Faithless

by Tony Walker

  "I really loved her." The alcohol was having an effect. Ailsa listened. He said, "I really, really loved her. But it's kind of got worn away. I don't know why I'm telling you this."

  "Because I'm a stranger?"

  He shrugged. "Her depression and moods make it hard. She just explodes for no reason. I walk on eggshells all the time."

  "She must be tired with the twins."

  "I know."

  "Does she have family and friends in London? For support."

  "Not really. Our families are miles away."

  "Well then it's very hard for her."

  "I know - of course."

  She put her hand on his. He let it lay there. "You're very sweet John. All mixed up and confused but quite good-looking too. Women like that recipe. They think they can fix you."

  "And there's the lack of sex," said John.

  She sat back. "Ah, that can be a problem." She took a drink of her gin. "We don't do sex, Duncan and I. Well he gets his birthday present and if he's not a total wanker, something at Christmas, but mostly he is a total wanker, so it's a once a year thing."

  "What does he think about that?" he said.

  "I've never asked him. Ah I see you're feeling sorry for him."

  "Not really."

  "My mother told me about men. She said if you don't satisfy them they'll look elsewhere – blah blah blah. I know the spiel. I've heard it. I ignore it."

  "I wasn't going to say that."

  "So have you had an affair?" she said. "For the sex?"

  "That's a personal question. I wouldn't ask you it. But no, of course not."

  "My husband is a bastard and I'd be justified if I did fuck someone else."

  "So why did you marry him?"

  "I've known him for ever. Our families moved in similar circles. They looked down on us for being trade but they liked our money. My father owns a distillery. His owns huge swathes of Sutherland. A match made in heaven. He was a young handsome Naval officer with a promising career. It seemed to be predestined. It was just one of those things."

  "Why is he a bastard?"

  "Because he's an unfeeling narcissist who shags anyone he can persuade into bed with his forked serpent's tongue. He has no thought for anyone but himself. He's vain, shallow, and cruel. He's an alcoholic – a functioning one though. His superiors love him because he knows how to say the right thing and make the right impression even though I don't think he does any real work. Also he doesn't want children and my body clock is ticking away while I'm still shackled to him. There's more but that's enough to be going on with don't you think?"

  "So the obvious question?"

  "Why am I still with him?"

  Ailsa caught the waiter's eye and ordered a drink each for them, even though she hadn't asked John whether he wanted one.

  "Why am I still with him?" she repeated. She shook her head. She was drunker now. Her eyes ethereal. For the first time John felt a stir of desire as he looked at her. He could see why men would want her. "Fucked if I know," she said. Then she shook her head again. "Security? Money? Nothing admirable. He tells me he can't live without me and then goes off and fucks secretaries and fashion models. You know he said he'd kill himself if I left him?"

  "Do you believe him?"

  "I don't know." She drank her gin and tonic in one gulp. "So we're both in unhappy marriages - probably both fools. I'm drunk."

  "Yes, you are."

  She stood up suddenly. "I need to go to bed. Come on."

  "I'm not going to bed with you," he said.

  "Very presumptuous. You should be so lucky."

  "You've already said that."

  "Come on. I'm tired."

  They made their way upstairs. John realised he was also slightly drunk, but not as much as Ailsa. He saw her to her door. She fumbled with the key. "Oh you do it," she said. He took the key and unlocked the door. "Eh viola."

  She giggled. "You're next door."

  "I know."

  "Don't come knocking on my door in the middle of the night Mr Gilroy."

  "You should be so lucky," he winked. "Good night."

  Still she lingered, her back against the edge of the door. "I like you, you know," she said. "I didn't think I would."

  He knew he should leave right then. But he didn't.

  She stood there. "You could," she said.

  "Could what?"

  "Knock."

  "Ah."

  "I might let you in. Probably would in fact."

  "I'm married."

  "But you fancy me."

  "You're very attractive, and you know it, which is infuriating."

