Dedication
For Tess Ley
And for Elinor, always
Epigraph
Who has not asked himself at some time or other:
am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person?
CLARICE LISPECTOR, THE HOUR OF THE STAR
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
March 1948
One
July 1939
Two
Three
Late September 1939
Four
March 1948
Five
November 1939
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
March 1948
Twelve
January 1940
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
March 1948
Nineteen
March 1940
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
August 1940
Twenty-Four
March 1948
Twenty-Five
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
March 1948
One
EVELYN SPOTTED STEPHEN across the busy road. He was leaning against the railing outside the Hotel Russell, a grand old building on the eastern flank of the square, reading a paperback, his collar turned high about his throat. As he pulled out his pipe and rummaged around in his pockets for a light, Evelyn felt the sluice of anticipation; it was like encountering him for the first time, though they had in fact been meeting every Friday afternoon for the past year. Walking toward him, she observed him as a stranger might, taking in his crumpled overcoat, his loosened tie, his flushed cheeks. He whipped off his trilby and gave her a lopsided smile.
“Ah, there you are, Evelyn.”
He clasped the felt brim, as if uncertain about what to do with his hands now he’d shoved the book and pipe away in his coat pocket. After all these months, they still weren’t quite sure how to greet one another. He finally nodded toward the hotel’s thé-au-lait terracotta entrance.
“So, fancy that drink? I’m absolutely parched.”
He held out an arm by way of invitation, and as he followed her up the stairs and through the hotel’s revolving doors, Evelyn caught his familiar scent of pipe smoke, cologne, and warm, damp hair.
They were seated by the dome window overlooking the square, their usual table. Though it was nearly five o’clock, the bar was empty apart from a man beside the piano with his head buried in a newspaper. Once the waitress, a big-boned girl with a Lancashire accent, had taken their orders, Stephen began to talk about his new commission. Since the war he had worked as an Italian translator—novels, mainly, as well as the occasional cache of documents for the embassy—and he had been invited by a professor in Rome to visit the university over the summer to deliver a paper and begin a new translation of Ovid.
“They’re putting me up at La Sapienza,” he said, settling into his chair. “In halls, which’ll be jolly. When that’s done, I thought I’d mosey about. Travel down to Naples. Sorrento, maybe. Duck over to Capri.”
“What about all that sunshine?” Evelyn teased. Stephen, it had become their joke, could burn in a blizzard.
“Blimey, yes.” His eyes grew wide. “It will be raging, won’t it, in July?”
The waitress returned, struggling under a silver serving tray laden with a tumbler of whisky on ice for Stephen and an enormous teapot, china cup, and rock cake, beige and swollen like a deformed hand, for Evelyn. It was good tea here at the Russell, none of the ersatz stuff she had to buy from her local grocer’s, and fragrant with an earthy spice.
“Well, it sounds like you’ll have a lovely time,” she said.
“That’s the thing. I’ll be away for a month. At least. And, yes, it will be a fine sort of trip . . .”
Stephen paused, took a gulp of whisky, and when he set down the glass he stared at it as if it were the receptacle of an ancient wisdom. Evelyn saw something in his eyes she didn’t recognize—it might have been dread. He spread his hands against the tablecloth.
“The thing is, Evelyn, I don’t want to be away for a month. From you. I had rather hoped you might come with me.”
The top of his ears had turned red. Evelyn sat back; he had surprised her. She picked up the blunt knife and began sawing into the rock cake. The pianist started up a playful tune in the corner.
“You don’t need to answer right away,” Stephen said quietly. “I’ve caught you unawares.” He looked into his lap. “But will you think about it?”
“Yes, of course.” Glancing at his thinning hair, the fine freckles across his broad nose, Evelyn felt a throb deep in her chest. “Of course I’ll think about it.” She reached out, grazing her fingertips over his knuckles. “I’m so pleased you asked me, Stephen, really I am.”
“Mm.” Color had risen in his cheeks and he wouldn’t look at her.
Evelyn clasped her hands together. She had hurt him. Sometimes she forgot she could still inflict pain on others.
“Very good. Right. Well.” With a rattle of his empty glass, Stephen stood up. “I think I fancy another.”
Evelyn watched him as he made his way to the bar. He dragged his left foot. It had been crushed by a pontoon at Dunkirk; he had been lucky not to drown. He was shy about his disfigurement but never ashamed. It was perhaps the first thing that drew Evelyn to him: the ease with which he spoke about the past. That, and how he never asked for much in return, even when she knew he must want her to share more of herself with him.
She rubbed at her eyes. The truth was she wanted to go to Rome. But there were so many complications—her papers, for one. How could she explain it all to him?
While Stephen lingered at the bar, she turned her attention to the window and the gardens outside. It was busier now, men and women streaming from the terraces surrounding the square, batting their way through the gaggle of children mobbing the Wall’s ice-cream man on the corner. Evelyn’s gaze rested on a small girl and a dark-haired woman. The girl, in a smart woolen dress, was chattering away, while the woman—her mother, Evelyn presumed—flicked through a picture-card stand by one of the stalls set up along the garden fence. Evelyn watched the graceful swoop of her gloved hand until, almost as if she sensed she was being watched, the woman turned. Her eyes met Evelyn’s and what followed was a moment of perfect calm, just as the air had felt before a shell dropped.
