firmly when Dick had asked me about it.

In my haste to leave the flat the previous afternoon I had forgotten some things: make-up, another pair of shoes, my address book, writing paper. It was early afternoon, so Roland would either be at the office or — and the thought reignited a flare of rage — in a hotel room with my mother. Either way, it should be safe to stop by there for a few minutes to pack another, lighter case.

I climbed the stone stairs to the apartment. When I pulled out my keys I realized that the door was unlocked. I was preoccupied, and I assumed that Roland had simply forgotten to lock up properly when he had gone to work that morning, so I was shocked to see him sitting in his favourite armchair in the sitting room. He looked dreadful — the skin around his eyes, already dark, was now a purplish shade of black, as if some thug had beaten him up.

He leapt to his feet and took a step towards me.

‘Stay away from me!’ I told him in something just short of a shout. ‘Don’t you touch me!’

Roland backed off, raising his hands. ‘All right. All right.’

‘What are you doing here?’ I said. ‘Shouldn’t you be at the embassy? I only came here now because I thought the flat would be empty.’

‘I understand. I told them you were ill and I had to be home to look after you. I hoped you would drop in.’

‘Well, that’s jolly big of you.’

‘No, it’s not. I’ve behaved abominably towards you.’

‘You certainly have.’

‘And I don’t expect you to forgive me.’

‘Good.’

‘All that I ask is that you listen to me — hear what I have to say for the next couple of minutes. Then I will let you do whatever you want to do.’

‘If you are trying to persuade me to stay, it won’t work.’ As I said this, carried along by my anger, I meant it, but a little voice told me to listen. If I decided to go back to him, I might be able to use whatever he said now as a plausible reason. Though, at that moment, the thought filled me with disgust.

‘I saw Lavinia last night,’ he said. Lavinia was my mother.

‘I don’t want to know that.’

‘I told her you knew about us. She told me that when you and she lunched you had suspected something, but didn’t know it involved her.’

‘That’s true.’

‘I told her we had to finish it. We had an almighty row.’

‘Good.’

‘Afterwards... Afterwards, it was as if a spell had been lifted. I have been under the spell of your mother for three years now.’

‘Before I met you, then?’

‘Yes.’ Roland swallowed. ‘Before we met.’

‘Just as I thought.’ I was speaking in a dull monotone; my fury was numbing me. ‘You only married me so you could be with her.’

‘Yes,’ said my husband. ‘It was her idea. I didn’t like it, but it was the only way I could keep her. I probably wouldn’t have gone through with it, except I actually enjoyed spending time with you. I thought it might be rather fun to be married to you.’

‘Oh, because you could make love to my mother at the same time?’

‘No, of course not...’ Roland’s voice was raised, but then he paused. When he spoke again, his voice was low, infused with shame. ‘Yes. Actually. Yes, I did think that.’

‘But that’s monstrous. Don’t you see that?’

‘Yes, I do. The thing is...’ He looked down at the floor and then up at me. ‘The thing is, Emma, I love you.’

‘That’s absurd! After what you’ve done to me, how can you possibly love me?’

‘I agree it sounds absurd. But last night, the spell was broken. I saw Lavinia and me for who we really are, what we have really done. And you — you are a much better person than she is. I knew that from when I first met you, really. You are kind, generous, highly intelligent. Everyone underestimates you, but I don’t. I actually really enjoy being with you.’

‘Rot! You expect me to believe any of that?’

Roland looked as if he did really mean it. His eyes were desperate, and held a sincerity I had never seen in them before. But, although I was naive, I wasn’t that naive.

‘No, no. Of course I don’t expect you to believe it. I’ve been up all night trying to work all this out. I’m sure it’s the way I feel and I decided I should tell you in the knowledge that there was no chance you would believe me. At least not now.’

‘What can I say?’ I said. ‘I don’t believe you.’

Roland looked away. Clearly some part of him, some poor irrational section of his brain, had hoped for a different response.

‘I understand. So tell me what you want me to do. I would like it if you came back to live with me, but I understand there is little chance of that. We can live separately. I can give you a divorce — arrange for me to be caught with some tart.’

‘You mean my mother?’ I couldn’t resist it.

‘No, I didn’t mean your mother. But if you want it to be your mother, then I can do that too. It’s up to you. I won’t press you for an answer now — you can go back to wherever you are staying — but let me know when you are ready.’

My mind was in turmoil. Mostly, I was furious that he expected me to believe any of what he was saying after the way he had deceived me over the previous couple of years. Yet I also realized that if I was going to work for Lothar I would have to at least appear to be swayed.

That should come later.

‘All I want to do, Roland, is get out of here as soon as I jolly well can.’

Twenty-Five

The address Lothar had given me was a six-storey block in a narrow street in the Marais, the Jewish neighbourhood of Paris just over the river from my small hotel on the Île Saint-Louis. Although I could have walked there in ten minutes, it actually took me an hour, as I scrupulously followed Lothar’s instructions, dawdling on the Pont Marie, taking the Métro pointlessly to the Opéra and then the Place de la République, before walking from the broad Boulevard Beaumarchais into the warren of ancient streets that was the Marais.

This was a very different quarter of Paris from those frequented by Roland and me. The streets were narrower and dirtier, the people poorer, the shops less sophisticated, yet they had a vibrancy that I found exciting. There were craftsmen of every description plying their trade in small workshops-cum-stores: tailors, milliners, glove-makers, furriers, silversmiths, leather-workers, carpenters, pawnbrokers. On the streets, Yiddish mixed with French, and men in long black coats with wide-brimmed hats, full beards and curls dangling from above their ears scurried about their business.

