About twenty minutes passed before Evelyn heard voices near the doors and the congregation spilled out onto the pavement. There was some mingling beneath a lamp, and amid the crowd Evelyn saw Sally speak to a couple before breaking away and walking down the road in the direction of Curzon Street.
Evelyn followed, lagging a hundred or so yards behind for the rest of South Audley. On the corner, however, Sally stopped. She didn’t turn, but her head was cocked, listening. Evelyn slowed and stopped too.
“I thought you might do a better job of tailing me than that.” Sally’s voice came out almost as a sigh. She spun around, her hands planted on her hips. “Or have you suddenly found an interest in religion?”
Evelyn’s arms hung limp at her sides. Sally was staring at her, waiting.
“I know it’s been a long time, but I thought we might finally have more to say to one another.” Evelyn hesitated, fumbling over her words, as Sally began to shake her head. Had she really thought she could just turn up here and tie up threads of the past like ribbon around a box? “But I can see that won’t be possible.”
“And why is that?”
“I suppose because we both see what happened differently.”
She might have aged in the years since they last saw one another, but Evelyn still recognized the spark of curiosity in Sally’s round blue eyes.
“You go alone, then, to church?” she asked.
Sally shrugged. “Jonty doesn’t care for it.”
Evelyn nodded. The breeze whistled around them, receded. “How is Jonty?”
“He won’t believe I’ve run into you . . .” Sally narrowed her eyes. “He’s left the air force and joined his father’s company. We have a son now. He’s three.”
“A son.”
“Yes. Hugh.”
Evelyn felt faint. There was so much she wanted to ask, but Sally would never let her. They stared at one another across the shadowy pavement. It was getting late. Evelyn was cold and hungry. She thought of the house on Curzon Street—the soft light, the plush furnishings, all that warmth—and indulged in the daydream of Sally asking her inside, pointing to the room on the second floor where a bed had been made up, reminding her that this would always be her home.
“You shouldn’t be here.” The spite had left Sally’s voice. She sounded as tired as Evelyn felt, and as sad. And it was sad, what had been lost between them—Evelyn had let go of enough anger over the years to appreciate that. She took a step forward.
“I wanted to hear you say it, that’s all,” she said. “I thought if we ever saw each other again, you might have it in your heart to say it.”
“Say what?”
“That you understand why I did it.” Evelyn swallowed. “That you forgive me.”
They were standing in a pool of milky moonlight. The surrounding houses were dark and quiet, but lights shone in a few windows at number twenty-nine. The front door opened and Jonty stepped out onto the porch. Evelyn recognized his broad shoulders, his flat face, though she doubted he could make her out from that distance. When she looked back to Sally and saw tears in her eyes, Evelyn felt herself transported with a lurch back to that train ride from Wesley Manor after the engagement party when Sally had warned her about her willingness to overlook the faults of those awful girls at Raheen. Sally had been right, in the end, though not in the way she had imagined. No one could have predicted that future, Evelyn thought bitterly.
“I stopped being angry with you years ago, Evelyn. What’s done is done.” Sally took a few quick steps away but paused, and when she spoke again her voice was barely a whisper. “I don’t care about why you did it, or about what you told yourself that made it right in your own head. You betrayed me and my family, and though I loved you I can never forgive you for it.”
They stood gazing miserably at one another. It was true: the past was behind them. They could never go back. Life marches you forward no matter how hard you dig in your heels. It had taken Evelyn a long time to understand that too—but this was the first time she had acknowledged the truth of it to herself. If she had done so earlier, she would never have come to Mayfair and sought Sally out. She would have saved herself from the wretched feeling squeezing the breath out of her. Because she had come looking for absolution tonight, no matter what she told herself, and Sally couldn’t give it to her—no one could.
She watched Sally turn and sprint across the road, pushing past Jonty, and a few seconds later Evelyn heard the slam of the heavy front door. Then she glanced along the cold street, where shadows like spider’s legs made a pattern through the old birch, and set off toward the underground.
January 1940
Thirteen
NINA IVANOV’S LARGE dining room was painted white and decorated with a single armorial plate mounted on the wall, while a portrait of the Tsar had been propped against the mantelpiece. A fire in the hearth warmed the room, and sounds and smells of cooking were coming from the kitchen, the air full of the aroma of butter, onion, and something else fragrant, like cinnamon.