“You do like brandy, don’t you? I can never remember.”
Setting a drink in front of her, Stephen followed Evelyn’s gaze, one hand pressed into his back. “I’ve never understood how children can eat ice cream in the cold.”
A bus rumbled past, a few cars.
“I say, are you all right, Evelyn? You’re awfully pale.”
Evelyn sat up straighter as Stephen, face pinched-looking, crouched in front of her.
“Look, you needn’t worry about the Rome trip, honestly. It was just a mad idea.”
She scanned the square for the woman and the little girl, but they were both gone.
“I mean, I could ask Timmy Walker to come. You remember Tim? Foreign Office. He’s always had a bit of a thing for the Romans . . .”
Evelyn listened to Stephen’s prattle, not wanting it to stop. As long as he kept talking, she could convince herself that she had imagined it. That she hadn’t seen Julia Wharton-Wel
ls at all. But then, after a burst of laughter from the lobby and the tail end of the pianist’s song, came the cry: “Evelyn?”
Her voice still had that breathiness, as though she had just sprinted across the street.
Turning, Evelyn saw the little girl first, and up close she recognized the straight, almost black hair and the same watchful amber eyes. Julia stepped forward, arms outstretched, and before Evelyn knew what she was doing she was on her feet, Julia’s smooth coat, cigarette smoke, and perfume caught up in their embrace.
“Julia? I don’t believe it!”
She had aged. Of course she had; it had been nearly eight years. Still, as Julia stepped back, holding her at arm’s length to look her up and down, Evelyn was shocked by the gray in her hair and the constellation of lines around her eyes and forehead.
“It’s really me—ta-da!” Julia’s grip was tight around Evelyn’s wrists. She gave a sharp bark of laughter and let go, gesturing to Stephen. “And who is this?”
Evelyn introduced them, and Stephen, who had watched their greeting with bemusement, said, “You must join us for tea. I’ve not met any of Evelyn’s pals—I’d love to pick your brains.”
Evelyn glared at him. “Julia will surely have other plans.”
“What do you think, Margaret, darling?” Julia peered down at her daughter as she removed her gloves. The young girl was eyeing up the rock cake. “Daddy won’t mind if we’re a few minutes late, will he?”
Margaret shed her green coat. “Daddy won’t mind,” she repeated solemnly as she took the seat opposite Evelyn. She was missing a front tooth.
The waitress appeared with more cups and saucers, and everyone watched her pour the tea. After she’d gone, Julia sat down and unwound her expensive silk scarf, eyes skating about the bar. She wore a red box coat that matched her lipstick; Evelyn had forgotten how striking she was.
“Are you staying here at the hotel, Evelyn?”
“No, we’re—” She felt Julia’s frank gaze. “We were just having a drink.”
“I see.”
“Then we’re off to a film over on Tottenham Court Road. In fact, we had better be going, hadn’t we, Stephen?” Evelyn glared at him again, desperate to communicate her agitation at this unexpected meeting.
But Stephen wasn’t looking. His attention was on Julia, perhaps wondering if she held the answers to his many questions about Evelyn’s past.
“Don’t worry about that,” he murmured. “There’ll be a later showing.”
“See?” Julia patted the chair beside her. “No rush.”
Somehow, Evelyn managed to sit down and smile graciously around the table. She still couldn’t believe it was Julia sitting across from her. Was this what it felt like to encounter a ghost?
“I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me when I saw you, Evelyn. After all these years—I had to come over and make sure.” Julia laughed again. “But you haven’t changed a bit. I suppose you’re still at the same job, too?”
“Evelyn works in a bookshop,” Stephen said, bringing out his pipe. “Foy’s, on Store Street. You know it?”
“Store Street?” Julia glanced at Stephen, something flinty and appraising in her expression. “No, I don’t think so. But I will remember to drop in sometime.”
Evelyn wanted to shriek at Stephen to shut up. She imagined old Mrs. Foy, alone in the flat above the shop, Julia prowling about the shelves of Margery Allinghams, and she swigged a mouthful of brandy, feeling it burn down her throat.
“And how do you know one another?” Stephen scraped a match against the box and lit his pipe. “From Oxford, was it?”
“The war, actually,” Julia said.
“Really?” He leaned forward. “Evelyn’s always coy about her war years. So you were at the hospital, too?”
Julia’s eyes slid toward Evelyn. She picked up her teacup, raised it to her lips.
“It wasn’t quite like that. We moved in similar circles, that’s all.”
“Did you?”
Stephen turned to Evelyn, gave her shoulder a light nudge with his. He was enjoying himself; there was a smile playing over his mouth. Evelyn gripped her knees beneath the table, nails digging into her stockings. She had to disrupt the conversation, swerve it away from anything that might compromise her. She focused on Margaret, who was picking despondently at the rock cake. If Julia had a weak spot, surely it would be this child.