I wondered whether Lemberg was like this.

With one last look over my shoulder, I rang the bell marked ‘6’ as instructed.

‘Kay?’ I exclaimed as I recognized the woman opening the door. ‘I didn’t know you lived here?’

‘Well, I do,’ said Kay. ‘It’s cheap and it’s easy to keep an eye on; we have comrades here. Lothar is upstairs.’

She led me up to a tiny flat at the back of the house one floor beneath the top. Lothar was waiting for me. I was pleased to see him; I was pleased to see her. But after bringing us some coffee, Kay left, saying she would be back in a couple of hours.

‘Kay is a cut-out,’ explained Lothar. ‘She doesn’t know my real name; she doesn’t know what we talk about or whom I report to. She is the one who rents this flat. If ever she was arrested she wouldn’t be able to divulge much of use.’

‘She knows who I am,’ I said.

‘She does,’ admitted Lothar. As he sipped his coffee, I noticed his mangled finger. ‘The idea is that Kay won’t be arrested. But if she is, we will look after you. We look after the people who work for us.’

‘Except for Hugh.’

Lothar nodded his acknowledgement. ‘That took us by surprise. We have lost very few agents.’

His intense dark blue eyes met mine. ‘I don’t want to deceive you, Emma. This is a dangerous business, and you should know that from the outset. You’ve had a few days to think about it. Do you want to work for us?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I do.’

We discussed details for two hours. I found what he told me fascinating — exciting, even. Counter-surveillance techniques, such as waiting for a tram, letting it pass, then jumping on the next one as it was leaving; or stopping to look at a shop window and examine the street behind in the reflection. Emergency contact procedures, places where a coded message could be left, and the codes themselves, which involved six hours being added to any time mentioned and three days subtracted from a date. Phrases to be used at meets with unknown agents, the back-up plans in case a meet was missed, signals that either I or Lothar had been discovered. Lothar gave me a camera and showed me how to use it to photograph documents. We discussed how I would credibly return to Roland.

My first assignment was to photograph papers from Roland’s briefcase. I knew Roland often took papers home from the embassy to work on; at this stage I didn’t know what they were. Lothar wanted me to photograph whatever was there; in due course he would become more specific about what I should look for. He told me to be very careful: better I arrive empty-handed at our next meeting than not arrive at all because I had been arrested.

I returned to the Rue de Bourgogne the following night after eleven days away. I had filled my days with reading, and had spent a couple of evenings with Dick, on one of which we went to the cinema to watch the western. He seemed to love it; I found it banal. But he was good company. I didn’t tell him what I was up to, or even that I was planning to go back to Roland.

I had decided to stay at the hotel on the Île Saint-Louis despite its simplicity, or rather because of its simplicity. I was feeling more and more guilty about my coddled life; if Dick could handle his bugs in his garret, I could handle mine in my hotel. At least they scuttled rather than bit.

One evening, I persuaded Dick to take me with him to a bistro he had discovered in a scruffy street in the Latin Quarter near the Panthéon. It was frequented by the poor workers and the workless, by the hopeful and the hopeless. The proprietor was as wide as she was tall, and wielded a knife-edged tongue. Dick seemed to have made friends with a group of serious drinkers, including a muscular brute who worked in the sewers, a Breton porter at Les Halles, a Polish dishwasher at the Hôtel Meurice, a Russian émigré who claimed he was a former cavalry officer, but who barely had enough to eat, and an Arab navvy who had taken a particular shine to Dick. Dick played the part of a penniless English writer. With a shock, it occurred to me that he might not, in fact, be playing that part, but might be actually living it.

I had worn my simplest clothes, but they could tell I had money.

Wine was drunk by the litre. The Pole and the Russian shook dice to decide which of them would pay for their drinks. As everyone became drunker, the singing started, led by the sewerman who burst into ‘Les Fraises et les Framboises’. The Marseillaise was followed by the Internationale, in which I tentatively joined. Despite his shortcomings in French, Dick had no trouble making himself understood, and he seemed popular.

Dick was there to research his subject, of course. He genuinely wanted to chronicle the daily lives of these people. But although I was for a few moments caught up in the alcohol-fuelled excitement and the bonhomie, most of the time I felt apart from these men, and the women who drifted by the table. I was an onlooker, an observer, a tourist of poverty. A hypocrite.

This was why I had to help Lothar.

Despite the drink and the singing, I couldn’t get Roland out of my mind.

I had given careful thought as to how I was going to treat him. I couldn’t pretend to love him or even show any affection for him. That might work for a night — or a week at most — but not for the years that would be required if I was to help Lothar. I was wary of trying to come up with a logical, consistent pretext for returning to him. Roland was clever. He would question my motives; I would slip up.

I needed to keep him on the back foot. Inconsistency would be my watchword, illogicality, mystery. I needed to make sure that he didn’t understand me. I hated him and I wouldn’t pretend otherwise.

I telephoned Muriel, his secretary, asking her which evenings he would be in that week, so I could give him a surprise. I don’t know what Muriel suspected — she had heard us arguing and she was no fool — but she told me there was nothing in his diary that evening. I bought some veal chops and celeriac at the market and started cooking.

I heard his key in the door.

‘Emma?’

I didn’t answer. He came into the kitchen. ‘Emma? What are you doing here?’

‘I’m cooking you supper.’

‘Oh. Thank you. I’m very pleased you’re home.’

He moved towards me.

‘Don’t touch me!’ I warned him.

He withdrew and poured himself a pink gin. ‘Thank you for coming back.’

