The Avenue of the Dead (6 page)

He went downstairs to the living-room, which his wife insisted on calling the study, to the confusion of his fellow Americans. It was a pleasant, homely room, warm with russet browns and olive green. There was a fine Victorian painting of a Highland landscape over the fireplace; Elizabeth had given it to him as a wedding present. There was a large studio portrait of them on their wedding day, silver-framed and dominating his desk. He wished he could have thrown it on the fire. A vase of flowers and foliage was arranged on the coffee table – she was clever with flowers. He had been so proud of everything she did, the way she arranged the house, her perfectionism about her looks and her clothes. But now nothing could hide the puffy skin under the eyes or the sallowness of her complexion without its coat of make-up.

She had been a lovely fresh blonde when he first met her. So sweet-natured, so truly feminine, the kind of woman a man wanted to spoil and protect. She was on holiday in Mexico when he was there with his first wife Raffaella, staying at their summer house in Cuernevaca. She had been divorced for three years, although it seemed inconceivable to him that her husband could have preferred someone else, and left her for one of her best friends. Edward Fleming fell in love with her so quickly and completely that it made his marriage seem doubly miserable. Elizabeth was the total opposite of his wife. Or so it seemed. Within six weeks he was a widower – free from a woman he detested, free to remake his life and persuade his new love to share it with him.

Within three months of their marriage, he had found out that she was having an affair with a senior official in the State Department. She had admitted the one lapse with tears and pleas for forgiveness, but far worse was the addiction to drink which only came to light when they were settled in Washington. He didn't discover it for some time. She was very cunning, pretending to drink mineral water; the first shock came when he sipped from her glass and found it was laced with vodka. He began to watch her and to recognize the signs when he came home in the evening. The higher pitch of voice, the latent aggression in her manner and the tendency to lie about unimportant things. Her dislike of Ellen distressed him, and so did her criticism of his friends. Reconciliations followed the rows but the breach between them widened as her drinking increased and the fear of disgrace began to haunt him. His love had changed to loathing by the end of their first year of marriage. He didn't want to sleep with her; he could hardly bear to sit in the room with her alone. And he never knew when one drink too many would tip her over the edge of acceptable behaviour. His political star was rising, for the Republican candidate had been elected and was rewarding his supporters. Fleming saw his ambitions within reach and his wife as the only threat to them.

He was offered and accepted his job in the State Department. There were rumours circulating that he and Elizabeth were near to breaking up. He admitted to one or two intimates that he was considering a divorce and even the President was sympathetic. But nothing happened and their lives went on as before. Nobody would ever know about the night when he told her their marriage was over. That was when he learned he could never get away from her.

He heard the front door slam and her step on the marble-tiled floor. He tensed, waiting for the door to open. It stayed shut. She had gone upstairs to her room. He poured a second vodka, careful to keep the measure small, topped it with ice. She had spoiled his pre-dinner drink for him as she had spoiled every other aspect of his private life. He kept watch on himself all the time now, limiting how much he drank, what he said and did. He never discussed his work or left papers lying loose. Maybe she wouldn't come down; maybe she'd stay upstairs, lying in the bath, pampering herself, drinking out of a toothglass from the bottle she kept hidden in the bedroom. He had smelt cachous on her breath so often that it made him sick.

He leaned back in his chair in the quiet room and closed his eyes. There was so much to think about, so many different lines of action to be reconciled, so many eyes upon him, watching and judging. At fifty-one he was several rungs up the ladder ahead of older men of greater experience. He had everything to gain so long as he didn't miss his step. So long as that particularly fragile bauble, reputation, didn't show a flaw. There was no other city in the world where rumour fed upon itself so virulently. Whispers wiped out careers just as cholera destroyed its human victims. He had things to hide. The only person who could expose him was the woman he had married. An English rose, as one sycophantic woman columnist had called her in an early interview.

‘Hallo,' his wife said. ‘You're not asleep, are you?'

It gave him a shock; he had wandered so far away in his mind from the house in Georgetown that he started and spilled his drink.

‘Do you have to creep into a room like that?'

