The Doll’s House (9 page)

‘You're not just saying this to hurt me?'

‘You must think I'm a complete shit. I wouldn't do a thing like that. It's true. I've been seeing someone for a while now. I may as well tell you, she's pregnant.'

‘Oh my God. That's charming!' She got up and stared down at him. ‘That's really charming.'

‘I think so,' he answered. ‘I think it's wonderful, if you want to know. And she doesn't expect me to marry her, it's not like that. She'll have the baby and we'll live together if you want to make things awkward. She doesn't care and I don't either. We'll get married in the end anyway.'

‘You must really hate me to do it like this,' Rosa said. ‘I suppose that's what jealousy does to people.'

He reddened angrily. ‘I'm not jealous – I just wanted a wife, not a fucking Foreign Office mandarin. But I don't expect you to believe that. And I don't give a damn whether you do or not.'

‘Who is this woman?' Rosa couldn't help herself.

One of their friends, a colleague at the Bank? How could she have been so blind, such a fool, turning herself inside out while he was cheating on her, making her career the excuse …?

‘No-one you know,' he answered. ‘She's a financial journalist. She came to the office for an interview for
The FT
and I asked her out to lunch. It just happened, that's all. She's quite a high-powered lady in the City. But she's ready to give up
her
job.'

‘Good for her. I think I'm going to be sick.'

Tears spilled down her cheeks. He didn't move.

He said, ‘You blew it, Rosa. We had everything going for us, but you blew it. So don't blame it on her. If we'd been happy I wouldn't have looked at her. Or any other woman. I've packed a bag. I'll move out tonight. I think it's best to cut short the aggro, don't you?'

‘Yes, for Christ's sake, just go.' She turned her back to him and said, ‘I'm going to Brussels as Second Secretary. I've been trying to get up the nerve to tell you for the last six weeks. It doesn't matter now. You can have your divorce. The quicker the better. I'll ring my solicitor in the morning.'

‘Thanks,' she heard him say. ‘It wouldn't do your career much good to have a messy fight. I thought you'd see it that way.'

The door closed. She didn't move. She heard his footsteps in their bedroom above. She heard him come down the stairs, and then the slam of the front door. His car starting up outside. The noise of the engine dying away so quickly.

The room was very quiet. The whole house was quiet. They had no pets, not even a cat. An independent career couple without ties. Then suddenly it wasn't quiet any more. She could hear every creak in the woodwork, a murmur in the water pipes. She realized she was shivering with cold. The central heating came on in the evening; she and James insisted on a warm house. But she was freezing. She went into the kitchen. It was gleaming white, a showpiece full of labour-saving gadgets. They hadn't had a dinner party for months. She'd been too busy. The dining room was hardly ever used.

‘Coffee, hot coffee,' she said out loud. ‘Pull yourself together. It's not the end of the world. You've been miserable as hell. So what are you crying about, you bloody fool?'

She switched on the percolator and sat down at the table to wait. She drank the coffee slowly. She didn't feel any warmer. Five years and they were part of the divorce statistics. Everything they'd shared, all the hopes and enthusiasms when they first fell in love had ended in that decisive slam of the front door as her husband walked out to someone else.

She was twenty-nine, on the brink of a brilliant career which could end with a top Embassy. So her marriage had failed. It was a casualty along the way she'd chosen. James had asked the impossible. Give it all up and settle down to a domestic life with shopping at Marks & Spencer and taking her children to school as the highlight of her day.

Rosa got up, washed the coffee mug, replaced it on the shelf with all the others. It was his fault for wanting her to live in his shadow, waste her intelligence and talents. A double first at Oxford, rapid promotion in a job that fascinated her. And she was expected to throw it all away.

She went upstairs to their room. There was no sign of his leaving. No cupboards gaping, no half-open drawers. It was as if he had never shared it with her. She ran a hot bath and lay soaking in it, trying to think of Brussels and the challenge ahead of her. Concentration was her forte; she could shut out anything and beam in on her subject to the exclusion of everything else. But it didn't work. Was he right, was I really as selfish as he said …? Did I love him? God knows in the beginning, yes, yes, I was crazy about him. But not for a long time. You can't love someone if they make you feel guilty. You end up by hating them. As he hates me. Because I'd spoiled it all.