I didn’t answer, but cooked dinner and took our two plates to the table. Roland poured us both a glass of wine.

‘How are you?’ he asked.

I didn’t answer.

We ate dinner in silence, and then I put my knife and fork together on the plate.

‘This is how it’s going to be,’ I said, remembering the advice from my beloved mother about setting down the rules of whatever game he was playing. ‘I am going to live here. I am going to be civil to you but no more. I doubt we will speak to each other much.’

‘All right.’

‘You are never to touch me. But you are also never to touch my mother either, ever again.’

‘I understand.’

‘In public I will be polite to you, but you are never to take advantage of that and touch me in front of other people.’

Roland listened, his face pained.

‘If you find you have physical needs, I expect you never to take them out on anyone I know. Preferably you should just pay for them.’

‘What do you mean?’ Roland said.

‘I mean go to a brothel. But don’t tell me about it. And above all, remember one thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘I hate you.’

Twenty-Six

I made my move two nights later. Roland was in the spare bedroom, and the camera Lothar had given me was in my underwear drawer. I woke in the middle of the night and checked the alarm clock. Five and twenty to three.

I crept out of bed, took out the camera and slunk into the hall, where Roland’s briefcase was lying. I took it through to the kitchen, turned on the light and opened the case. There was a ‘circulating file’ in there. I had seen these before. It was an odd procedure in the Foreign Office where a memorandum would be initiated by a junior third secretary and would meander its way upwards through an office, a series of typed minutes or handwritten comments embellishing it as it passed over each desk, before leaving the embassy by King’s Messenger on its journey to a desk in Whitehall, where it would be pummelled and primped in turn. Each contributor up the chain would take the opportunity to show off his erudition, publicly humiliate a subordinate and, occasionally, add a good idea. That was how you ran an empire.

This file concerned the differing views of the three most recent French prime ministers, Flandin, Laval and now Sarraut, on the Italian invasion of Abyssinia. An important, but complicated, topic — in December the revelation of the secret Hoare — Laval pact on how to deal with Mussolini’s East African ambitions had brought down the Laval government in France and finished Samuel Hoare’s tenure as Foreign Secretary in Britain.

I clicked away with the camera. There were dozens of pages, and although I was accurate, I was slow.

I was carefully replacing the file in Roland’s briefcase when I heard the floorboard creak.

Roland.

The camera was on the kitchen counter. I tossed it into a cutlery drawer, grabbed the papers, and shoved them back into Roland’s briefcase, which was standing on the tiny kitchen table.

‘Emma?’

I looked up at him. He was wearing the green pyjamas I had given him for Christmas. His eyes, red-rimmed, were blinking in their dark sockets. He looked confused.

‘Emma? What are you doing?’

What was I doing? Stupidly, I hadn’t thought of an excuse in advance. What possible logical reason could there be for me to be rooting through his briefcase in the middle of the night? I couldn’t think of one.

I glared at him, playing for time.

‘Emma? What are you doing in my briefcase?’ His voice was stronger now. He wasn’t yet suspicious, but he was very close.

I remembered my strategy. I shouldn’t look for a logical explanation; I should look for an illogical one.

‘I’m looking for letters,’ I said. ‘Or notes.’

‘From whom?’

‘Who do you think?’

‘But why would I put notes from Lavinia in my briefcase?’

‘Why wouldn’t you? If she contacted you at work. I’ve searched your suits.’

‘Have you? Did you find anything?’

‘No,’ I said, hoping that there wasn’t actually anything incriminating in his jackets, because I hadn’t in fact searched them. ‘That’s why I’m looking here.’

‘But I told you I don’t have anything to do with her any more.’

‘You did tell me that, but I don’t believe you.’

Roland looked at the briefcase. ‘Well, there’s nothing there. As you now know.’

I was regaining the initiative. I pushed it further. ‘Do you have any letters from her?’

He looked uncomfortable. He was tired and bewildered. He didn’t answer.

‘Well?’ I demanded.

He sighed. ‘I have some.’

‘Show them to me.’

Roland ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I really don’t think that’s a good idea.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because they will hurt you.’

‘Do you care?’

‘Yes. I care now.’

In reality, I had no desire to see the letters at all. But I didn’t want to do the reasonable, logical thing. I wanted to keep Roland confused.

I glared at him. ‘I want to see them.’

‘How about I destroy them? I don’t want them. I think it is better for both of us, but especially you, if you don’t read them. I will burn them.’

That sounded like a good idea to me. ‘I’ll think about it,’ I said. ‘Now I’m going back to bed.’

Roland destroyed the letters. I delivered the film to a tabac in the Rue Saint-Dominique the following day. It was barely a ten-minute walk from the flat, but I took half an hour over it, trying out the various counter-surveillance techniques Lothar had suggested. Once I had dropped the film, I took a more direct route back, aware all the time of who was behind me.

So aware, that I forgot to look in front. I was only thirty yards from my building when I noticed a young man waiting outside it, and only twenty yards when I realized it was Kenneth Heaton-Smith. I stopped in my tracks, but before I could turn on my heel and walk back down the street, he had spotted me.

He smiled and waved. I smiled and walked as confidently as I could towards him.

My heart was thudding in my chest. Had the British secret service rumbled me already?

It rather looked as if they had.

Roland must have put two and two together and told Colonel Vivian and Heaton-Smith. Had Heaton-Smith’s colleagues tailed me going to the tabac? I had done my best to check for followers, but I was an utter novice at this game. I could easily have missed them. In which case they would soon be in possession of the film I had taken the night before.

Oh Lord.