“I didn’t know you had a daughter,” Evelyn said. “She looks just like you.”
The last bit of sun had come out from behind the low gray clouds, flooding the front bar in dazzling light. Julia set her teacup back down in the saucer.
“Margaret keeps us on our toes, don’t you, dear?”
The girl looked back at her mother doubtfully.
“How old is she?”
Julia stared at Evelyn, her jaw a hard line. “Five next month.” She threaded her fingers together. “We’ve been lucky. I never thought . . .” She trailed off, gave a shrug. “But I do like this part of town,” she said, sitting up straighter. “I don’t live in London anymore. We’re in Kent these days and very happy there.” She shook her head. “Why am I telling you? I suppose you already know. But we do like to come up to London, don’t we, Margaret? The children’s park over at Coram’s Fields is marvelous.” She paused. “You’re locals, I take it? You and your . . . husband?”
“No, we’re not . . .”
The pianist had stopped and Evelyn could see the waitress watching them from behind the counter, her curiosity plain as she toyed with a loose apron thread. Even the man in the corner had lowered his newspaper to peer at them. Could they sense it too? Evelyn wondered. The disquiet in the room? It was practically crackling.
“We’re not married.” Stephen finished the sentence for her, and Evelyn felt him edge away, a cool space flourishing between them.
Julia nodded. “I always thought I might run into you. Though I expected you to have left England years ago.”
“I did think about it. But one thing led to another. Work, you see . . .”
“Ah, yes. Did you stay on long, in the end, at the War Office?” Julia brushed at some nonexistent crumbs on her dress, her eyebrows arched. “Anyway, now I know where I can find you, we must get together for a proper catch-up. I think that’s long overdue, don’t you? Perhaps the next time we’re down. Like I said, we’re on our way to meet Margaret’s father.” Julia was smiling, but there was no feeling in her eyes. “I don’t think you ever met him. He certainly knows about you.”
The hairs on the back of Evelyn’s neck bristled. “Well, it’s been lovely,” she said as she stood up. “But we really should be going.”
She looked at Stephen; this time he understood and rose to his feet with her.
“What a shame! I should have liked to talk more.” All conciliation, Julia began fishing through her leather handbag. “But look, before you go, let me give you something. I picked it up at the stall across the street. It was such a coincidence to find it there. I’m sure you’ll remember it.”
It was a postcard, a reproduction of Judith in the Tent of Holofernes, and as Julia passed it across the table Evelyn felt her stomach lurch. She didn’t know the gallery had the painting—the Randalls must have sold it after the war. She stuffed the postcard inside her bag as Stephen drifted off to settle the bill.
“It reminded me of a story I heard years ago . . . Anyway, I’ve dozens of the things in the kitchen drawer at home, but I keep buying another every time I see one. We visit the gallery when we’re in town, though I’m not sure why I keep returning to that ghastly place.” Julia was clutching the back of the chair, her fingers as bloodless as talons. “You always did like art, didn’t you, Evelyn? And books. Clever as you were. You always thought you were so much cleverer than the rest of us. But it didn’t quite turn out that way, did it?”
Evelyn took a step back. The room seemed to tilt. Around them the bar was starting to fill.
Stephen returned, and she felt h
is hand on her arm, though it wasn’t clear if he was steering her toward Julia or away from her.
“Turned to smoke and ashes, has it?” Julia was staring at the half-eaten rock cake.
Evelyn glanced at the door. Two dozen paces, maybe less. She could make it. She took another step, conscious of the pressure building behind her eyes. The room had begun to spin and the tables roared—wild, jabbering voices. She could hear Stephen talking, his voice floating toward her as if she were trapped under water, the pale light above the surface gradually dimming, and the next thing she was aware of was his grip around her elbow as he guided her past the bar, the off-key notes of a new prelude ringing in her ears.
* * *
Stephen walked her home. After the scene at the Hotel Russell, neither of them had much desire to go to the pictures or find somewhere to eat. They made their way in silence, Evelyn one pace behind, trying to make sense of what had just happened and how she might explain it to him. But when they reached her building on Flaxman Terrace, he stood on the curb, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. She couldn’t tell whether he was angry or not; he was looking at her in the same way Margaret had as they left the bar: as if she had done something to humiliate all of them.
“Who was that woman?” he asked finally. His voice was gentle, but rounded with curiosity.
Evelyn stared at him across the pavement. “I told you. An old friend. Not even a friend, really. An acquaintance.”
“But why were you so . . .” He blew out his cheeks. “I don’t know—peculiar. I’ve never seen you like that.”
Evelyn glanced toward her flat, where the orange light of the lamp glowed at the window.
“It was a surprise, that’s all. I’ve not seen her in such a long time. Years!”
“Years?”
“Just don’t ask me how many.”
She tried to smile, but Stephen took off his hat and said, “She thought you worked at the War Office.”
“Did she?”
“Yes.” He frowned. “You heard her, didn’t you?”
“She must have been thinking of someone else. It was a long time ago.”
“But you worked at the hospital.”
An Unlikely Spy Page 1
