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“You’ve taken out his family history；” she said。 “He won’t like that。 He’s very proud of the Langs。 And why have you underlined my name every time？”
“I wanted to check how often you were mentioned。 I was surprised there wasn’t more about you。”
“That will be a hangover from the focus groups。”
“I’m sorry？”
“When we were in Downing Street； Mike used to say that every time I opened my mouth I cost Adam ten thousand votes。”
“I’m sure that’s not true。”
“Of course it is。 People are always looking for someone to resent。 I often think my main usefulness； as far as he was concerned； was to serve as a lightning rod。 They could take their anger out on me instead of him。”
“Even so；” I said； “you ought not to be written out of history。”
“Why not？ Most women usually are。 Even the Amelia Blys of this world are written out eventually。”
“Well； then； I shall reinstate you。” I slid open the door of the closet so hard in my haste it banged。 I had to get out of that house。 I had to put some distance between myself and their destructive ménage à trois before I ended up as crazed as they were。 “I’d like to sit down with you； when you have the time； and do a really long interview。 Put in all the important occasions that he’s forgotten。”
“How very kind of you；” she said bitterly。 “Like the boss’s secretary whose job is to remember his wife’s birthdays for him？”
“Something like that。 But then； as you say； I can’t claim to be a proper writer。”
I was conscious of her watching me carefully。 I put on a pair of boxer shorts； pulling them up under my robe。
“Ah；” she said dryly； “the modesty of the morning after。”
“A bit late for that；” I said。
I took off the dressing gown and reached for a shirt； and as the hanger rang its hollow chime； I thought that this was exactly the sort of miserable scene that the discreet nocturnal departure was invented to avoid。 How typical of her not to sense er intimacy lay between us like a shadow。 The silence lengthened； and hardened； until I could feel her resentment as an almost solid barrier。 I could no more have gone across and kissed her now than I could on the day we met。
“What are you going to do？” she said。
“Leave。”
“That’s not necessary as far as I’m concerned。”
“I’m afraid it is； as far as I am。”
I pulled on my trousers。
“Are you going to tell Adam about this？” she said。
“Oh； for God’s sake！” I cried。 “What do you think？”
I laid my suitcase on the bed and unzipped it。
“Where will you go？” She looked as if she might be about to cry again。 I hoped not； I couldn’t
take it。
“Back to the hotel。 I can work much better there。” I started throwing in my clothes； not bothering to fold them； such was my eagerness to get away。 “I’m sorry。 I should never have stayed in a client’s
house。 It always ends—” I hesitated。
“With you fucking the client’s wife？”
“No； of course not。 It just makes it hard to keep a professional distance。 Anyway； it wasn’t
entirely my idea； if you recall。”
“That’s not very gentlemanly of you。”
I didn’t answer。 I carried on packing。 Her gaze followed my every move。
“And the things I told you last night？” she said。 “What do you propose to do about them？”
“Nothing。”
“You can’t simply ignore them。”
“Ruth；” I said； stopping at last； “I’m his ghostwriter； not an investigative reporter。 If he wants to tell
the truth about what’s been going on； I’m here to help him。 If he doesn’t； fine。 I’m morally neutral。”
“It isn’t morally neutral to conceal the facts if you know something illegal has happened—that’s criminal。”
“But I don’t know that anything illegalhas happened。 All I have is a phone number on the back of a photograph and gossip from some old man who may well be senile。 If anyone has any evidence； it’s you。 That’s the real question； actually： what areyou going to do about it？”
“I don’t know；” she said。 “Perhaps I’ll write my own memoirs。 ‘Ex–Prime Minister’s Wife Tells
All。’”
I resumed packing。
“Well； if ever you do decide to do that； give me a call。”
She emitted one of her trademark full…throated laughs。
“Do you really think I need someone likeyou to enable me to produce a book？”