She closed the door. ‘You usually complain about me being noisy,' she said. ‘You're the one with the cat's feet. Lucky vodka doesn't stain – I'll get a cloth.'

‘It's all right,' he said. He rubbed the wet mark on his trousers with his handkerchief.

She sat down and gave him a nervous smile. He knew she had been to the British Embassy, seeing that man Neil again. He was the latest.

‘Had a busy day, darling?'

‘Yes. Very busy.'

‘Who did you see? Did you see the President?'

‘For a few minutes, yes.'

‘What did he say?'

‘Nothing that would mean anything to you,' he answered. ‘I can't talk about it, anyway. You know that.'

‘You never talk about anything any more,' she said. She sighed and he knew that she was preparing herself and him for the usual ritual involving her pre-dinner drinks. ‘I'm tired too,' she said. ‘I could do with a sharpener.' She got up and he heard the bottles chink and the ice rattle into the bottom of the glass. She sat down opposite him and said, ‘The Harrises are in town; they asked us to have dinner. I'd said I'd call them back.'

‘What Harrises? I don't know any.'

‘Yes, you do,' she insisted. ‘New York – he runs an advertising agency and she was a top model. You remember them. They're great fun.'

Edward Fleming looked at his wife and said, ‘You're right – we did meet them. I didn't like them. You can call back and say we're busy.'

‘Why?' she protested. ‘Why can't we go?' The level of the glass of whisky had fallen by half in a few minutes. ‘Why can't we ever go anywhere except with your awful, boring political friends? Don't you think I get sick of listening to the same old things over and over again – who's lobbying for who, who's making deals over what? Why can't we be like normal people and just go out and have some fun for a change?'

‘Because we're not normal people,' he said suddenly. ‘Your idea of fun is to go out and get drunk in some nightclub with a cheap little ad man from Madison Avenue, and his boring, stupid wife! I'm not going out tonight. And neither are you.'

She finished the whisky. ‘I am,' she said. She went to the trolley and filled her glass again. She spoke behind his back. ‘I'm going out with them. I won't stay here and listen to your insults … Why do you do it, Eddie, why do you keep insulting me?'

She was standing in front of him now, clutching the drink in her left hand. Never to be free of her. Never to escape that nerve-racking whine of a voice, that deceitful, libidinous look … He got out of the chair.

‘Don't try and start a scene,' he said. ‘You've had enough to drink already, you can have an early night tonight and tell the Harrises we're not available.'

‘It's not surprising!' she shouted suddenly. ‘I only do it because I'm lonely and you're so cold and cruel to me and I've nobody to talk to – and I'm scared …'

He knocked the glass out of her hand. It happened so quickly that she stood staring at him, the whisky and ice splinters spattering the wall behind her as the glass shattered. He didn't hit her; he didn't dare because he knew that once he did he wouldn't be able to stop. He pushed past her, and she staggered. He turned at the door. ‘I'll call them,' he said. ‘You can stay
home
and get drunk for a change.'

She put her hands to her face and began to cry. She was shaking. Neil had said she must stay calm. Neil had been full of good advice and comfort, insisting that she must take hold of herself and not provoke a situation. She'd felt calmer and come home determined to persuade her husband to go out to dinner and have a relaxed evening. Maybe Neil was right. Drinking didn't help. He had been very tactful about that. But he wasn't living in the house with a man who looked at you the way Edward Fleming did, when you woke in the night and thought he was leaning over you in the dark …

There was a knock on the door; she wiped her face hastily, smearing eye shadow. It was Ellen, the maid. ‘What time would you like dinner, ma'am? Mr Fleming says he'll have something to eat on a tray in his office.'

Elizabeth saw the quick glance at the broken glass and stains on the carpet.

‘I had an accident,' she said. ‘I dropped my drink. Could you sweep up the glass, please, Ellen? Be careful not to cut yourself. I won't bother about dinner. You just give Mr Fleming what he wants. I may be going out.'

I'll go, she said to herself, I'll call Nicky Harris and say can I come alone because Eddie's full up with paperwork. I won't stay here.

The maid came back and began sweeping the broken glass into a dustpan. The telephone rang. Elizabeth hesitated; it must be the Harrises calling to find out if they were free.