  She laughed. "I knew you fancied me. So it's good night then?" She mocked him.

  He still lingered.

  She moved towards him. "No one would know."

  "I'd know," he said but still didn't move. "I've got to go," he said.

  "Go on then."

  He had missed the touch of a woman. It was so long since he touched female flesh. The drink eroded his morals. Standing there, she smiled a crooked smile at him. He took in her body - her hips, the swelling of her breasts. And he wanted her. She was still grinning, still half joking, but then as he stared, she knew she had him, and her eyes went smoky and lustful. She was wild as a Maenad. He reached forward and kissed her. Her mouth opened to receive his kiss. His right hand ran up through her blonde hair. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him. He felt her breasts against his chest. His hands went up to them. His lust set him on fire and swept him away like lava. He smelled her. He knew she wanted him too, but he pulled back.

  "What?" she said.

  "I shouldn't have done that."

  She shrugged and stepped away, as if she didn't care. He studied her to try and see whether she was offended. "It doesn't mean anything," she said. "Don't worry."

  "I've never been unfaithful to her."

  "For me it would just be sex. No big deal. I thought you were like all the other men. It's nice you're not. She's lucky."

  "I'm sorry too. I really do like you. There's something about you that's honest."

  "Under my dishonesty?" She laughed. He couldn't tell if she was embarrassed. She shrugged. "It's nothing personal. I just like sex."

  He said awkwardly. "I'd better go to bed."

  "Me too." Just as she turned, she halted and then said, "We'd better be careful around each other."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Nothing big, it's just..."

  He should have gone. He should have left her but he wanted to hear. "What?" he said.

  "I said it was nothing personal. But it felt different. Maybe there's a chemistry... Maybe? I don't know if I believe in that. It just felt different."

  "I don't know either."

  She laughed at herself. "I say stupid things when I'm drunk. It's just that chemical reactions can have unwanted consequences."

  In the morning, he went down and ate his breakfast alone. They were due to get a taxi at 9:30 for the airport. He went to the desk and paid the bill with his Office credit card. He waited at the hotel door, wondering whether he was going to have to knock at Ailsa's room in case she'd slept in. The he saw her coming down the stairs, dragging her bag behind her, bumping it on each step. She didn't look up at him until she was beside the desk.

  "Have you paid?"

  "Yes. You missed breakfast."

  "I've got a hangover. Not hungry."

  "The taxi's outside."

  "Fine."

  The taxi driver took her case and put it in the boot. She gave the driver one of her smiles and got in the back seat. John got in the front. Ailsa said nothing all the way to the airport and John was left to pass the time by talking to the taxi driver who was a Somali and whose knowledge of English was limited to a few phrases about Manchester United. On the plane, sitting beside each other as they waited for take off John said, "Can we talk?"

  Ailsa looked at him properly for the first time that day. "Why?"

  "Last night."

 
; "We had too much to drink. That's it."

  Around fifteen minutes later, above the clouds, the sun shone in through the aircraft window, catching the highlights in her hair. She had pulled on her sunglasses but was asleep, breathing lightly.

  At Heathrow, once they were through Customs, she said goodbye without looking at him and went off to catch a taxi. He stood and watched her go as she passed out of the airport and through the automatic doors. He watched her hail a taxi, pulling her bag behind her. He got the Piccadilly Line Tube and changed at Leicester Square.

  At Woodside Park Tube Station he bought some flowers for Karen and walked with them in his right hand, his holdall slung over his left shoulder, along the straight tree lined road that led from the station towards their house.

  Angie was in the house when he arrived. She and Karen had the twins one apiece on their knees. They were all watching Roland Rat. As he came into the room, brandishing his flowers like a shield, Angie said, "Oh, flowers. He must be feeling guilty Karen."

  Karen looked over at them. "Carnations? You know I hate carnations."

  John grimaced. "Sorry, I forgot. I can go and get some others."

  "Give them to Angie. She might like them."

