by Pam Jenoff
chapter THREE
I STEP OUT OF the black taxicab onto the pavement in front of the Ambassador’s Chelsea residence, following an older couple up the steps of the gated mansion. The fur-clad woman’s dress is ankle length, I note, feeling underdressed in my above-the-knee black sheath and thin wool coat. I never quite get the outfits right for these formal occasions, just one of the reasons I hate them. Inside, guests crowd the high-ceilinged foyer, queuing for the receiving line that snakes beneath the crystal chandelier toward the entrance of the great room.
“Toilet?” I ask as I hand my coat to the butler, who points toward a hallway off the back of the foyer. Moving away from the din of voices, I pass a series of expensive-yet-hideous oil paintings depicting a hunting party, hounds chasing, then in the next catching, then finally devouring a fox. Inside the bathroom, I lock the door and pull a tube of lipstick from my clutch evening purse, studying my reflection in the mirror as I reapply the dusky rose, the darker of the two shades I own. My hair, which I painstakingly blew dry, falls smooth and full over my shoulders. But my skin is pasty from the Washington winter, faint under-eye circles of exhaustion visible through the powder.
Stepping out of the toilet, I walk farther down the hall, away from the receiving line, and reach the kitchen, a swarming hive of staff buzzing around large, stainless-steel appliances, stirring pots, arranging hors d’oeuvres on plates. “Excuse me,” I say, swiping a glass of white wine from one of the trays before the puzzled waiter who is loading it can object. Continuing swiftly through the kitchen, I enter a small library just off the back of the larger room where most of the gathering has assembled.
I half face one of the high oak bookshelves lining the walls, pretending to examine the tomes while studying the guests. It would have been helpful if Maureen told me the occasion for the party. Some sort of military delegation, I surmise. The guests, clustered in small groups, are predominantly male, a significant number in dress uniforms from countries I cannot identify. Their hair is mostly dark, their complexions swarthy. Middle Eastern or South Asian. I recall reading an article in The Economist about an arms deal among the United States, Britain, and Saudi Arabia; perhaps the gathering has something to do with that. We’ll do anything to get rid of that excess hardware from the Cold War, and someday it’s going to come back to haunt us.
“Ornithologist?” a voice behind me asks.
Startled, I spin around to face the man who spoke. “Excuse me?”
He gestures to the book I pulled from the shelf and I notice for the first time that it is an encyclopedia of birds. “I was wondering if that was your profession or hobby.”
Scottish, I think, trying to place his accent. “Neither actually.” I replace the book, studying the man. He is good-looking, I decide instantly. The thought is surprising; it usually takes a while for men to grow on me, and his tall, slim build bears no resemblance to the broad-shouldered athletic types I’ve preferred in recent years. His short brown hair, flecked with blond, flicks up stubbornly at the ends, as though it lost a good fight against a comb earlier. “Just an excuse to avoid mingling.”
“Me too.” He shifts his glass and a small plate to his left hand, then extends his right. “Sebastian Hodges.”
“Jordan Weiss.” He is close to forty, I guess (though I can’t tell on which side), measuring the crinkles at the corner of his deep green eyes as I shake his hand.
“Pig in a blanket?” Sebastian jiggles the plate slightly.
I look down and laugh. Only at an American diplomatic function would one find the miniature hot dogs, wrapped in puff pastry. “Actually, I will, thanks,” I reply, taking one and popping it in my mouth. The taste instantly takes me back to childhood backyard barbecues, Fourth of July parades down Main Street. “I flew in this morning and I haven’t eaten since.”
“I’m the same way when I travel. It’s the jet lag.” Sebastian takes a sip of white wine, then grimaces.
“Not good?” I raise my own glass, sniffing the wine in a way that I hope looks knowledgeable.