Evelyn smiled around the table. Nina had made the introductions when she first arrived, Evelyn’s heart hammering in her chest, legs so flimsy she feared they might collapse beneath her. But she had managed to remember a few names—Mrs. Guthrie and Miss de Crespigny, for instance—while those belonging to the other women glancing at her now and then with a mix of curiosity and wariness she would need to get later from Mrs. Armstrong, who sat at the other end of the table. Everyone was a lot older than Evelyn, with gray hair and crepey skin at their throats, and as they spoke about their recent Christmas celebrations (“So dreary this year!” they bemoaned), their wayward children, and problems with the tutor or the cook, she began to relax. It was familiar, this quiet snobbery, like an old language she hadn’t spoken in a while. She could have been back at university for one of those dreadful parent dinners, or at a gathering of the local Women’s Institute; Evelyn half expected someone to bring out baskets of oranges and invite them to make marmalade. It hardly felt like a gathering of German sympathizers, but she knew that she must remain on her guard. Even a moment of complacency could blow her cover.
Evelyn had been seated next to Isadore Randall at the head of the table. Mrs. Randall picked at her food uninterestedly, not talking much to the other women, but whenever a remark was lobbed her way she’d give a nod or a grunt of regal assent, and the conversation would continue.
“How nice for you all to get together like this,” Evelyn said once Nina had finally sat down to her own supper. “It must be lovely to have such a large group of friends.”
Nina brushed away a few strands of hair coiling at her temple. “We enjoy it,” she said demurely.
“And how do you know one another?”
“Well”—she turned to Mrs. Randall—“it has mainly been through other clubs, hasn’t it?”
“And my church. Crown Court, in Covent Garden.”
“That’s right.” Evelyn nodded toward the other end of the table. “That’s how you know Mrs. Armstrong.”
“Andrew and I have been friendly with Gertrude for years,” said Mrs. Randall. “Nearly ten, it must be. She’s been so helpful on the committee; our longest-serving secretary, in fact.”
“And is that what brings you all together?” asked Evelyn, sipping on her wine. “Faith?”
“In a way.” Nina cut her omelette into small pieces and placed one delicately in her mouth. “But mainly we talk about culture and ideas, like in a salon. Our model is the Literaturnoye Kafe in Saint Petersburg. Sometimes one of us will read from a novel, or recite a bit of poetry.”
“But it isn’t all books. You do know Nina is also famous in the world of fashion?” said Mrs. Randall, setting down her knife and fork and turning her stern gaze on Evelyn. “You’ll have heard of Nina de Ivanov Haute Couture Modes in the West End?”
“Of course—that’s you, Nina?” Evelyn wiped her mouth with the napkin. “How very impressive. First-class cook and dressmaker.”
“Oh no, she’s a genuine couturier.”
“I don’t know about that,” Nina said, pouring herself a glass of water. “I sold a bit of everything there, remember—frocks, hats, evening gowns, and jewelry—though it was to some of the wealthiest people in Europe. But the business suffered when the Litvak tailors moved in, and then I lost my financier, Major McPhee. Still, one must make the best of a bad situation, and working from home means I now have a more select clientele.”
“You’re too modest,” Mrs. Randall cried.
“I don’t like to boast.”
“My dear”—Mrs. Randall rested her claw-like hand over Evelyn’s, the jewels on her fingers shimmering cruelly under the light—“Nina has more friends of influence than the rest of us combined. Your mother still takes tea with Queen Mary, does she not?”
“It’s true.” Nina’s eyes had grown brighter; evidently she did like to boast. “And of course another good friend is a well-known attaché to the Italian embassy.”
“And doesn’t he throw the best parties!”
“Yes,” Nina said, almost tittering. “Very gay.”
“Very wicked, more like.” Mrs. Randall raised her eyebrows at Evelyn, and she made sure to look appropriately scandalized. Some transgressions, it seemed, were acceptable to the Lion Society.