  June 1985, London: Over the next week John attended meetings with K3 and SOV/OPS and the SIS targeting and counter-intelligence officer TCI/3 in Century House. The new K4 officer dealing with the Embassy was John's friend Rob and he was indoctrinated into Vinogradov case so that he could feed in any targeting information from the surveillance and intercept take. K3 decided that John would be allowed to work the case supervised by Ailsa.

  They found themselves in the office at Gower Street one evening when nearly everyone else had gone home. They had never mentioned the kiss since they returned from Copenhagen. Ailsa had initially avoided him, he thought, but now things were back as they were before the trip. It was a beautiful summer evening and Ailsa suggested that they walk and talk. "Duncan's away at some NATO thing in Brussels so I don't have to rush home," she said.

  "I can't be too late," said John, "but I'll phone Karen to let her know I won't be home on time."

  "I'll meet you outside."

  When he came down after phoning she said, "All ok?"

  He nodded. "As much as it was going to be. I said I'd be back by nine."

  They stood on the junction of Euston Road and Gower Street. "This isn't very inspiring scenery." She hailed a cab and told the driver to take them to The Mall. They got out near Admiralty Arch and walked down into St James' Park past the joggers and couples sitting on benches and children feeding ducks and swans with breadcrumbs.

  "Do you want an ice cream?" she asked.

  "No, but you feel free."

  She bought an ice cream cone and they strolled along by the lake enjoying the late sun.

  "You're technically working for me," she said. "Think that'll be a problem?"

  "I have no problem having a woman for a boss."

  "Good," she said. "Because I'm strict."

  She was being flirty. He smiled but said nothing.

  "So, Vinogradov - how are we going to do it?" she said.

  "Well from what we know, he has no hobbies. He doesn't jog. He doesn't watch birds. He doesn't collect single malts. He's not religious, even though he went to church a couple of times in Copenhagen. A bit tricky really." he said.

  "I'll find a way. I'm a mistress of deviousness," she said.

  "And what cover are you going to use?"

  "I don't know. Isobel Parker -journalist. I have all the documents for that one."

  "Don't you get a bit bored of being a journalist?" he said.

  "Well I do rather. I could be Isobel Parker – show-jumper. I could turn up in jodhpurs. Like the picture on that Jilly Cooper book that's on all the book-stands at the moment. What is it Riders? The sexy tale of women in tight trousers who love to squeeze powerful muscled beasts between their thighs."

  "It's certainly a look that might interest him. I think of you like someone out of that kind of book, you know."

  She laughed out loud. "Have you read it? I thought of you as more a Dostoyevsky kind of guy."

  "No, I haven't read it. I just imagine what it's like."

  "You should try that with all books. It would save you a tremendous amount of time. Then you could pontificate about things you know nothing about with a great air of authority." She licked her ice cream and with a twinkle in her eye said, "Ah sorry, I forgot - you already do."

  He stopped walking. "Do you really think that?"

  She gently punched his arm. "I was teasing you. I don't know if you've heard of a thing called a sense of humour? I believe you can get them in Harrods."

  "I never shop there."

  "That would explain a lot."

  They had walked along St James' Park and were now about to cross the Mall and walk into Green Park. He watched out for traffic. "I once saw the Queen Mother here going past in a car," he said.

  "I hope you waved."

  "No. She did though."

  "Very unpatriotic of you not to respond. Anyway tell me why you thought I was a Jilly Cooper character?"

  It was still hot despite the hour. People were sitting in groups on the grass on either side of the path through Green Park.

  "I don't know - a spoiled posh girl. I bet you go to lots of polo matches and Henley every year."

  "We did when I was growing up. But really you don't know anything about me. I could be a secret revolutionary. Just like Philby and Blunt. They were upper class."

  They crossed Piccadilly and walked up towards Curzon Street House. He said, "I want to show you a little garden where I used to go to eat my sandwiches."

  "What an inspiring image. Junior secret policeman eats sandwiches in a touchingly beautiful garden."