I smiled as brightly as I could manage — too brightly probably. ‘Mr Heaton-Smith? Are you still in Paris? I thought you’d left ages ago.’

‘I’ve been in Rome a couple of days, but there were a couple of things I wanted to attend to before I returned to London. May I come in? I rang your bell, but I had just about given up.’

‘Of course.’ Heaton-Smith followed me up the stairs, and I led him into our flat. ‘Can I get you some coffee?’

‘I say, you don’t have any good old-fashioned English tea, do you?’

‘I do, as a matter of fact. I’ll just put the kettle on. Have a seat while I make it.’

I tried to compose myself as I made the tea, but it was very difficult. I was trying to come up with a plan. Brazen it out was the best thing. And then don’t say anything. It was all looking very rum.

Heaton-Smith wasn’t acting as if he was about to arrest me. But he did look concerned.

My hand shook and the saucer rattled as I placed his cup of tea down beside him.

‘Are you all right, Mrs Meeke? You look upset.’

So much for brazening it out. My first instinct was to insist that I was perfectly fine. Fortunately, my mind cleared quickly enough to realize that firstly I needed a good explanation for why I was flustered, and secondly that I had a ready-made one.

I forced myself to hesitate. Look down at my own cup. ‘Oh, you know,’ I said. ‘Roland and I have just had the most frightful row. I suppose it happens all the time in marriages, I’m just not used to it myself yet.’ I smiled quickly. ‘Sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you that. It’s just you did ask, and, well, I hoped a walk would clear my head, but it’s done just the opposite. I feel worse, really.’

‘Oh, I am sorry,’ said Heaton-Smith. ‘And it’s absolutely none of my business. I’ll be gone in a tick.’ He seemed more embarrassed, in a rather charming way, than suspicious. He was a charming man.

I smiled politely.

‘I really came to tell you about Cyril Ashcott.’

‘Oh yes?’

Perhaps I wasn’t rumbled, after all. But I would keep my wits about me.

‘Yes. You asked me to let you know if it turned out he was innocent of giving information to the Germans.’

‘And is he?’

Heaton-Smith sighed. ‘I’m afraid not. It looks as if you were right — he has been passing secrets to the German Embassy. They were blackmailing him over his involvement with a German boy here in Paris. It’s likely the whole thing was a set-up — a “honey-trap” we call it.’

‘Oh dear.’ I felt a huge wave of relief sweeping over me, one I was desperate to prevent Heaton-Smith noticing. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. As I told you, I like Cyril. I’d rather hoped he was innocent. Have you arrested him?’

‘No. And we’re not going to.’

‘You are not going to?’

‘We are going to turn him.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means we keep him in post and he continues to feed information to the Germans. Most of it will be accurate but unimportant. But just occasionally we will give him something else to slip in, something that will mislead them.’

‘So he won’t be prosecuted?’

‘It doesn’t look like it.’

I was very glad to hear that. Especially since it looked like I was not going to be prosecuted either.

Over the coming weeks and months Roland and I settled into a new routine for dealing with each other, the rules of which were set by me. We were polite, sometimes even considerate. We rarely argued, but that was because we rarely spoke. When he was home, I read.

I was less rude to him, partly because I didn’t want to scare him away, and partly because I didn’t feel the urge. Whenever I remembered what he had done with my mother, I also remembered that I was stealing his secrets. When I thought of Hugh, and his death, I remembered that I was giving away the secrets of those who had killed him.

I went to the doctor, who told me that there was indeed a life wriggling around deep inside me, and that it would emerge into the world that December. I told Roland as perfunctorily as I could; he couldn’t hide his pleasure.

I avoided my mother. She stopped coming to Paris. We never wrote to each other, apart from once when I informed her she was to become a grandmother. She never replied. Roland and I briefly visited Chaddington for a day in August on a week’s home leave, but she had been detained in London, so we missed her.

I wrote to my father frequently, and he replied. I felt so sorry for him. Not just because of my mother’s betrayal of him, but also because it was clear he missed his son terribly. He never stated this directly, but Hugh was mentioned in every letter. He clearly hoped that my child would be a boy.

At that time, my father was fifty-one, but since Hugh’s death he had aged ten years. He had become an old man.

In September, Dick went back to England, having written most of his novel. Now all he had to do was find a publisher. I spent some time with him over that summer, and also with Cyril Ashcott, whom I now saw as something of a kindred spirit.

And I saw a lot of Lothar. I provided him with some more documents I had photographed from Roland’s briefcase, and also with diplomatic gossip I heard, or overheard, at the various parties I attended. In the past, Roland and I had discussed politics at some length, and I passed on what he had told me then. But an unfortunate consequence of my treatment of Roland was that those conversations ceased. So, as the summer progressed, I began to talk to him again, mostly about his work, under the guise of my unquenchable curiosity.

Relieved, he talked to me. I relayed it all to Lothar.

That summer, General Franco led a military revolt against the republican Spanish government. The countries of Europe had to decide which side to choose in the coming civil war. I was able to give Lothar important details about the thinking of the different factions within the British government and diplomatic service about whether to support Franco or remain neutral. This was a topic of heated debate between the British and French governments. Léon Blum, the new French prime minister, was inclined to support the republicans. Roland was intimately involved in the discussions and knew all the details of what was going on. He was happy to discuss them with me.

I knew who was in the right — the Spanish pro-republican workers — and Russia was supporting them. By ensuring the Russians knew what the British government was planning, I was supporting them too.

I was doing my bit. It felt good.

And in December, two days after Christmas, Caroline was born.