He shakes his head. “To be fair though, pigs in blanket are a really difficult pairing.” I laugh again, feeling my shoulders relax for the first time since my arrival. I take a small sip. It tastes, well, like wine. I have never developed a discerning palate. My first real exposure to wine was at Cambridge, remainder bottles purchased at Oddbins for two or three pounds, taken to dinner at Formal Hall or student parties where the invitations invariably asked guests to P.B.A.B. (“Please Bring A Bottle”). There were Wine Society functions, too, complete with tasting note sheets that never quite got filled in, spittoons that nobody used. Ten glasses or so later, I never could remember what I drank. After the first, it didn’t seem to matter much anyway. Since becoming a diplomat, I’ve had the chance to try many excellent wines, or so I’ve been told, but I can never tell the difference or remember the names.
“First trip to England?” Sebastian asks.
If only. I shake my head. “Actually I was a postgrad at Cambridge. Read history. But I haven’t been back in years.” I take another sip of wine, easing into the conversation.
“Cambridge? Well I won’t hold it against you. I was a linguist at All Souls.” All Souls is one of the Oxford colleges. Oxford and Cambridge grads almost always identify themselves by the college attended within the university, even years after the fact. In the States and other countries, I had gotten used to saying I went to Cambridge, but with the Brits it was all Magdalene (pronounced “Maudlin”) or Trinity or Saint John’s. The degrees might have come from the university, but the colleges were the lifeblood, the places where the students slept and ate and played. I had not known that at the start. I applied to Cambridge; Lords College was incidental because my fellowship was designated there. Within weeks, though, the college became my home. I simply could not imagine going anywhere else. “Though I suspect I was there many years before you,” Sebastian adds.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” I protest playfully. “I’m a good deal more mature than I look.” I finish my wine, then set the empty glass on the edge of the bookshelf.
“Indeed.” Sebastian’s gaze sweeps from my eyes downward, then back again, his expression deepening.
I feel a warm blush creeping upward from my neck. What am I doing? It is not like me to flirt with a complete stranger, especially not at a work function. Feeling the urge for another drink, I scan the room hopefully, but the bar is miles away, separated from me by a sea of guests. I turn back to Sebastian. “So what do you…”
“There you are!” a voice roars, cutting me off. I turn to see Maureen careening into the library. She has abandoned her usual pink for a fitted, low-cut black dress that would look trashy on anyone else but somehow works perfectly on her ample figure. “Trying to avoid me?” I shake my head, forcing a smile. Now that Maureen has found me, my time standing quietly in the library is over. “Howdy, Sebastian.” Maureen nods in his direction, then turns quickly back to me. “Come on, let me introduce you around.” Before I can respond, Maureen grabs my elbow and leads me away. I look back helplessly over my shoulder at Sebastian, who grins and winks.
“Maureen, who’s…” I begin.
But she pulls me through the crowd, not listening. “You skipped the receiving line,” she chides. “Don’t deny it. I saw you sneak in the back.”
I spot a waiter coming toward us, bearing a tray of white wine. “I wanted to slip in so I could observe…”
Maureen shoots me a cynical look. “Don’t give me that, Weiss. You don’t even have your assignment yet.” I consider arguing, then realize it is pointless. Instead, I manage to grab another glass of wine from the waiter as Maureen hurries me past.
As we make our way across the room, I scan the gathering once more. Scattered among the guests is a handful of diplomats, pale men in moderately priced American suits, feigning interest in their conversations while furtively canvassing the room to find more important people to corner.
“Ms. Martindale.
” An olive-skinned older man in a uniform, speaking with a Middle Eastern accent too thick to identify, steps into our path and grabs Mo’s arm.
“Excuse us, honey,” Maureen says, shaking him off, then flashing him her signature twenty-four-carat smile. “Two secs, okay?” Had it been anyone else but Mo, the man would have felt snubbed, but he steps back, mollified.
A minute later, I find myself standing in front of the Ambassador, trying to ignore the stares of those waiting in line to speak with him. “Mr. Ambassador, may I introduce Jordan Weiss?” Ambassador Raines is tall with an enormous stomach, and bald except for a ring of white hair surrounding his pear-shaped head. He is not, I know, a career diplomat. He made his money heading up a major defense company, donating handsomely in the last presidential election. Ambassadors at the major European posts are often wealthy political appointees, a fact that rankles the career Foreign Service officers to no end.