They made an odd pair, Evelyn thought. The nervous, suspicious Russian and the aloof, meandering patrician. Where Nina’s manners were sober (she hadn’t touched any wine nor smoked), her gestures abrupt and skittish, Mrs. Randall had that rambling way of talking common to the upper class, as if she were conducting the conversation with herself, only to suddenly sharpen her focus on a particular word or phrase and almost flay Evelyn with her fierce attention.
“You must tell us some more about yourself, dear,” she instructed as a korolevsky cake was brought out for dessert.
Evelyn shifted in her seat. They had already talked around the edges, with Evelyn explaining what she did at Whitehall with the inventory logs, the telephone calls, sprinkling some details about the rumored internments. Nina and Mrs. Randall had appeared cautious—they never showed too much interest, but Evelyn sensed that Nina, in particular, had been storing away everything she said to be picked over later.
“You’re not from London, originally?” Mrs. Randall prompted her.
“No, I grew up in a town called Lewes,” Evelyn said. “Then I went on to Oxford after Raheen. I enjoyed my time there; in fact, I rather miss it. There was so much more I wanted to learn.”
“You’re not learning at the War Office?” Nina watched her slyly. In the bright dining room her pinned-back hair shone auburn.
Evelyn smiled. “I’m certainly learning about the limits of our government,” she said casually. “There’s no real leadership, for starters—if I’m honest, it’s chaos.”
“How so?”
“Well, for one thing, no one was prepared for Chamberlain’s declaration. There weren’t enough staff, not even enough desks, if you can believe it. That set us back months.” Evelyn drank the last mouthful of wine in her glass; what was that—her third? Her head was beginning to feel like it had been stuffed with candy floss. “I’m not the only one who thinks like this. Morale is low, which gets all sorts of rumors going. I’ve seen some vicious rows, too. The undersecretary—”
“Johnny Lyttelton?” Mrs. Randall raised an eyebrow. “Why, he’s a good friend of ours!”
“Oh yes?” Evelyn wasn’t sure where to go with all this, but she had no choice but to push on. “The thing is, we’re all a bit fed up on our floor, me and the other girls. The typists. It’s like no one is listening . . .”
Glancing at Mrs. Randall, Nina frowned, some color leaving her cheeks. “What do you mean?”
Evelyn felt herself falter. To hide it, she reached for her glass of water and took a gulp, but all that wine had made her sluggish. She could feel heat creeping across her face. She had come on strong; revealed too much too soon—she must have, or else why would Nina be staring at her like that, expectant, a hand raised to that faint scar on her temple?
“Well, I suppose what they really want is a better Britain,” she finally said. “It’s what we all want, isn’t it? They just don’t quite know where to look for it.” She paused, smiling grimly. “I tell them it would be best if Chamberlain had held firm on appeasement. I hear things they don’t, of course, so I suppose they are inclined to believe me.”
“That can’t be a popular opinion in the rest of Whitehall,” said Nina as someone brought out coffee with a jug of cream, and a box of Rowntree’s Black Magic was passed reverently around the table.
“Yes, you could find yourself in a lot of trouble if you expressed those views outside this flat,” Mrs. Randall agreed.
With a shrug, Evelyn accepted the chocolate box, choosing a marzipan. She handed it on to Mrs. Randall.
“Maybe. But it’s what I think, and I don’t care who knows it.”
Again Nina glanced at Mrs. Randall, frowning, until the older woman laughed, her crowded teeth glistening.
“Well said, dear. The fish stinks first at the head, as the Turks say. Little wonder we’re losing this war.” She bit into her chocolate and made a face. “Oh, it’s ghastly cherry. I had hoped for caramel!”
* * *
By eleven o’clock, most of Nina’s guests had gone, abandoning the round of backgammon that had commenced at the dining table after brandy, the few remaining now smoking by the fire with Mrs. Randall.
Evelyn said her goodbyes, but as Nina accompanied her to the front door she stopped midway down the shadowy hall. “May I show you something?”
She opened a door that led into a room with a long, rectangular table in the middle covered with measuring tapes, scissors, canisters of pins and tacks. A sewing machine sat at one end. Lining the back wall were shelves of wools, trims of leather, silk, rayon crepe, and Moygashel linen, every color and texture imaginable, and on the left wall were two racks sagging under the weight of dresses and shawls on hangers. In the far right-hand corner, where Nina now stood, was another white wooden door, with a latch and bolt, which must at one time have led to the kitchen.