Twenty-Seven

June 1979, Paris

They left the Voltigeur and walked back across the river towards the Ritz. Emma said she was getting tired, and she had started to sway a little, so she grabbed Phil’s arm. A reminder of that growth in her brain interfering with her balance. Phil left her at the door of the hotel and doubled back to have another look at the impressionist paintings in the Jeu de Paume.

He wanted to see them again. He also wanted to think about what he had just heard.

His grandmother had spied for the Russians. To some extent, he understood why. He understood that her brother had been a communist; he understood why she hated her husband. But the Russians were the bad guys. There was a war on — it might be a cold war, but it was still a war. Marx and Lenin had spoken about international communism taking over the world, and as far as Phil could tell, that was what the Soviet Union was still trying to do. There were tanks massed on the borders of East Germany; there were nuclear missiles pointed at London and Washington.

And it wasn’t as if things had been much better in the thirties. Phil had studied Lenin and Stalin in A-level history, he knew about the gulags where hundreds of thousands were locked up and the unnecessary famines where millions died.

Emma had spied for Russia against Britain.

He remembered the conversation with the enigmatic Mr Swann in the Three Castles back home. Phil wondered how much of Emma’s activities Mr Swann knew about already. Did he know about her spying? Her treachery.

Probably.

No wonder he didn’t want Phil to tell her about their conversation.

Now Lothar had made his appearance in Emma’s story. From what Emma had said, it was quite plausible that Lothar had also run an agent in the 1930s who was still undercover — Swann’s mole.

Is that what Phil and Emma were doing now? Looking for this Lothar?

But her story wasn’t over. Phil should hold his tongue and listen to it until the end, wherever that would take them.

He spent most of the afternoon in the museum, letting the fabulous paintings imprint themselves on his consciousness, lingering in front of each one. Then he headed back to the hotel.

He met Emma in the lobby at a quarter to six. They had a mysterious appointment to keep before Phil returned to the bar at Place Saint-Michel to meet Heike, something he was anticipating with a mixture of nervousness and excitement. Emma looked much fresher than she had at lunchtime, and her eyes were bright.

‘Come on, Philip,’ she said. ‘It’s not far.’

She set off at a surprisingly fast pace back towards the Place de la Concorde, and turned into the entrance of a large, grand building of pale yellow stone whose facade was lined with columns. The Hôtel de Crillon.

As they entered the lobby, the crash and roar of petrol engine and metal died behind them. They went through to the bar, where the only sounds were the low murmur of voices, the occasional clink of crystal glass, and a man in a white dinner jacket behind a grand piano softly playing tunes from Simon and Garfunkel. Emma scanned the room and then headed towards a tall man in his sixties, sitting at a low table, reading the International Herald Tribune, a pipe and a glass of whisky at his side.

‘Dick!’ Emma cried as she approached him.

The man stood up and grinned broadly, kissing her on the cheek. She introduced him to Phil. As Phil shook his hand, he could see what Emma had meant when she said his blue eyes, set in a tanned face, were kindly.

Phil liked him immediately.

Dick summoned a waiter and ordered a glass of champagne for Emma and, after a few moments of hesitation as Phil tried to decide what he should be seen to be drinking, a gin and tonic for him.

‘Did you fly in this morning?’ Emma asked.

‘Yes. From Washington. I’ve got a meeting with a client here. I’m very glad you could coordinate your holiday with my trip.’

‘So am I,’ said Emma. ‘What sort of client?’

‘It’s a subsidiary of one of the big American multinationals. I’m advising them on reorganizing themselves. They are never happy unless they are reorganizing themselves.’

‘I never understood how you got into that line of work,’ Emma said.

‘You remember I was working for the Ministry of Information during the war? It was stuffed full of poets and novelists, most of them a lot better than me. I ended up writing stuff for some big businesses. Then when the scriptwriting didn’t work, I looked up some of my old wartime contacts. And I became a management consultant. I’m surprisingly good at it.’

Phil had vaguely heard of the term ‘management consultant’, but he had no real idea of what they did. His dad would know.

‘Shame I never saw any of your films,’ Emma said.

‘Probably for the best,’ said Dick. ‘B-movie westerns. More like C-movie, really. Turned out scriptwriting wasn’t really my thing.’

‘I’ve told Philip a little about you, or at least about you in Paris.’

‘Grams is feeding me the story bit by bit,’ said Phil. ‘We’ve just got to the part where you came to France.’

Dick winced. ‘Painful,’ he said to Emma.

‘Yes,’ said Emma. ‘But it’s good for me to remember. And Philip is my accomplice on this little trip. I was sorry to hear about Frances.’

‘It will be two years in September. It doesn’t really get any easier, does it?’

Phil assumed Dick was referring to Roland, but Emma didn’t answer. He wondered whether that was the same Frances as the American student Emma had mentioned at Shakespeare and Company. That would explain Dick’s move to America.

Dick puffed at his pipe.

‘That’s a familiar smell,’ said Emma. ‘Your tobacco. It reminds me of the Île Saint-Louis.’

Dick grinned. ‘What have you been up to, Emma?’

Emma replied in generalities. Phil got the impression she didn’t want to say too much in front of either him or Dick, he didn’t know which.

They finished their drinks, and Dick ordered refills.

Emma sipped her champagne and looked coolly at her old friend. ‘Tell me about Kurt.’

Kurt? That must be Kurt Lohmüller, the German diplomat.

‘I met him in Crete, last year. I went for a week’s vacation there last September. We were staying in the same hotel. He recognized me; I suppose I haven’t changed that much. I didn’t recognize him at all. The moustache has gone, his hair is grey, and he’s put on some weight. But he was very friendly. I remember that about him.’