She picked it up and an English voice said, ‘Can I speak to Mrs. Fleming, please?'

‘Speaking,' she said. She didn't recognize the voice. ‘Who is that?'

There was a pause and the voice said, ‘It's Mousey Graham, Liz. Remember me from Highfields? I'm in Washington – I thought it would be fun to meet.'

‘Oh, what a surprise –' She sat down, hugging the receiver with both hands. Mousey Graham – they'd been at school together. Had she liked her? She couldn't remember. She couldn't be sure. ‘Why, how lovely! When did you arrive? Where are you?'

‘I flew in yesterday,' Davina said. Peter Hickling, the principal intelligence officer, was listening in on a separate receiver. Neil was beside him.

‘I'm staying at the embassy. With the Hicklings actually, they're old friends. When can we meet?'

Elizabeth Fleming hesitated; Ellen had finished clearing up and had just gone out of the room. ‘Well, what are you doing tonight?'

Davina glanced quickly at Hickling. He shook his head. Not to be too eager or too available. A visiting Englishwoman wouldn't have been free at a moment's notice as soon as she arrived in the capital. American welcomes were intensive.

‘I'm sorry,' Davina said. ‘I'm busy tonight. But I could make lunch tomorrow. Why don't I take you out? You'll have to choose the place.'

‘Don't be silly, Mousey,' she said quickly. ‘You'll be my guest. We'll go to the Unicorn. I can get a table if I use Eddie's name – it's the smartest place in Washington and the food's divine. We'll have a real girls' gossip. Come here and I'll give you a drink first. Twelve o'clock tomorrow. Look forward to it.' She rang off and clasped her hands to steady them.

Mousey Graham. Memory came to her rescue. She was taking shape fully now. Not a popular girl at school. Not good at games, sharp-tongued, reserved, and exceptionally clever. She went to St Hilda's and came down with a first-class honours degree. She had a beautiful younger sister who made the gossip columns. She was still Mousey Graham, so she hadn't married. It wasn't surprising, Elizabeth thought. She must have frightened the life out of most men. She took a glass and poured another large measure of whisky. She didn't want to eat. Edward was shut up in his damned office, hating her and knowing she was too afraid of him to defy him and go out with the Harrises.

Afraid. Her fear was so real at times. Of course there were days when she could master it, arguing herself into a rational view. Other days when she felt close to panic. Now she would have a woman to confide in. Someone who came from her past, who knew her before she had ever met Edward Fleming or come to live in Washington. She would have to pull herself together. Mousey – what the hell was her real name – something rather esoteric and inappropriate – Davina, that was it. Anyway – she sipped her drink and cuddled the glass, making the ice melt – anyway, it would be a change. She switched on the TV and spent the evening watching it alone.

‘She sounded all right.' Davina turned to Hickling. ‘In fact she sounded like the perfect Washington hostess. What's so special about the Unicorn?'

‘The prices,' a voice said behind her. She had forgotten Colin Lomax. ‘The food is fattening and tastes of ketchup. Even the ice cream tastes of ketchup. Its full of whores and pimps.'

‘Oh, shut up, Colin,' Peter Hickling said. ‘Don't take any notice of him, Davina. He can't find anything good to say about anything. The Unicorn is the
in
restaurant. All the top politicians and their wives go there.'

‘That's exactly what I said,' Lomax remarked. ‘It's full of whores and pimps.' He opened the
Washington Evening Star
and rustled the pages aggressively.

Hickling smiled at her and shook his head. ‘He's just jealous he can't afford it,' he said. ‘You're off to a good start, anyway. Everyone will see you and Liz Fleming will make capital out of the old schoolfriend from England.'

‘I'm sure she will,' Davina said. ‘I can just imagine her doing it. She sounded exactly the same.'

‘Weren't you friends, then?' Neil questioned.

‘No. We had nothing in common at all.' Lomax lowered the paper and glanced at her. The tone of her voice was sharp. Not just not friends, he thought to himself. More like enemies. The situation could be interesting. He hummed a tune and went back to reading.