Evelyn went to the black velvet dress studded with elegant gold buttons hanging from the rack nearest to her, running the hem through her fingers.
“How is it fair you have more than one talent?”
Nina leaned against the back shelf, toying with a piece of violet-colored silk. “Are you not talented, Evelyn?” she asked.
“Oh, I don’t know. I do a few things quite well, but nothing exceptionally.”
“Not your work?”
“I’m diligent, if that’s what you mean. But this—it’s creative. It’s enterprising.”
“Do you want to be a dressmaker?”
“Well, no, but . . .”
Nina folded her arms, smiling faintly. “Then isn’t it pointless to be envious of what you don’t want?”
It was a strange sort of logic, thought Evelyn, her eyes drawn to the bulb hanging from the ceiling. A few moths hovered nearby, nudging against the glass.
“I suppose I don’t know what I want,” she said.
She watched Nina go to the worktable, where she reached for the silver scissors. Then she picked up a piece of wool that had frayed at the tip, examining it beneath the light.
“I shut myself away in here after my shop closed,” she said quietly. “Day, night, no sleep, barely a bite to eat. My parents tried to coax me out, but I wouldn’t budge. I just couldn’t accept that I had failed. But somehow I managed to convince myself that if I worked hard enough for long enough things would go back to how they were—that my shop would reopen and thrive; that I would be someone again. It was all I cared about, because I didn’t know what to be without the shop. Then, one day, it must have been months later, I woke up and understood my mistake. I had believed the failure was my own doing. That I had done something wrong.”
Nina raised the scissors and with a firm snap severed the frayed w
ool.
“When something is stolen from you, it’s only natural to seek reparation,” she murmured, turning her dark eyes to Evelyn. “You understand this, I think.”
After Nina turned off the workshop light, she guided Evelyn along the hallway toward the front door. Slipping on her coat, Evelyn hoped another invitation would be issued, but Nina was silent, only reaching for the latch. Then she paused and looked over her shoulder.
“You mentioned your colleagues at the War Office,” she began. “The typists . . .”
“Yes?”
“Well, as you know, I’m always on the lookout for new friends.” Nina blew out her cheeks, giving a shrug, as though it was of little consequence to her. “Perhaps I might get their names and addresses from you? I had in mind to write them a note, perhaps invite them to tea.” She laughed, a scratchy sound that Evelyn hadn’t heard before. “If nothing else, it will bring down the average age of our group by a decade or two. But it’s no trouble if . . .” She trailed off.
Evelyn felt herself smile inwardly. Here it was. The first bargaining chip. The first proof of loyalty, and the first betrayal. She almost felt pity for Nina, except for the trace of reticence in her face as she pulled open the door, peering around the jamb. Evelyn hadn’t won her over yet.
“I’m sure I can arrange it,” she said.
Nina gave her a curt nod. “Good. And listen, Evelyn. Next Sunday afternoon B. L. Chesterfield is giving a lecture at Caxton Hall. Would you like to come? I think you’d enjoy it.”
“All right,” said Evelyn. “I’ll put it in my diary.”
“Good.” Nina nodded again. “Dobroy nochi.”
It was as much a dismissal as a farewell, with a brisk kiss on each cheek, and Evelyn found herself moving fast down those stairs, the air outside hitting her like a slap, the shudder of snow on the passing terrace roofs the only other movement as she hastened along the footpath toward the underground, desperate to be home.
* * *
When Evelyn arrived at work on Monday, she found the flat empty. There was a note, however, on her desk from White, instructing her to meet him at the Press Club at eight o’clock that evening. After typing up her daily report for Ted, Evelyn locked up and left, catching the bus at Lupus Street to Whitehall Place. The club was hidden away at the end of a narrow lane and accessed via a set of stairs. She was greeted by the maître d’hôtel and guided away from the dining tables in the main reception area to a darkish room at the back of the building. There, by the large window, sat White, a small candle in the middle of the table, a half-empty bottle of champagne chilling in a bucket of ice nearby.
An Unlikely Spy Page 18