‘He was always friendly,’ said Emma. ‘A natural diplomat.’

‘Anyway, we spoke about Paris and Berlin. And you, naturally. A lot about you. I think he rather liked you.’

‘I rather liked him,’ said Emma. ‘In your postcard you mentioned he had seen Kay?’

‘Did I?’

‘Yes, you did.’ Emma was looking at Dick intently.

‘Yes, perhaps I did.’ Dick glanced at Phil.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Emma. ‘You can talk in front of Philip.’

‘Kurt said he was still a diplomat, but I wondered if he was a spook. A retired spook.’

‘For whom?’

‘For West Germany, I assume. I didn’t ask. You don’t think he could be working for the East Germans, do you?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Emma. ‘It’s possible. So how did he see Kay?’ She drew a postcard out of her bag: a picture of a ruined tower standing next to an unnaturally blue sea. She flipped it over. ‘You say here: Kurt told me he had seen Kay.’

‘Yeah, he did say that. Let me think,’ said Dick, drawing his brows together in concentration. ‘I asked him something like, “And have you seen Kay?” and he said, “Yes. She’s living in East Berlin now.” But he didn’t say how or when he had seen her. I thought it wasn’t surprising she ended up there. Or Moscow.’

‘So you don’t know whether Kurt spoke to her?’

Dick shook his head. ‘No. Sorry.’

‘What about Lothar? Did Kurt mention a man called Lothar by any chance?’

‘Who is Lothar?’ said Dick.

‘A friend of Kay’s,’ said Emma. ‘From before the war. You probably didn’t know him.’

‘Well, no, he didn’t mention that name.’

Emma glanced down at the card. ‘Have you got Kurt’s address?’

Dick shook his head. ‘Sorry. But he did tell me where he lives. He’s retired from the German government, and lives in France now. In a village overlooking a lake. He says it’s beautiful. His wife was with him in Crete. She’s French; Martine, I recall her name was.’

‘I remember Martine. He didn’t say which lake?’

‘I’m afraid not. If I had realized you were so keen to see him, I would have asked for his address. Do you have something specific you want to ask him?’

‘Yes,’ said Emma. ‘Yes, I do. There are still one or two loose ends from that time before the war.’

‘I see,’ said Dick. ‘Speaking of which, have you seen anything of Freddie? I saw he resigned as a minister last year. Presumably he’s still an MP?’

Phil’s ears pricked up. He hadn’t realized that Freddie had become that important. But then the name Frederick Pelham-Walsh did sound vaguely familiar.

‘Yes, a backbencher.’ Emma turned to Phil. ‘After the war Freddie became a Labour MP. He was a junior defence minister for a couple of years in Wilson’s government but, as Dick said, he resigned. Had second thoughts about nuclear deterrence, apparently.’

‘But I thought you said Freddie was a communist?’ Phil said.

‘We all were, then,’ Dick said with a grin. ‘Although Freddie was more hard line than most of us. But not as hard line as Denis.’

‘Denis Healey?’ Phil asked. ‘The bloke who was Chancellor of the Exchequer?’

‘And a good friend of Freddie’s,’ said Emma. ‘Then and now.’

‘So how is Freddie?’ Dick asked.

‘Fat,’ said Emma.

‘Married?’ Dick asked, with a wry grin.

‘No. Unlike Cyril. Do you remember him?’

‘Yes, I think I do. That third secretary from the embassy here?’

‘Who is now Her Majesty’s ambassador to France. With a glamorous ambassadress. We saw him yesterday.’

‘You really are revisiting old times.’ Dick smiled again. ‘I’m glad you included me.’

‘And I’m glad you got to Paris to meet me.’

Their eyes met.

Phil thought he should be somewhere else. He checked his watch. It was nearly eight o’clock. ‘I’m afraid I have to go,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘It was nice to meet you, Mr Loxton.’

‘You too.’

‘Don’t get too drunk tonight, Philip,’ said his grandmother. ‘You’ll be driving tomorrow.’

‘Really? Where are we going?’

‘I’m not sure. We’re going to visit a lake. I haven’t worked out which one yet. I’ll let you know at breakfast.’

Twenty-Eight

It was a warm evening, and the Place Saint-Michel was buzzing. Phil found the bar and ordered himself a Stella Artois. Nowhere to sit this time. He was dead on time, but he couldn’t see Heike. She was late; he should have expected that.

It had been interesting to meet Dick, a character from Emma’s story come to life. It was becoming clear that this trip wasn’t just about seeing places from Emma’s past. It was about seeing people.

Which was probably why she had the gun in her suitcase.

That thought troubled Phil.

‘Hi. You made it.’

Phil turned to see Heike coming towards him. Her blue eyes were shining, and she seemed much happier than the evening before. God, she was attractive. What the hell did she see in him?

He had to put that thought out of his mind. He needed to be self-confident if he was going to impress her.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

She asked for a Southern Comfort and Coke, which he bought her. They found an empty patch of floor.

‘Has your boyfriend cleared out?’ Phil asked.

‘Yes. He was gone when I got back last night. Man, was I drunk.’

‘We both were,’ said Phil. ‘But it was fun.’

‘Yeah.’ She smiled — simply, not slyly. ‘I’m glad I bumped into you. And I’m glad I’ve got rid of that scumbag.’

‘How long had you been together?’

‘Not long. Only a couple of months. But shagging my best friend? Unforgivable. On both their parts.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. I’m better off without him. And without her for that matter. I have a whole life ahead of me to enjoy.’ She smiled up at him.