She got out, dried herself and got into the cool bed. Her head was aching and she felt exhausted. Rosa Bennet, the great success, the rising star. ‘God!' she mumbled, slowly drifting into sleep. ‘God! What a terrible failure …'

Air Marshal Sir Peter Jefford left his desk and came to meet her. He was a tall, thin man with greying hair and a neat moustache, impeccably dressed in the dark suit and discreet tie of a senior Civil Servant.

He had been head of Intelligence in the Foreign Office for three years. He was not a warm person, but he took Rosa's hand and pressed it sympathetically.

‘Come and sit down,' he said.

She was one of Hugh Chapman's protégés, and Hugh only picked out the best. She'd caught his attention from the start by her top marks in the Foreign Office exam, and he'd recommended her to Jefford. A stint with ‘C' Section would be very useful, and he felt she would make a significant contribution. Jefford had monitored her progress in the last weeks.

She had mastered the basic training of gathering information very quickly, and she had a natural instinct for what was relevant. And a phenomenal memory. Her reports were excellent. She was a quick pupil, dedicated in her attitude, emotionally stable, a woman other women accepted because she was no man-eater. And attractive to men. Good company, charming and easy to talk to. Tailor-made for Brussels.

‘I got your memo,' he said. ‘I'm so sorry.'

‘Thank you, Sir Peter. I felt you should know as soon as it happened. It's very kind of you to see me, it wasn't really necessary. I know how busy you are.'

She said all the right things, and he liked her modesty.

‘And it's definite? Your husband won't change his mind?'

‘Very definite,' Rosa answered. ‘I had a letter from his solicitors this morning.'

She sounded very calm, but she looked pale, and there were signs of strain around the eyes. Sir Hugh had briefed him about the husband before he sent for her. A difficult customer with a chip on his shoulder about his wife's career. She'd be better off without him.

He said kindly, ‘It must have been a terrible shock to you. You'd no idea it was going to happen?'

She shook her head. ‘None at all. We hadn't been getting on well for some time. He wanted a family, I wanted to wait. He didn't like me working, that was the real trouble. But I know marriages go through bad patches and I thought it'd work out. I was just gearing myself up to tell him I was going to Brussels on the night he left me.'

‘And is that why he left?'

‘No. I never got a chance to mention it till afterwards. He just said he'd met someone else and wanted a divorce.'

Peter Jefford noticed her hands clenching as she spoke. She had taken off her wedding ring.

‘She's pregnant,' she said.

He paused for a moment. ‘How very untidy. I'm sorry this has happened to you. Would you like a cup of tea? Vera will bring us some.'

‘No thank you. Would you mind if I smoked?'

There was a box on his desk. He offered it.

‘I thought you didn't smoke. No, of course, I don't mind.'

‘I've taken it up again,' she explained. ‘Just temporarily.'

He leaned back in his chair. ‘It's an old story, I'm afraid. It's usually the other way round. You know, the wives get bored, they don't like the travelling, or the new posting … It's understandable but it doesn't make our job any easier. So what are you going to do?'

‘I'll give him a quick divorce,' she answered. ‘I don't want to be vindictive, especially as there's a child on the way.'

‘That's a very generous attitude,' he remarked. ‘And I'm sure it's right. Any financial problems?'

‘No, no problems. James made the house over to me when we got married. I've got a small income from my father's estate and my salary. I don't want alimony or anything like that. After all, it was mostly my fault.'

She put the cigarette out. It was stale. The box had been filled a long time ago and forgotten.

‘I don't think you should blame yourself,' he said. ‘His attitude seems to have been most unreasonable. I hope you'll put the whole thing behind you as quickly as possible.'

‘I'll try,' she answered. ‘Thank God, I've got my work.'

He leaned towards her across the desk. ‘How long will it take you to sort out the details?'

