six cups, six glasses. Over 60 percent of the cupboard space was empty. In the fridge was half a carton of milk, which wasn't looking too healthy it smelled and looked as if it held the cure for HIV Next to that were some bagels, still in their plastic bag, and half a jar of peanut butter, and that was it. Not exactly Martha Stewart, our Sarah. At least I had some cheese and yogurt in mine.
The bathroom was between the kitchen and the bedroom. There was no bath, just a shower, sink and toilet. The room had been left as if she'd got up normally, done her stuff and dashed off to work. A dry but used towel lay on the floor next to a laundry bin that was half full of jeans, underwear and tights. No sign of a washing machine, but I wasn't really expecting one. Sarah's clothes would go to a dry cleaners, or to a laundry for a fluff and fold.
The bedroom was about fifteen by twenty feet, with a walk-in wardrobe, but no other furniture apart from a double bed and a single bedside lamp sitting on the floor. The duvet was thrown to one side where she'd just woken up and tossed it off. All the bedding was plain white, the same as the walls. There were pillows for two people, but only one of them looked slept on. Again, there were no pictures on the walls, and the Venetian blinds on both windows were closed. Either she'd just got up and gone to work, or this was simply how it always was.
The walk-in closet had mirrored sliding doors. I pulled them open, expecting the scent of a woman's wardrobe, that slight waft of stale perfume lingering on jackets that have been worn once and are back on their hangers before they find their way to the cleaners. In fact, there was almost no smell at all, which wasn't surprising. The rows and rows of expensive-looking clothes were all in dry cleaner's plastic wrapping, and even her blouses and T-shirts were on hangers. Out of curiosity I checked a few labels, and found Armani, Joseph and Donna Karan. She was obviously still slumming it. On a shelf above the dresses was the just as expensive luggage to match. Nothing seemed to be missing or out of place.
In front of me was a small stand-alone chest, just a white Formica thing with about five or six drawers. One of the drawers was open; I looked inside and found panties and bras, again all very expensive.
All her footwear was arranged on the floor on the right-hand side of the wardrobe, and looking very orderly: formal, summer, winter and a pair of trainers. To the left of the wardrobe, and also on the floor, was a shoe box.
I bent down and lifted the lid. A Picasso dove greeted me, on top of more old Christmas and birthday cards. Flicking through them, I found a picture of her arm-in-arm with a tall, good-looking man. They were in woodland, looking extremely happy, both dressed the part in waterproofs and boots. Maybe this was Jonathan, and presumably in happier times. Sarah looked a little older than when I'd seen her on the Syria job; the bob had had two years to grow out and her hair was about shoulder length, still very straight and with a fringe that was just above those big eyes. She hadn't put on weight, and still looked fantastic as she smiled that almost innocent, childlike grin toward me. I realized I was looking at the man beside her and wishing it was me as I dropped the photo back in the box and lay down on the bed. There was no smell of her, just that of dry cleaned cotton.
We had been in and out of Afghanistan those first two months, with no result.
The rebels had managed to get a major offensive off the ground in between their internal feuds and were kicking the ass out of the Russians.
No one would be talking to us for a while, so we got out of the way, taking time off and generally having fun. We could only hope that one of the rebel groups with an entrepreneurial flair would attack a heliport and see us all right with a couple of Hinds.
Both of us could have gone back to the U.K. with the other three and done our own thing, but she wanted to go trekking in Nepal and I knew the country well. It seemed a simple swap: she showed me the historical and religious sites, and I showed her the bars and dives where, as a young infantry soldier on an exchange with the Gurkhas, I'd been separated from my money. It was an education for both of us.
It was during the first week off, staying in Katmandu before moving to Pukara for our week's trek, that things changed. By now she would take the piss out of my accent: I called Hackney 'ackney, and she called it Hackemey. We'd just finished a run one day, and were both getting our key cards from our socks, when she leaned into my ear and said, in her bad cockney accent, 'Awright darling', you wanna fuck or what?'
Three weeks later, and back with the rest of the team in Pakistan, the cover story of being a couple was now played out for real. I even had fantasies of maybe seeing her later on once the job had ended. I'd been married for four years and things hadn't been going well. Now they were in shit state. With Sarah I enjoyed the intimate talks and learning about things I'd never bothered to find out about, or even knew existed. Up until then, I'd thought Cosi Fan Tutte was an Italian ice cream. This was it.
Love. I didn't understand what was happening to me. For the first time in my life I had deep, loving feelings for someone. Even better, I got the impression she felt the same. I couldn't bring myself to ask her, though; the fear of rejection was just too great.
When the Afghanistan job finished, we were on the flight home from Delhi and well into our descent to Heathrow before I plucked up enough courage to ask her the big question. I still didn't know that much about her, but it didn't matter, I didn't think she knew that much about me either.
I just really needed to be with her. I felt like a child being dropped off by a parent and not knowing if they will ever come back. Courage or desperation, I wasn't sure which, but I kept my eyes on the in-flight magazine and said, very throwaway, 'We're still going to see each other, aren't we?'
The dread of rejection lifted as she said, 'Of course.' Then she added, 'We've got to debrief.'
I thought she'd misunderstood me.
'No, no ... I hoped, later on, we might be able to see each other ... you know, out of work.'
Sarah looked at me, and I saw her jaw drop a fraction in disbelief. She said, 'I don't think so, do you?'
She must have seen the confusion on my face.
'Come on, Nick, it's not as if we're in love with each other or anything like that. We spent a lot of time together and it was great.'
I couldn't bear to look at her, so I just kept my eyes fixed on the page.
Fuck, I'd never felt so crushed. It was like going to the doctor for a routine checkup and being told I was going to have a slow, painful death.
'Look, Nick' there wasn't a hint of regret in her voice 'we had a job to do and it was a success. That means it was a success for both of us.
You got what you wanted out of it, and so did I.' She paused.
'Look, the more intimate we were, the more you would protect me, right? Am I right?'
I nodded. She was right. I would probably have died for her.
Before she could say another word I did what had always worked in the past, ever since childhood: I just cut away. I looked at her as if I'd just been asking her out for a drink, and said, 'Oh, OK, just thought I'd ask.'
I'd never been fucked off with such casual finesse. I kicked myself for even having considered that she would want to be with me. Just who the fuck did I think I was? I was definitely suffering from the dreamer's disease.
It was only a month after we'd landed at Heathrow that I left my wife.
We were just existing together, and it didn't seem right to be sleeping with her and thinking of Sarah.
When the Syria job came along I didn't know she was going to be on it.
We met for orders in London, this time in better offices Vauxhall Cross, the new home of SIS overlooking the Thames. She acted as if nothing had ever happened between us. Maybe it hadn't for her, but it had for me. I made a plan. Never again would she, or any other woman, fuck me over.
I sat up on the bed and put the lid on the shoe box. That could wait. I needed to tune in to this place and try to get a feel of it.
I went back into the kitchen, filled the coffee percolator with water and ground beans and got it going. Then I went back into the living room.
Sperm Bank--or the Sperm, as I now liked to call them--were still rattling along big time.
I slumped sideways in one of the chairs, with my back against one arm, my legs over the other. I'd found nothing at all on the first sweep. I would have to give each room a thorough going over, digging everything out. Somewhere, somehow, there could be a slight clue, a tiny hint.
Maybe. The only thing I knew for sure was that if I rushed it I wouldn't find anything.
As I looked around me my thoughts drifted. Sarah wasn't that different from me really. Everything in my life was disposable, from a toothbrush to a car. I didn't have a single possession that was more than two years old. I bought clothes for a job and threw them away once they were dirty, leaving hundreds of pounds' worth of whatever
