‘I can report to the Foreign Office if necessary about his suitability to work … not about other issues. My job is not to investigate crimes.’ And then he went on talking about what he could do, how he could explore the motivation for addiction, for unhappiness, but Laura was not really listening. She was wondering whether he could understand a crime that was not an overload of private longing. Would he find it inexplicable, or merely uninteresting, that a man might be driven by a political rather than a sexual dream?
Then he was asking for more details of Edward’s breakdown and Laura explained to him that the drinking had been going on for so long, nothing remarkable in that, everyone drank in Washington, the long evenings were fuelled by drink, but it was as though, after Joe died, Edward had lost the brakes, and sometimes, once or twice, the drunkenness had spiralled into violence. Laura said a little about one night when she had been called by the police and heard that Edward and a young man had been fighting on the steps of a Washington hotel. The young man was a mild, intellectual type from the State Department; how he and Edward could have come to blows she still did not understand. Perhaps, she said to Lvov without conviction, it had merely been lost footing, one falling against another while going drunkenly downstairs.
‘And you, what about the effects on you, tell me …’
That question came as a shock, and Laura shifted in her chair. ‘It was so hard – it’s so—’ She came to a halt, and Lvov allowed a silence to settle.
Ever since the day when she had alerted Alex to her fears, Laura had felt unanchored, the waters around her too unpredictable. She had never spoken even to Edward about what she had done; and sometimes she was filled with a nebulous hope that if it was never said, it had not happened. Perhaps Joe had never known about their secrets, perhaps his death had been an accident, perhaps she could breathe freely again. And then she would wake again to a morning when all the breath was crushed out of her by guilt. Was it that rocking of guilt and hope that left Edward so unmoored?
As those thoughts ran through her, she felt as though she was about to speak. How seductive were the promises of the psychoanalyst, she saw now – here, all would be confidential; here, nothing would leave the room; here, maybe she could lay down the armour for an instant. ‘I’ve always known he is under strain – but it was …’ But as she began, a sensation almost like falling came over her and she realised why the room felt familiar to her.
With a rush, an old memory was coming back, taking her in its grip: there had been a room, not this one, but similar, a room made for listening. And filled with a similar presence, a doctor she was supposed to talk to, to tell why she was being so difficult, why she would not eat. She was thirteen, fourteen maybe, in Stairbridge, the sounds through the windows were the sounds of Main Street in summer 1934, and the secret she was about to tell was so great she would not tell it, she would never tell it, it had to remain in the place where the lies were kept, where the violence was hidden. Offered a chance to break it open, she did then as she would do now, rising and shaking her head, saying she must go, that she was fine, but now she was in control, she was an adult, she was promising Lvov that Edward would be in touch shortly, she could shift off the danger and free herself from the terrible temptation of honesty by walking away and into Marylebone High Street, walking away from the possibility of opening the door to where all the secrets lay, and there was that little leather shop she had heard about across the street which sold the softest pumps … she went in, tried on a pair, saw herself in the mirror, well dressed, quiet, unremarkable.
She was wearing the same outfit, a grey dress with white collar, that she had worn when she had gone to see Edward’s superior at the embassy in Washington. That had been the day after Edward had lost control. The day when she knew something had to be done, when Edward realised she had hidden the drink in the house, when he had started to smash up the kitchen and the living room, looking for it, when she had tried to hold him back and fallen against a coffee table. This grey dress with its high neck and long sleeves had been useful to hide the long bruise on her upper arm; in it she looked respectable and well kempt, despite the hopelessness in her face.