mountain views are probably spectacular.”
She’d kissed him. “Dinner will go well. I promise.”
She’d stuck with her decision not to tell him about Barrow. If Jamie chose to unveil his presence during tonight’s dinner, Edward would be caught out, surprised by his own son. But the assassination had left her all the more loath to introduce Jamie’s latest indiscretion into his day. That was another thing about diplomatic life; the concerns of the wider world put one’s personal issues—especially the humbler ones, such as whether Peter made the First or the Second Senior rowing team at Fettes, or the dry cleaner had left a mark on one of Edward’s best jackets—in perspective. Even the shock of having your fifteen-year-old son suspended from school and left to wander around the airports of Europe slid down a notch when it came up for comparison against irrevocable tragedies such as an assassination—or, after thirty years of service, being relegated to someplace in central Asia without much electricity.
Clare pushed through the doorway into the kitchen with her shoulder, her hands encumbered by their plates. Jamie wouldn’t appear suddenly during dinner. She would speak with him now, try to get some more details and, at the same time, make him promise to keep a low profile until tomorrow. They would be the only ones in the apartment for a little while, with Edward gone and Mathilde and Amélie out for their midday breaks. Moments of domestic privacy had become rare since moving into the Residence; you had to seize them.
She set the plates down and surveyed the kitchen. Everything looked in order. She peeked into the fridge; a colander of deep-red strawberries sat on the middle shelf. She stole a handful with the hope that Mathilde wasn’t planning to use them to garnish this evening’s dessert or, if she was, wouldn’t notice. The first bite burnt into her tongue, a warm sweetness with an acidic edge. Jamie loved strawberries; she’d tote the rest of her handful to him. As a little boy he’d make himself sick eating too many at one sitting. “Moderation,” Edward would tell him, and Jamie would turn his back and pop another in his mouth. “Mommy…,” he’d moan within the hour, “my tummy doesn’t feel good.”
James would never show temperance. “Where does he get it from?” Edward would ask when James flew into a fury over being told to pick up his sneakers from the study floor or rolled off his chair in laughter during the rare state dinner he’d been invited to attend. “Certainly not you or me!”
Clare emptied her handful of strawberries back into the colander and closed the fridge. Mollycoddling. That’s what Edward called her behavior towards the children on the rare occasion that they disagreed over parental decisions.
She wiped her hands with a paper towel and headed down the hall towards his room. There was no longer light streaming out from under his door.
She knocked softly.
No one answered.
Had he fallen asleep waiting for her to return? He would have gotten up at dawn to catch the flight for Paris.
She turned the knob and pushed the door open.
On Jamie’s empty bed lay a note, written on a page torn from the Roth novel. Jamie had folded the page in two, with “Mom” scrawled across the outer flap. On the inside was written “Gone out. Don’t want to make any more trouble. I’ll steer clear of Dad until tomorrow. Jamie.”
Clare sat down on the bed. The warmth left behind by her adolescent son’s lanky body pressed into her thighs, and she ignored the urge to lean into it. She’d told Jamie he was to stay put; why did he have to burrow himself into even further trouble? She didn’t want to have to fight with him. She didn’t want to have to punish him. But these things he kept doing—the forging names, the sneaking around, the coming and going without permission—these couldn’t be excused, in the way even cheating might be, as a foolish act of
She’d kissed him. “Dinner will go well. I promise.”
She’d stuck with her decision not to tell him about Barrow. If Jamie chose to unveil his presence during tonight’s dinner, Edward would be caught out, surprised by his own son. But the assassination had left her all the more loath to introduce Jamie’s latest indiscretion into his day. That was another thing about diplomatic life; the concerns of the wider world put one’s personal issues—especially the humbler ones, such as whether Peter made the First or the Second Senior rowing team at Fettes, or the dry cleaner had left a mark on one of Edward’s best jackets—in perspective. Even the shock of having your fifteen-year-old son suspended from school and left to wander around the airports of Europe slid down a notch when it came up for comparison against irrevocable tragedies such as an assassination—or, after thirty years of service, being relegated to someplace in central Asia without much electricity.
Clare pushed through the doorway into the kitchen with her shoulder, her hands encumbered by their plates. Jamie wouldn’t appear suddenly during dinner. She would speak with him now, try to get some more details and, at the same time, make him promise to keep a low profile until tomorrow. They would be the only ones in the apartment for a little while, with Edward gone and Mathilde and Amélie out for their midday breaks. Moments of domestic privacy had become rare since moving into the Residence; you had to seize them.
She set the plates down and surveyed the kitchen. Everything looked in order. She peeked into the fridge; a colander of deep-red strawberries sat on the middle shelf. She stole a handful with the hope that Mathilde wasn’t planning to use them to garnish this evening’s dessert or, if she was, wouldn’t notice. The first bite burnt into her tongue, a warm sweetness with an acidic edge. Jamie loved strawberries; she’d tote the rest of her handful to him. As a little boy he’d make himself sick eating too many at one sitting. “Moderation,” Edward would tell him, and Jamie would turn his back and pop another in his mouth. “Mommy…,” he’d moan within the hour, “my tummy doesn’t feel good.”
James would never show temperance. “Where does he get it from?” Edward would ask when James flew into a fury over being told to pick up his sneakers from the study floor or rolled off his chair in laughter during the rare state dinner he’d been invited to attend. “Certainly not you or me!”
Clare emptied her handful of strawberries back into the colander and closed the fridge. Mollycoddling. That’s what Edward called her behavior towards the children on the rare occasion that they disagreed over parental decisions.
She wiped her hands with a paper towel and headed down the hall towards his room. There was no longer light streaming out from under his door.
She knocked softly.
No one answered.
Had he fallen asleep waiting for her to return? He would have gotten up at dawn to catch the flight for Paris.
She turned the knob and pushed the door open.
On Jamie’s empty bed lay a note, written on a page torn from the Roth novel. Jamie had folded the page in two, with “Mom” scrawled across the outer flap. On the inside was written “Gone out. Don’t want to make any more trouble. I’ll steer clear of Dad until tomorrow. Jamie.”
Clare sat down on the bed. The warmth left behind by her adolescent son’s lanky body pressed into her thighs, and she ignored the urge to lean into it. She’d told Jamie he was to stay put; why did he have to burrow himself into even further trouble? She didn’t want to have to fight with him. She didn’t want to have to punish him. But these things he kept doing—the forging names, the sneaking around, the coming and going without permission—these couldn’t be excused, in the way even cheating might be, as a foolish act of
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