pair. Hermione says she would only be jealous of them.
Dinner over, Hermione commands Toby to the kitchen, ostensibly to give a hand with coffee. She is fey, willowy and Irish and speaks in hushed, revelatory gasps while her brown eyes spark to their rhythm.
‘This Isabel you’re shagging’ – poking a forefinger inside his shirt front and tickling his chest hairs with the tip of her lacquered fingernail.
‘What about her?’
‘Is she married like that Dutch floozie you had in Berlin?’
‘Isabel and her husband split up months ago.’
‘Is she blonde like the other one?’
‘As it happens, yes, she is blonde.’
‘I’m blonde. Was your mother blonde at all?’
‘For God’s sake, Hermione.’
‘You know you only go with the married ones because you can give them back when you’ve finished with them, don’t you?’
He knows nothing. Is she telling him he can borrow her too, and give her back to Oakley when he’s finished with her? God forbid.
Or was she – a thought that only came to him now as he sipped his coffee at his pavement table in Soho and pursued his sightless contemplation of the passers-by – was she softening him up in advance of her husband’s grilling?
*
‘Nice chat with Hermione?’ Giles asks sociably from his armchair, pouring Toby a generous shot of very old Calvados.
The last guests have taken their leave. Hermione has gone to bed. For a moment they are back in Berlin, with Toby about to vent his callow personal opinions and Oakley about to shoot them down in flames.
‘Super, as always, thanks, Giles.’
‘Did she invite you to Mourne in the summer?’
Mourne, her castle in Ireland, where she is reputed to take her lovers.
‘I don’t think she did, actually.’
‘Snap it up, is my advice. Unspoilt views, decent house, nice bit of water. Shooting, if you’re into it, which I’m not.’
‘Sounds great.’
‘How’s love?’ – the eternal question, every time they meet.
‘Love’s fine, thanks.’
‘Still Isabel?’
‘Just.’
It is Oakley’s pleasure to switch topics without warning and expect Toby to catch up. He does so now.
‘So, dear man, where in God’s name is your nice new master? We seek him here, we seek him there. We tried to get him to come and talk to us the other day. The swine stood us up.’
By us , Toby assumes the Joint Intelligence Committee, of which Oakley is some sort of ex-officio member. How this should be is not something Toby asks. Does the man who ran up a seditious joint letter to the Foreign Secretary urging him not to go after Saddam, thereafter earn himself a seat at the Office’s most secret councils? – or is he treated, as other rumours have it, as some kind of licensed contrarian, now cautiously admitted, now shut out? Toby has ceased to marvel at the paradoxes of Oakley’s life, perhaps because he has ceased to marvel at his own.
‘I understand my minister had to go to Washington at short notice,’ he replies guardedly.
Guarded because, whatever Foreign Office ethic says, he is still, somehow, the minister’s Private Secretary.
‘But he didn’t take you with him?’
‘No, Giles. He didn’t. Not this time.’
‘He carted you around Europe with him. Why not Washington?’
‘That was then. Before he started making his own arrangements without consulting me. He went to Washington alone.’
‘You know he was alone?’
‘No, but I surmise it.’
‘You surmise it why? He went without you. That’s all you know. To Washington proper, or the Suburb?’
For ‘Suburb’ read Langley, Virginia, home of the Central Intelligence Agency. Again Toby has to confess he doesn’t know.
‘Did he treat himself to British Airways First Class in the best traditions of Scottish frugality? Or slum it in Club, poor chap?’
Starting to yield despite himself, Toby takes a breath:
‘I assume he travelled by private jet. It’s how he went there before.’
‘Before being when exactly?’
‘Last
Dinner over, Hermione commands Toby to the kitchen, ostensibly to give a hand with coffee. She is fey, willowy and Irish and speaks in hushed, revelatory gasps while her brown eyes spark to their rhythm.
‘This Isabel you’re shagging’ – poking a forefinger inside his shirt front and tickling his chest hairs with the tip of her lacquered fingernail.
‘What about her?’
‘Is she married like that Dutch floozie you had in Berlin?’
‘Isabel and her husband split up months ago.’
‘Is she blonde like the other one?’
‘As it happens, yes, she is blonde.’
‘I’m blonde. Was your mother blonde at all?’
‘For God’s sake, Hermione.’
‘You know you only go with the married ones because you can give them back when you’ve finished with them, don’t you?’
He knows nothing. Is she telling him he can borrow her too, and give her back to Oakley when he’s finished with her? God forbid.
Or was she – a thought that only came to him now as he sipped his coffee at his pavement table in Soho and pursued his sightless contemplation of the passers-by – was she softening him up in advance of her husband’s grilling?
*
‘Nice chat with Hermione?’ Giles asks sociably from his armchair, pouring Toby a generous shot of very old Calvados.
The last guests have taken their leave. Hermione has gone to bed. For a moment they are back in Berlin, with Toby about to vent his callow personal opinions and Oakley about to shoot them down in flames.
‘Super, as always, thanks, Giles.’
‘Did she invite you to Mourne in the summer?’
Mourne, her castle in Ireland, where she is reputed to take her lovers.
‘I don’t think she did, actually.’
‘Snap it up, is my advice. Unspoilt views, decent house, nice bit of water. Shooting, if you’re into it, which I’m not.’
‘Sounds great.’
‘How’s love?’ – the eternal question, every time they meet.
‘Love’s fine, thanks.’
‘Still Isabel?’
‘Just.’
It is Oakley’s pleasure to switch topics without warning and expect Toby to catch up. He does so now.
‘So, dear man, where in God’s name is your nice new master? We seek him here, we seek him there. We tried to get him to come and talk to us the other day. The swine stood us up.’
By us , Toby assumes the Joint Intelligence Committee, of which Oakley is some sort of ex-officio member. How this should be is not something Toby asks. Does the man who ran up a seditious joint letter to the Foreign Secretary urging him not to go after Saddam, thereafter earn himself a seat at the Office’s most secret councils? – or is he treated, as other rumours have it, as some kind of licensed contrarian, now cautiously admitted, now shut out? Toby has ceased to marvel at the paradoxes of Oakley’s life, perhaps because he has ceased to marvel at his own.
‘I understand my minister had to go to Washington at short notice,’ he replies guardedly.
Guarded because, whatever Foreign Office ethic says, he is still, somehow, the minister’s Private Secretary.
‘But he didn’t take you with him?’
‘No, Giles. He didn’t. Not this time.’
‘He carted you around Europe with him. Why not Washington?’
‘That was then. Before he started making his own arrangements without consulting me. He went to Washington alone.’
‘You know he was alone?’
‘No, but I surmise it.’
‘You surmise it why? He went without you. That’s all you know. To Washington proper, or the Suburb?’
For ‘Suburb’ read Langley, Virginia, home of the Central Intelligence Agency. Again Toby has to confess he doesn’t know.
‘Did he treat himself to British Airways First Class in the best traditions of Scottish frugality? Or slum it in Club, poor chap?’
Starting to yield despite himself, Toby takes a breath:
‘I assume he travelled by private jet. It’s how he went there before.’
‘Before being when exactly?’
‘Last
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