She stood up then and undid her belt； and for an instant I thought she was about to undress； but she was only loosening it in order to wrap the robe more closely around herself。 She drew the belt very tight and knotted it； and the finality of the gesture somehow restored her superiority over me。 My rights of access were hereby revoked。 Her resolve was so firm I felt almost wistful； and if she had held out her arms it would have been my turn to fall against her； but instead； she turned and； in the practiced manner of a prime minister’s wife； pulled the nylon cord to open the curtains。
“I declare this day officially open；” she said。 “God bless it； and all who have to get through it。”
“Well；” I said； looking out at the scene； “that really is the morning after the night before。”
The rain had turned to sleet and the lawn was covered with debris from the storm—small branches； twigs； a white cane chair thrown on its side。 Here and there； around the edges of the door； where it was sheltered the sleet had stuck together and frozen into strips； like bits of polystyrene packaging。 The only brightness in the murk was the reflection of our bedroom light。 It resembled a flying saucer hovering above the dunes。 I could see Ruth’s face quite clearly in the glass： watchful； brooding。
“I’m not going to give you an interview；” she said。 “I don’t want to be in his bloody book； being patronized and thanked by him； using your words。” She turned and brushed past me。 At the bedroom door she paused。 “He’s on his own now。 I’ll get a divorce。 And then she can do the prison visits。”
I listened to the sound of her own door opening and closing； and shortly afterward the barely audible sound of a toilet flushing。 I had almost finished packing。 I folded the clothes she had lent me the previous evening and laid them on the chair； put my laptop into my shoulder bag； and then the only thing left was the manuscript。 It sat in a thick pile on the table where she had left it； three sullen inches of it—my millstone； my albatross； my meal ticket。 I couldn’t make any progress without it； yet I wasn’t supposed to take it from the house。 It occurred to me that perhaps I could argue the war crimes investigation had changed the circumstances of Lang’s life so completely that the old rules no longer applied。 At any rate； I could use that as an excuse。 I certainly couldn’t face the embarrassment of staying here and running into Ruth every few hours。 I put the manuscript into my suitcase； along with the package from the archive； zipped them up； and went out into the corridor。
Barry was sitting with his Harry Potter novel in the chair by the front door。 He raised his great slab of a face from the pages and gave me a look of weary disapproval； tinged with a sneer of amused contempt。
“Morning； sir；” he said。 “Finished for the night； have we？”
I thought； he knows。 And then I thought； of course he knows； you bloody fool； it’s his job to know。 In a flash I saw his sniggering conversations with his colleagues； the log of his official observations passed to London； a discreet entry in a file somewhere； and I felt a thrust of fury and resentment。 Perhaps I should have responded with a wink or a colluding quip—“Well； officer； you know what they say： there’s many a good tune played on an old fiddle；” or something of the sort—but instead I said； coldly； “Why don’t you just fuck off？”
It wasn’t exactly Oscar Wilde； but it got me out of the house。 I walked through the door and set off toward the track； only belatedly registering that； unfortunately； high moral dudgeon offers no protection against stinging squalls of sleet。 I trudged on with an effort at dignity for a few more yards； then ducked for cover into the lee of the house。 Rainwater was overflowing from the gutter and drilling into the sandy soil。 I took off my jacket and held it over my head； and considered how I was going to reach Edgartown。 That was when the idea of borrowing the tan…colored Ford Escape SUV popped helpfully into my mind。
How different—how very different—the course of my life would have been if I hadn’t immediately gone running toward that garage； dodging the puddles； the tent of my jacket raised over me with one hand； the other dragging my little suitcase。 I see myself now as if in a movie； or perhaps； more aptly； in one of those filmed reconstructions on a TV crime show： the victim skipping unknowingly toward his fate； as ominous chords underscore the portentousness of the scene。 The door was still unlocked from the previous day and the keys of the Ford were in the ignition—after all； who worries about robbers when you live at the end of a two…mile track protected by si