  "Are you always sarcastic?"

  "Yes. Why? Did you mistake me for someone caring?" She smiled and looked carefully at him as they walked along. She had to shield her face from the slanting sun so she could see him properly.

  "I think you're a crab," he said suddenly.

  "Intriguing. You want me to ask you why you think that?"

  He shrugged. "It doesn't matter."

  She suddenly linked her arm through his and they continued to walk along. "Don't sulk. It's unbecoming. Anyway, why am I a crab?"

  "Hard shell. Soft interior."

  She laughed. "Oh, you're good. Did you read that in a magazine?"

  He laughed at himself. "In fact yes."

  She mimicked wide-eyed wonder and said in an American accent. "My sign is Cancer. What's yours Johnnie?"

  "Shut up, you teasing cow. Anyway here's the garden."

  They had walked through a small passage past a primary school that was housed in a dignified old building that looked like a private, though very grand, house. Ahead of them was the public garden with its trees and flowers and wooden benches.

  "Yes," she said. "Mount Street Gardens. I love it here. My father lives just around the corner."

  "I thought he lived in Inverness."

  "This is his London house. Just off South Audley Street."

  "Is he in?" He was joking.

  "Let's go and see." She was serious.

  "I don't want to meet your dad."

  "Come on." Her arm was still linked through his and she pulled him through the gardens past the American Church and then left into a dead end street. A pretty little house stood at the end of it. The sun had gone down and though it was light outside, the interior of the house was gloomy. There was a light on.

  "Really, I don't want to meet your father," said John. He unlinked his arm, feeling guilty that he enjoyed the touch of her.

  "No, on second thoughts, I don't want to see him either. He'll be with his current woman Alegra. She's an Italian model - younger than me. Alegra, I ask you. Sounds like a fucking car."

  "Isn't he married to your mother still?"

  "Yes, but she's in Scotland. She knows of course. She stays with him for the
big house in Morayshire and the money and the littler house in Monaco and the flat in Los Angeles and did I say the money?

  "I'm sorry," he said.

  She was angry. "What are you sorry for?" She looked puzzled. John realised she wasn't angry at him. She looked away. "And he can't even claim he's unfaithful for love." She looked back at John. "I think if you are unfaithful because you've fallen in love, that somehow makes it different. What do you think?"

  He stared at her. In the slanting light of the evening sun, she was blindingly beautiful but, he realised, broken. Tenderness for her vulnerability welled up in him. Finally he said, "I think falling in love's a very dangerous thing."

  She nodded. "I never have. You'd better go. Time's up."

  She looked wistful and sad, standing with her adulterous father's house behind her like a symbol. Her sadness dissolved him and he knew if he stayed there would be no turning back. After she was out of sight, all the way home she was in his head. Even though he didn't want her to be.

  When John got home the sun had gone down. The house was quiet. He stepped into the living room and heard the hiss of the gas fire and felt its warmth. He saw Karen had put up an anti-war poster - it had Ronald Reagan carrying Margaret Thatcher as if in a movie. It said "She promised to follow him to the end of the earth; he promised to organise it!" The twins were crawling around and they recognised him with beams of delight. Eilidh pulled herself up on the sofa and made a sound of welcome. He felt his heart melt at the sight of her soft face and blonde curls. Morag rolled over on her back to see him better. He knelt and tickled her under the chin prompting a gurgle of delight. Then he tousled the red fuzz on her head to her obvious annoyance.

  "Where's your mummy girls?" he said. They continued to smile. He could see the door to the bedroom was open. He felt a flash of fear. That was always there, on the edge of thought most nights he came home, but ever present.

  "Karen?" he called through. There was no answer. Louder this time he shouted, "Karen!" and he ran, the babies watching his rapid passage with silent wonder. "Karen!" and there she was sitting on her bed reading a book. She had her Walkman on. "Karen what are you doing?"

  She pulled out her earphones. "Reading Middlemarch and listening to Heart of Glass."