"It's the official uniform of Whitehall, I'm afraid. I've become accustomed to it. I've also enjoyed the change. But I'll be glad when it's over so I can get back to University College where I belong."
He couldn't believe the words had actually come out of his mouth. He had once thought of MI5 as his salvation. He knew now it definitely was not. He had enjoyed his time at MI5: the tension, the long hours, the inedible fare in the canteen, the battles with Boothby, the remarkable group of dedicated amateurs just like himself who toiled away in secret. He had once toyed with the idea of asking to stay on after the war. But it wouldn't be the same--not without the threat of national destruction hanging over them like Damocles' sword.
There was something else. While he was well suited intellectually to the actual business of intelligence, its very nature was abhorrent to him. He was a historian. By nature and training he was dedicated to searching out truth. Intelligence was about lying and deception. About betrayal. About means justifying ends. About stabbing one's enemy in the back--and maybe stabbing a friend in the back, if necessary. He was not at all certain he liked the person he had become.
Vicary said, "How's David, by the way?"
Helen exhaled heavily. "David is David," she said, as if no other explanation was necessary. "He's banished me to the countryside, and he stays here in London. He managed a commission and does something for the Admiralty. I come to see him once every few weeks. He likes it when I'm away. It gives him the freedom to pursue his other interests."
Vicary, uncomfortable with Helen's honesty, looked away. David Lindsay, along with being incredibly rich and handsome, was a notorious womanizer. Vicary thought, No wonder he and Boothby are such good friends.
Helen said, "You don't need to feign ignorance, Alfred. I am aware that everyone knows about David and his favorite pastime. I've grown used to it. David likes women, and they like him. It's a rather neat fit."
"Why don't you leave him?"
"Oh, Alfred," she said, and dismissed the suggestion with a wave of her gloved hand.
"Is there anyone else in your life?"
"Do you mean other men?"
Vicary nodded.
"I tried once, but he was the wrong man. He was David in different clothes. Besides, I made a promise in a country church twenty-five years ago, and I seem incapable of breaking it."
"I wish you had felt that way about the promise you made to me," Vicary said, and immediately regretted the note of bitterness that crept into his voice. But Helen just looked at him, blinked rapidly, and said, "Sometimes I wish that too. There, I've said it. My God, how thoroughly un-English of me. Please forgive me. I suppose it's all these bloody Americans in town."
Vicary felt his face flush.
Helen said, "Are you still seeing Alice Simpson?"
"How in the world do you know about Alice Simpson?"
"I know about all your women, Alfred. She's very pretty. I even like those wretched books she writes."
"She's slipped away. I told myself it was the war, my work. But the truth is, she wasn't you, Helen. So I let her slip away. Just like all the others."
"Oh, damn you, Alfred Vicary! Damn you for saying that."
"It's the truth. Besides, it's what you wanted to hear. That's why you sought me out in the first place."
"The truth is, I wanted to hear that you were happy," she said. Her eyes were damp. "I didn't want you to tell me I'd ruined your life."
"Don't flatter yourself, Helen. You haven't ruined my life. I'm not unhappy. I've just never found enough room in my heart for someone else. I don't trust people very much. I suppose I have you to thank for that."
"Truce," she said. "Please, let's call a truce. I didn't want this to turn into a continuation of our last conversation. I just wanted to spend some time with you. God, but I need a drink. Will you take me somewhere nice and pour a bottle of wine into me, darling?"
They walked to Duke's. It was quiet that time of the afternoon. They were shown to a corner table. Vicary kept expecting one of Helen and David's friends to come in and recognize them, but they were alone. Vicary excused himself to go to the telephone and tell Harry where he was. When he came back there was a ludicrously expensive bottle of champagne sitting in an ice bucket.
"Don't worry, darling," she said. "It's David's party."
He sat down and they drank half the wine very fast. They talked about Vicary's books, and they talked about Helen's children. They even talked about David some more. He never took his eyes from her face as she spoke. There was something about the remote sadness in her eyes--the vulnerability caused by her failed marriage--that made her even more attractive to him. She reached out her hand and laid it on Vicary's. He felt his heart beating inside his chest for the first time in twenty-five years.
"Do you ever think about it, Alfred?"
"Think about what?"
"That morning."
"Helen, what are you--"
"My God, Alfred, you can be so thick sometimes. The morning I came to your bed and ravaged your body for the first time."