The call came, that evening, and Orlov made his accustomed way through the corridors to reach the old man’s office, recognised now by the secretaries and attendants. They’d gossip, Orlov knew: had done already.
Sevin greeted him with the self-satisfied smile of a man in a position to know all that was going on below and around him.
‘The decision has been made,’ he announced, at once.
‘When?’ said Orlov.
‘This afternoon.’
‘Is there to be an announcement?’
Sevin nodded. ‘Within the week. It will be that Serada has been replaced, to be succeeded by Chebrakin.’
Orlov frowned. ‘What about ill-health?’
‘No,’ said Sevin. ‘Just that’
‘Publicly disgraced, like Krushchev,’ remembered Orlov.
‘He doesn’t deserve anything more,’ said Sevin. Impatiently he brought his hands together, in a tiny clapping gesture. ‘But Serada and his fate aren’t important, not any more. What’s important is you and the next two or three years.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Orlov, anguished at the repeated game.
‘How’s the agricultural policy shaping?’
‘It’s going to take a long time,’ avoided Orlov. ‘This time it’s got to be right.’
‘Exactly!’ said Sevin, someone seizing the truth. ‘It’s got to be right and it’s got to be seen to be right. It’s going to be the first step for you, Pietr.’
But not in the direction in which I want to walk, thought Orlov. Orlov had done nothing about getting another place to live, accepting the difficulty that it created between himself and Natalia because although the whole purpose of returning was to spare her later, he did not want to draw any wrong attention to himself and he feared trying to get separate accommodation might have created some curiosity. The guards and attendants and secretaries by whom he was now surrounded had other functions than to make his life easier, Orlov knew.
He and Natalia had settled into a formal existence, an attitude of acquaintances temporarily brought together beneath the same roof but knowing it would only be for a limited period. They were considerate to each other, in the way of acquaintances, neither irritated nor happy at anything the other did.
But they were very conscious of each other and immediately Orlov entered the apartment, late after the discussion with Sevin which had become a detailed examination of the agricultural options, Orlov was aware of a difference in Natalia’s demeanour.
‘I’ve been waiting,’ she said. ‘Waiting to see if you would change your mind. I still love you, you know.’
‘No,’ said Orlov, tightly. ‘I haven’t changed my mind.’
‘Then to go on like this is pointless, isn’t it? We might as well get the divorce.’
‘Yes,’ he said. He’d imagined a feeling of relief at the agreement. Instead he felt a deep sadness.
‘Will you make the arrangements?’
‘Yes,’ said Orlov. He looked around the apartment. ‘You’ll have this, of course.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It shouldn’t be difficult,’ he said.
‘Accepting it and not understanding why is going to be difficult,’ said the woman.
Chapter Twenty
The letter from home was as sterile as all the others that had preceded it, about as fascinating as a report of a meeting of the Mothers’ Union, her mother’s appointment as the secretary of which was the highlight of the note. Ann guessed her mother would have written the Mothers’ Union report first; and put more effort into it. Her father sent the usual regards. What would he have sent if he knew what she had done? Maybe he wouldn’t have been surprised. He’d called her a whore, when he learned of her involvement with Blair. Other words, too. Slut was one. She hadn’t felt like a whore or a slut then. She’d felt like someone who’d fallen in love with a married man – despite trying not to – and wanted the understanding she felt she deserved but which they felt unable to provide. Had she proven herself to be a whore and a slut now? Yes, she answered herself honestly. She didn’t feel like either, any more than she had the first time. She felt ashamed and remorseful and she wished it hadn’t happened but it had and so she had to face it. Face what exactly? All right, she’d cheated. She’d built up too much unhappiness – about Moscow and about not being pregnant although she’d tried and about not knowing how Blair really felt about Ruth – and she’d had too much to drink and it had been a beautiful, really wonderful evening and she’d let go emotions she shouldn’t have let go. That didn’t make her a whore. Or a slut. It made her a stupid woman who should have known better – known better about all of it – but who hadn’t. A stupid woman who’d made a mistake. Surely the important thing – the adult thing – was recognising it for that, a mistake? And nothing else. Was it nothing else? Ann tried to analyse it dispassionately – which was ridiculous as passion was what it had all been about – because it was important to get it all into the proper perspective. What had happened with Jeremy hadn’t in any way affected her love for Eddie. The opposite, in fact. It made her realise just how much she did love him. No danger then. No reason for making a bitterly regretted mistake into anything more important than it was. What about Jeremy then? Of course she didn’t love him. How could she? He was charming and made her laugh like Eddie used to make her laugh and was unquestionably more socially able than Eddie and if she were to be brutally frank, in bed… Ann jarred to a stop. Of course she didn’t love him, she thought again. You didn’t fall in love after sleeping with someone once. There had to be other feelings, feelings she had for Eddie and certainly not for Jeremy. Christ, why couldn’t she have stayed inside the fairy tale! Fairy tales had nice endings with everyone living happily ever after. She’d shared the fairy tale with the wrong man, she recognised, coming out of the fantasy.
How would it have been for Eddie, in Washington? It would have drawn he and Ruth together, because things like that always did. But together was what? Adjusted, properly accepting former husband and wife; friends, in fact. Or a couple who realised they had made a mistake. Mistakes, after all, weren’t difficult to make. That wasn’t fair, Ann recognised. She was creating a scenario like those cheap TV soap operas at which she’d sneered in England and imagining situations she had no reason to believe to exist to assuage her own feelings.
She jumped at the sound of the telephone, staring at it as if she were frightened and not answering for several moments.
‘I was just going to ring off; I didn’t think you were in.’
Ann felt a jump of excitement at Brinkman’s voice. Was that what it was? she wondered still searching for definitions. Had she done it for excitement, just for a moment to lift herself from the unexciting awfulness of Moscow? A slut’s attitude, she thought. She said, ‘Hello.’
‘How are you?’
‘OK.’
‘Sure?’
‘Sure.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Nothing much. Nothing at all, in fact. Just sitting, thinking.’
‘What about?’
‘I would have thought that was obvious.’
‘Sorry,’ said Blair. ‘Stupid question.’
‘What are you doing?’ This wasn’t the right sort of conversation, Ann thought. This was the inconsequential, almost intimate talk, of two people who didn’t recognise they’d made any mistake at all.
‘Nothing much,’ he said. ‘Just sitting, thinking.’
‘Oh.’
‘Sorry I phoned you?’
Ann saw the chance. It had happened because they’d allowed things to drift and things that were allowed to drift ended up on the rocks. This was the moment to talk about it – why not, it had happened and they were adults, not children – and label it for what it was and try, as best they could, to forget it ever occurred. She said, ‘No, I’m
