‘Another one?’ she asked Nick. She had begun by stationing herself in the kitchen, but could find nothing to do, so had ended up joining them.
Josh, feeling his task almost done, accepted too. She made them, but as she poured them into fresh cold glasses, said, ‘Now look, you two, I want you out of here at eight thirty at the latest. I’ve got someone coming to see me at nine, and I don’t want my drawing room awash with dirty cups and glasses, all right?’
She was beginning to regret agreeing to see Tom the same evening as Josh; but he had sounded very stressed.
‘The worst thing, in a way,’ Nick said, ‘is the waves of panic after a high-profile case – like the Montagu one. I have friends who destroyed suitcases full of letters and photographs, most of them harmless, for fear of discovery, and made bonfires of keepsakes. It’s dreadful, the terror. Lots of the rich just move abroad; Robin Maugham, for instance, sails his yacht permanently. Some move to places like Tangiers and Rome. But if you’re an ordinary man, trying to earn a living, you just have to get on with it and live with the fear.’
Diana thought of Ned; living with the fear, all his life. A half-life, really. It was almost unendurable.
‘Of course, I’m lucky,’ Nick was saying. ‘I live in a tolerant bit of society, but if you don’t, then . . .’
‘Sorry, chaps,’ said Diana, ‘this has to come to an end.’
It was only eight thirty but Diana wanted to have a bath before Tom’s arrival.
‘Nick, thank you so much,’ said Josh. ‘And you, Diana. Would you like me to help you clear up?’
‘No, thank you,’ said Diana quickly. ‘I’d rather do it myself.’ She was a bit on edge, Josh noticed: maybe her visitor was a new boyfriend. Whatever the reason, they owed it to her to leave her in peace.
Nick left first, kissed Diana, and said, ‘See you next week, lovely lady.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Yes, I’d forgotten. That lovely pleats idea. On location, aren’t we? Hope so.’
‘We are. Off to Winkworth Arboretum. Leaving at dawn. Well, seven. Don’t be late.’
‘I’m never late,’ said Diana indignantly, and it was true, she was not. Punctuality was as essential a quality in a model as height, slenderness and good hair. Many was the lovely young thing struck off her agency’s books for keeping an important photographer waiting.
Tom had misjudged the time of his journey; he arrived in Buckley Mews at eight fifteen. He was foot-weary, and his head ached. Surely to God she would let him in now. Well, all right, maybe not quite now: he’d wait for a bit then ring her doorbell.
God, he was tired, tired and terrified. Feeling wretched; apart from anything else, he knew how much he was going to miss her in his life, not just the sex, but the fun, the glamour, the danger. It was all such a far cry from the little house in Acton. He needed to sit down. There had been some seats in the square that led to the mews and he went back and sank gratefully onto one, put his head between his knees for a moment, then sat raking his fingers through his hair in an effort to tidy it, pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his sweaty forehead. He thought how dreadful he must look, and then, hopefully, that she would find him so distasteful she would just let him go.
He looked at his watch again: twenty-five to nine. Just five more minutes and he’d only be quarter of an hour early.
‘Diana, thank you again,’ said Josh. ‘Marvellous stuff, and he’s given me another lead as well. I’m so grateful to you. Martini wasn’t bad either.’
‘Good. I enjoyed it too. Now look, I really am going to push you out. I hope we’ll meet again. I think it’s fantastic what your paper’s going to do.’
‘Night, Diana, thanks again.’
‘Night, Josh. My pleasure.’
He walked slowly down the mews; the houses were all brightly lit, with outside lights. It looked like a film set.
She really had been in a hell of a rush: almost flustered. Probably one of her many lovers was coming. Not that he knew how many lovers she had; but he couldn’t imagine anyone as gorgeous and fun as she was leading a nun-like existence.
He kept remembering things Nick had said that he hadn’t written down, and paused to make notes. It was so easy to forget tiny details and they were what brought a piece alive. He had interviewed a minor Tory cabinet minister once for the paper, exceedingly dull he had been too, except that whenever Josh asked him a question he didn’t want to answer, he cleared his throat loudly. It clearly gave him time to think, but it also gave Josh clues about what the areas were. Harry Campbell had actually praised the piece. Josh couldn’t remember him doing that since. Finally satisfied, he put his notebook back in his pocket and walked briskly towards the square.
A man was sitting on a seat next to a lamp post. He was clearly waiting for someone, kept looking at his watch. There was something familiar about him . . . He was signalling to taxis as the man stood up, turned round into the full flood of the lamplight: he was very tall, with – wait a minute – dark red hair. It was Tom Knelston. What on earth was he doing here? A taxi with its ‘for hire’ lights on came towards him; Josh put down his arm, shook his head at the driver.
Tom was walking now quite slowly towards the mews. He took one last look at his watch and then speeded up, as if he had made some decision or other. Josh followed him, cautiously slow, afraid Tom would see him, fearing now, dreading what his destination might be. Surely not, please, dear God, not Diana’s house. Not Tom, the perfect family man, married to his cousin’s best friend. Must be someone from the Labour Party, they were half of them filthy rich, lived in places like this.
But Josh stood stock-still now that Tom had arrived at his destination, terrified that he’d see him. And indeed Tom did turn round, furtively, checking the mews. Josh ducked behind a car that stood outside one of the houses. And then Tom raised his hand and rang Diana’s doorbell and – Christ, there she was, dressed in a silky dressing gown, bare-footed, her cloud of hair loose around her shoulders, signalling to Tom to come in quickly, raising her face for a brief kiss.
And then she closed the door, leaving Josh with questions he would have given anything not to be asking, answers that he desperately shied away from even as he found them.
Chapter 45
It was talked about everywhere for those first few days, in drawing rooms and pubs, bedrooms and clubs, and even the bars and dining rooms of the House of Commons. In tones that moved from delighted to shocked and every variation between; it formed debates, inspired gossip, and at best, gave rise to much sober thought.