‘What are you going to do now?’ Phil asked.

‘I don’t know. Explore Paris. Maybe see a bit more of France by myself. Or I might just go home and try another trip in a few weeks with a friend. Where are you off to next? What does your grandmother have in store for you?’

‘I don’t know. I’m pretty sure we’ll go to Berlin. But we may be going to a lake in France first.’

‘Which lake?’

‘No idea. She said she’d tell me at breakfast. But I do know we’re leaving tomorrow morning.’

‘Oh,’ she said. Just ‘Oh’. But it seemed to Phil to signal disappointment.

‘Shall we go somewhere else?’ he said. ‘It’s getting crowded here. My guidebook says that there are clubs around here called caves, which are a good place to go. Lively, you know.’ The Hitch-Hiker’s Guide had actually implied they were good places to meet people of the opposite sex, but Phil was planning on bringing his own.

‘Yeah, I went to one with Jürgen a couple of nights ago. That’s a good idea — let’s just make sure it’s a different joint.’

So they left the bar, and walked along a narrow street thronged with students. Unlike the previous night, Phil felt part of the crowd, not a schoolboy looking on from the outside.

He started telling Heike all about the Hitch-Hiker’s Guide. She listened with mild amusement at his enthusiasm. ‘Does it say anything about my home town — Braunschweig?’

‘I don’t know, I’ll check. Don’t you have a duke there? We call it “Brunswick”.’

‘I know you do. We were big allies of the British. Soldiers from Braunschweig fought for your Duke of Wellington at Waterloo. Unlike more recent times.’

Phil grinned. ‘I’m definitely in favour of more friendly relations.’ The moment the words were out of his mouth he worried that they might seem creepy, but Heike seemed not to take offence.

They found a likely place: dark, smoke-filled, with low, arched ceilings. Phil shelled out twenty francs each to get in, and was grateful when Heike shoved a note into his hand to pay for her half. They were near the back and could only just see the tiny stage, on which a black woman with an amazingly sultry voice sang blues in English.

They drank slowly — the drinks were expensive — listened to the music and chatted. Phil found Heike easy to talk to, and soon relaxed. The conversation was in German, but he managed very well, and if he got stuck over a word, Heike patiently guided him to the correct choice. They ordered food: chicken and pommes frites, the cheapest thing on the menu.

‘Is your grandmother enjoying your trip?’ Heike asked.

‘I think so,’ Phil said. ‘It’s bringing back memories, not all of them good.’

‘What kind of memories?’

‘She was a diplomat’s wife before the war. And a communist.’

‘A communist? She sounds like an interesting lady. Tell me more about her.’

So Phil did. He told Heike about her marriage to Roland and about how Roland had cheated on her with her mother. Heike looked suitably horrified. Then he told her about Kay and how Kay had asked Emma to spy for Russia.

And then he told her that Emma had agreed. Phil didn’t think it mattered. It was ancient history, and what difference would it make if a twenty-year-old German student knew about it? It was a great story, it was good to tell it to someone, and Heike was definitely impressed.

‘She certainly is an interesting lady,’ she said. ‘I’d love to meet her.’

‘I’m sure she would like to meet you too.’ But Phil wasn’t exactly sure she would. He had no idea what Emma would think of Heike. He did know that she would be unimpressed that Phil had told her so much. ‘Trouble is, we are leaving tomorrow morning.’

‘Yes, of course. Do you think where you are going has something to do with the story she has been telling you?’

‘I’m sure it has. I wouldn’t be surprised if we don’t try to find a German diplomat she knew back then. And Kay, the woman who recruited her as a spy. She’s in East Berlin, apparently. Which makes some sense, I suppose, for a spy for the Russians.’

‘And that’s why you think you’ll be going to Berlin?’

‘Maybe.’

Heike was silent, staring at the stage. She glanced sideways briefly at Phil and then looked straight ahead. A smile crept across her lips.

‘What is it?’ said Phil.

‘Look. This is a long shot, but do you think I could join you and your grandmother? It sounds fun, and I don’t have anything else to do. Would she mind?’

Phil’s heart leapt. At that moment there was nothing he would like more than to spend the next few days with this girl. But the truth was, his grandmother would mind. Emma hadn’t chosen Phil to go with her on this, the final trip of her life, so that he could bring a strange German girl with him, however much he fancied her. Although Phil couldn’t see any harm in telling Emma’s secrets to a stranger, Emma would definitely have a different view.

He searched for arguments he could use to persuade Emma, but he knew the idea wasn’t going to fly. Plus there wasn’t room in the TR6.

It was still an encouraging sign that Heike wanted to come.

‘It’s a nice idea,’ he said. ‘But there isn’t room in the car. It’s a two-seater.’

Heike nodded. ‘Yes, it was a silly idea. I’ll just travel around by myself. Maybe go south to Avignon and Arles?’

Phil almost offered to lend her his Hitch-Hiker’s Guide. But although he fancied her, he didn’t fancy her that much.

They left the cave around midnight. They were standing in shadows on the side of the street just outside the club. Heike rummaged in her bag. She pulled out a biro and an old envelope and tore the envelope in half. She scribbled furiously on one half, and gave it to Phil.

‘OK. Here is my home address in Braunschweig, and my address in Bonn next year. Write to me, OK? And maybe we can meet up somewhere in Europe next year? I could show you Braunschweig, although that won’t take very long.’

She waited while Phil wrote down his home address in Buckinghamshire — with difficulty because of the darkness.

He handed her the scrap of paper.

She reached up and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Bye, Phil.’