The Ambassador shakes my outstretched hand. “A pleasure. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”
“Thank you, sir.” I study his face, trying to discern the meaning behind his words. I prefer to keep my own name out of the headlines, maneuver behind the scenes, but Public Affairs has written some releases involving my work that have been picked up by the media. Is he referring to those, or has Mo told him something more?
“And this is my wife.” The Ambassador turns to the much younger woman beside him. He does not, I notice, use her name. The Ambassador’s wife is nearly as tall as he, but willowy, with flawless skin and perfect, shoulder-length blond hair. Her simple black silk dress, cut on the bias, screams couture. She wears no jewelry except for a diamond tennis bracelet that I am certain is worth more than my salary for a year. She is not, I decide, the Ambassador’s first wife.
“Charmed,” Mrs. Raines (I presume she did not keep her own name) says in a voice that suggests anything but. She does not extend her hand but takes me in with a sweeping glance, making me feel instantly short and frumpy.
“So Maureen tells me…” the Ambassador begins. I steal a glance in the mirror on the wall. Behind my own reflection I see the growing line of guests in the foyer. Among a sea of dark-haired men, a shock of wheat blond catches my eye. The familiar color sends a jolt of electricity through me. There is only one man I have ever known with hair that particular shade. But it cannot possibly be.
“Ms. Weiss?” the Ambassador asks.
I force my eyes from the mirror. There had been a question, I realize, taking in the expectant looks around me, but I have no idea what it was. “I-I’m sorry,” I manage.
“The Ambassador was asking…” Maureen begins, prompting. My eyes dart back to the mirror. The blond man turns slightly, revealing his profile. At the sight of his wide jaw, I gasp.
“Excuse me.” I spin and start in the direction of the foyer, only faintly aware of the low murmurs behind me. I shoulder my way through the crowd, wine sloshing over the edge of my glass. “Sorry!” I cry, feeling someone’s foot beneath my own. Finally I reach the foyer and scan the crowd, but I do not see the blond man.
I look back into the great room, trying to ignore the quizzical expressions of the guests I trampled, then turn toward the hallway that leads to the kitchen, searching. Where is he? My head snaps in the direction of the front door, but my view is obscured by the reception line. Pushing my way through the waiting guests, I run out onto the porch, barreling down the stairs and through the gate. I reach the street, then look quickly in both directions. At the corner, a taxi turns and disappears.
The blond man is gone.
I stand motionless, my heart pounding. A coincidence, I think. A by-product of my jet-lagged imagination. But there is only one man I know who looks anything like that. It was Chris Bannister, I am sure of it. What is he doing here? Last I heard, he was reporting overseas for one of the papers, trying to outrun the same ghosts as me. There is no reason for him to be in London, much less at a diplomatic reception.
A hand touches my shoulder and I turn, expecting to find an angry Maureen. But it is Sebastian, his brow furrowed with concern. “I saw you rush out. Are you okay?”
I look from Sebastian to the now-empty wineglass in my hand, then back again, uncertain how to answer. Tears fill my eyes. I am most definitely not all right. But I will not break down, not in front of a man I barely know. Without speaking, I turn and run across the street, into a small park that sits opposite the Ambassador’s residence.
“Hey!” Sebastian runs after me, catching me easily with his long strides. He takes me by the shoulders and turns me gently but firmly to face him. “Wait a minute.” Breathing hard, he leads me to a bench by the side of the path and sits down. I eye the taxi stand at the corner and, for a second, consider running to it. “I was a sprinter at school,” Sebastian says. “But I’m completely knackered. Please don’t make me chase you again.” Reluctantly, I drop to the bench beside him. “Now what is it?” he asks, prying the wineglass gently from my fingers and tossing it into the bushes behind us. “What made you so upset?”