‘Not long; neither of us wants a fight. I'm meeting my solicitor at the end of the week. Would it be possible to postpone going to Brussels for … say ten days … just till everything's tied up?'

‘Yes, of course it would. But in fact,' he favoured her with an appraising stare. ‘In fact I wanted to talk to you about that. Nothing to do with this domestic business, something most unusual has come up. Sure you won't join me in a cup of tea?'

Rosa said quickly, ‘What is it? Don't you want me to go to Brussels?'

He shook his head. ‘No, it's just that we've got a problem and I think you might be just the person to help solve it. Now, why don't you join me for lunch? There's someone I'd like you to meet. We'll go to my club. You know Boodle's, don't you? The food's excellent.'

‘Sir Peter,' Rosa stood up, ‘just tell me one thing. It's not my divorce, is it? I'm not being sidetracked?'

‘Good God,' he laughed. ‘If divorce was a bar to promotion we'd have no-one in the Service but cleaners! Certainly not! Actually, I think it'll be an advantage. One o'clock at Boodle's, ladies' annexe. And don't worry. This could be more interesting than Brussels. If you think you can do it.'

‘Now,' Harry Oakham said, ‘I'd like to introduce the new administrative staff.'

They were all gathered in the handsome Great Hall; the chef, the under-chef, the housekeeper, the restaurant manager, the receptionists, the old man who looked after maintenance. The student waiters, mostly Italian, with a few earnest Germans, even the cleaners, had been asked to come in and hear what the new general manager had to say.

Everything must be open, no hole-and-corner stuff that might cause comment among the experienced members of staff.

He asked Hermann Rilke to step forward.

‘This is Mr Brandt, our financial auditor.'

Hermann nodded at the audience, managing a stiff smile. Harry went on, ‘I know it's unusual to have someone actually living in close proximity, but as you know we're owned by a Swiss consortium and that's how they like to do things. Mr and Mrs Brandt have come over from Zurich to join us.'

He turned slightly towards Monika, who played her part, and smiled pleasantly. It had amused Oakham to bracket them as husband and wife. Rilke didn't think it funny. Monika did.

‘An assistant auditor, Mr Daniels, is expected in the next few days. He'll be living with Mr and Mrs Brandt in Croft Lodge.'

Harry injected a little light-hearted joke. ‘Two auditors to see we get things right – we've got to watch our profit margins – or we'll be in trouble! But that's how it's done in Switzerland. Sergeant Stevenson and his two lads are old friends of mine from the Marines. They'll help you with any maintenance problems, look after the grounds and be general dogsbodies around the place. We plan to start water skiing and wind surfing on the lake, and they'll take care of clients who are interested.

‘I want to emphasize that if anyone has any problems, come to me, or Mr Pollock, who you all know by now.'

He gestured towards Jan. Jan was good with people; Harry sensed that the young staff liked him. Harry smiled at the faces turned towards him.

‘I'd like to say how well everyone has co-operated with us in the takeover of the hotel. We were sorry to lose John Ford and Michael Roberts, but they know they're always welcome to come back and see us. And I'd particularly like to thank all of you who've made my job so easy.

‘John and Michael were a hard act to follow. We couldn't have done it without your help. This is a great hotel and we're all committed to keeping its standards and reputation as high is it was before the change-over. We're going to build on success. And that means a share in the profits for everyone who works here. That's another thing the Swiss are keen on: incentive. Mr Brandt is going to establish a bonus system based on the annual turnover and profit. So you'll be working for yourselves too. Now, we'll be starting a new season tomorrow, and I want it to be the best. Thanks for listening to me. Good night and see you in the morning.'

There was a clatter of applause. He knew how to handle people. Jan watched him pausing for a moment like an actor, immaculate in his dark jacket and striped trousers, the distinguished-looking hotel manager giving a pep talk to his staff.

Rilke grunted. He wasn't a man who gave other men praise. Or enjoyed seeing them centre stage. But Oakham was right to integrate them publicly.

They had taken over Croft Lodge, a small house on the estate, and Rilke had been given a free hand to set up his own special unit on the upper floor. He'd enjoyed doing that. He was impatient for his work to begin.