‘Bye.’

She was about to turn away when she paused. She reached up and kissed him again. On the mouth. Slowly.

‘Write,’ she said, and she was gone.

Heike took a cab back to her hotel. A tall man with longish dark hair was waiting for her a few metres up the street from the entrance.

She ignored him, went up to her room, and let herself in. Two minutes later, there was a soft knock at the door. She opened it.

‘How did it go?’ the man asked her in his accented German once he was inside the room. He was supposed to sound like a Yugoslav guest worker, but Heike thought she could detect a Russian tinge to his accent.

‘Good. He told me a lot about Emma Meeke. For a moment I thought he would try to bring me with him, but he didn’t go for it.’

‘Why not?’

‘He said there wasn’t enough room in the car. What kind of car is it?’

‘It’s a sports car. British. A TR6.’

‘Right. Well, that idea of yours was never going to work then, was it?’ Sometimes Heike had her doubts about Marko, even though technically she reported to him. She would much rather be working with a colleague from the Stasi than the KGB, but this was their operation and they had asked for her, or someone like her. She was sure Phil had spotted him in the bar the evening before.

Her comment stung the man. ‘Did you fuck him?’

‘No, I didn’t fuck him,’ she said. ‘There was no need. He has fallen for me anyway. He’s very naive; I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s a virgin. He seems to think I’m only twenty.’

‘You do look young. How old are you?’

‘Twenty-six.’

‘Well, if you need to fuck him, fuck him.’

Heike really didn’t like Marko. She got the impression he would quite like to fuck her. That certainly wasn’t happening.

‘I’ll brief you on everything that Phil told me about his grandmother, and then you can be on your way.’

Twenty-Nine

Emma was waiting for Phil in the Ritz dining room the next morning, yesterday’s copy of The Times resting on her Michelin road atlas of Europe.

‘Did you have fun last night?’

Phil grinned. ‘Yes, I did. And I managed to drink a lot less than the night before, you’ll be glad to hear.’

‘What’s she like, this Heike?’

‘She’s um...’ Phil could feel his face getting hot. ‘She’s really nice. She’s a couple of years older than me — she’s studying engineering at Bonn. She comes from Brunswick.’

‘Oh, I know Brunswick. I visited it before the war. Nice place. I don’t know how badly bombed it was.’

‘She didn’t say. It didn’t make it into my Hitch-Hiker’s Guide. I checked.’

‘Philip. One of the things I will hope you will learn travelling with me is that there are places in Europe worth visiting that are not in your guidebook.’

‘I don’t believe that,’ said Phil with a grin. ‘But I’m willing to see for myself if Brunswick is one of them.’

‘Is she pretty?’ Emma asked.

Phil nodded and smiled. ‘Yeah. She’s very pretty.’

‘Well, good for you,’ said Emma. ‘I’m sorry to tear you away from her.’

Phil shrugged. He was sorry too. There was no point denying it to himself. It seemed such a shame not to see her again after that kiss. He wondered whether he should have asked her if he could go back to her hotel with her. Was that what she wanted him to do?

Probably not. She had walked briskly away from him. If she had wanted him to come too, she would have dawdled. She hadn’t really given him a chance.

But what if he had asked her? And what if she had said yes?

The waiter brought some croissants, and Phil helped himself to one.

‘Did you have dinner with Dick last night?’ he asked.

‘Yes. We went to a simple little bistro near the Latin Quarter I remembered from before the war. The one I told you about. It’s still there, although it’s much cleaner and a lot less rowdy than it used to be.’

‘He seems like a nice guy.’

‘He is. He always was.’

‘I assume the Frances he married is the one he met here at the Café de Flore?’

‘That’s right. I went to their wedding in Durham — a rush job. There were a lot of those during the war. As he told you, they moved to America afterwards, Hollywood and then Washington. We’ve exchanged the occasional letter over the years, and we send each other Christmas cards; in his card a couple of years ago he told me Frances had died. But this is the first time I’ve seen him for nearly forty years.’

It occurred to Phil that Emma was looking much livelier this morning than she had so far on the trip.

‘So we both had good evenings last night?’

Emma grinned. ‘It sounds like it.’

‘Dick’s postcard mentioned Kay was living in East Berlin. Is that who we’re looking for?’

‘It is.’

‘Hang on. I didn’t realize Kurt knew Kay?’

‘Ah. Very perceptive. No, I haven’t told you that yet.’

‘So we’re going to meet Kurt next? To ask about Kay?’

‘That’s the plan.’

‘And why do you want to find Kay?’

‘You’ll see.’

Phil grinned. ‘I can be patient.’ He wouldn’t be at all surprised if it had something to do with Lothar.

‘Good,’ said Emma. She touched his hand. ‘Thank you, Philip. You are being a good sport about all this.’

‘It’s fun, Grams. And I’m happy to do this your way.’ He nodded to the road atlas. ‘Have you figured out where this lake is?’

‘I can have a good guess,’ said Emma, opening the page at the east of France. ‘There aren’t actually that many lakes in France, and we’re looking for one where someone might retire to.

‘There’s Lake Geneva. Part of its shore lies in France, so that’s a possibility, but I somehow think Kurt would have referred to that by name. I think our best is here.’

She stabbed the map, her finger covering a sliver of blue between mountains. ‘Lake Annecy. I remember Kurt went on a cycling holiday there, and he said he loved it. So, that’s where we start, and if that doesn’t work we may try Lake Geneva, or the Lac du Bourget a bit further to the west, here.’

‘OK. Have you planned a route?’

‘I have.’

‘Then let’s go.’