I do not answer. My stomach, nearly empty except for the wine, turns. I lean back, gazing upward at the trees. Through the sparse branches, the sky is clear and filled with stars, the moon a bright crescent. Then I turn to Sebastian, studying his face uncertainly. I just met him; I hardly know him at all. Yet there is something in his eyes that makes me want to trust him. “I thought I saw someone I knew.”
“Must have been quite a someone,” he remarks.
“I have a lot of memories here,” I reply simply, then look away again. A sharp breeze blows through the park. I shiver, remembering the coat I left inside. I cannot go back for it, not now.
I feel something on my shoulders and turn to find that Sebastian has taken off his suit jacket and slipped it around me. “Thank you,” I manage, my voice barely a whisper. He does not reply but looks into my eyes. Something deep inside me stirs, breaks open. I lean forward, seized with the urge to tell him everything, why I have come back, why it hurts so much to be here again. “It’s just that…” I falter. His face is just inches from mine now, his breath warm on my forehead. Impulsively, I tilt my head upward and brush my lips against his. He hesitates for a second, surprised, then kisses me back, hard and fast. I reach up and clasp his shoulders, drawing him close, grateful to escape from thoughts and explanation. His hand finds the back of my neck, mouth parting.
A car horn blares from the street and I pull back. “I’m sorry,” I say quickly, facing away.
“I’m not,” he replies and I can almost feel his smile.
I stare hard at the ground, willing myself to breathe normally. Then I remember the Ambassador’s shocked expression, the murmur of the other guests as I ran away so abruptly. “Oh God, I’ve really done it, haven’t I? Ten hours in the country and I’ve managed to offend the Ambassador…”
“And the likely next secretary of defense.” I raise an eyebrow in surprise. “He’s considered to be the President’s top choice since Robinson got caught in that spending scandal. You didn’t know?” I shake my head. I keep up on the world affairs required for my job, but political speculation, the media all but making odds on cabinet appointees like horses at the Preakness, was one of the things I liked least about Washington.
“Great, so I humiliated myself in front of a future cabinet member and the entire diplomatic community.”
Sebastian chuckles. “I daresay you gave everyone something interesting to talk about, and for that they should be grateful. But I heard Maureen tell the Ambassador and his wife that you weren’t feeling well, so all should be forgiven, if not forgotten.”
Except by Maureen, who forgives nothing and forgets less. Still my shoulders sag with relief. “Well, at least I’m spared having to go back in there.”
“True. And you’ll spare me the same if you let me take you home. My car is just around the corner.”
I hesitate, my insides aching. I desperately want to accept. The last thing I want is to be alone right now. B
ut I know if I let him drive me home I won’t be able to let him go. “Thank you, but that’s not necessary.” I stand, handing Sebastian’s coat back to him. “Good night.” Before he can answer, I turn and walk quickly toward the taxi stand at the corner, half hoping that he will chase after me again. But when I close the car door and look back into the park, he is gone.
As the taxi starts forward, I sink back in the seat, trembling. What just happened? I replay the moment in the park in my mind, heat rising in me as I remember Sebastian’s lips, full and warm on mine. I practically attacked him, I realize, mortified. It doesn’t matter; I’ll probably never see him again. A pang of regret shoots through me. The kiss left me wanting more.
As we drive through the darkened streets, my thoughts return to the blond man. Could it really have been Chris? He, too, fled after Jared’s death, taking assignments as far away and fast as he could get them. He swore he was never coming back. But then again, so had I.
Ten minutes later, the taxi pulls up in front of my flat. As I pay the driver and climb out of the cab, my body sags with exhaustion. A good night’s sleep, I think as I climb the steps wearily. Maybe a bath first, if I can stay awake that long.
I put the key in the lock. Then something on the ground catches my eye. I look down. Wedged in the crack underneath the door is a small cream-colored envelope.
I hesitate, uneasiness rising inside me. I kneel, lifting the envelope and turning it over as I straighten. Then I freeze. My name is handwritten on the front, the curved, familiar script reaching out like a long-forgotten dream. My heart races. Even without opening it, I know.
The envelope is from Chris Bannister.