Face Me When You Walk Away by Brian Freemantle

the former was more likely than the latter.
    â€˜Well?’ challenged his wife.
    Her contempt for her husband exceeded that of fellow M.P.s, which made her dislike intense. Doreen Miller had been first his secretary and then his mistress when Harry Bellamy – Hudson was a later creation of his publicity machine – had left the army with a £500 gratuity and a business sense honed by the black markets of immediate post-war Berlin. Now he had another secretary and several other mistresses and Lady Bellamy had a flat of her own separate from the Eaton Square apartment. She had a separate suite in the Buckinghamshire country house, too. Her future was more assured than her husband’s, for Lady Bellamy, a diligent, observant secretary, had retained detailed knowledge of her husband’s early business activities that could, even now, result in a prolonged jail sentence.
    â€˜I thought I’d given strict instructions that no mail was to be delivered to this house from Russia?’ he said. He spoke ponderously, as if for the benefit of a poor note-taker.
    â€˜Shut up,’ she said.
    â€˜I told you I wanted the staff instructed no such letters were to be allowed in this house,’ insisted her husband.
    â€˜Harry,’ sighed the woman, allowing a pause to follow his correct Christian name, knowing it upset him. ‘If you want to go through this ridiculous charade of erasing Pamela from your life, then you do it. I’ve no intention of cutting myself off from the girl.’
    â€˜Your daughter betrayed her own country.’
    Lady Bellamy erupted into genuine amusement at the pomposity.
    â€˜Oh, you stupid bugger,’ she said.
    â€˜But that man!’
    â€˜What’s the matter, Harry? Angry he’s more famous than you are and doesn’t have to ride a bike to get his pictures in the papers?’
    Sir Hudson buried his head on his chest and glowered, a Churchillian affectation he had cultivated for Question Time in the House and TV current-affairs programmes.
    â€˜You’re getting impossible to live with.’
    â€˜Pity,’ said Lady Bellamy. There’s not a thing you can do about it is there?’
    â€˜Cow,’ he said, weakly.
    â€˜Only now, darling,’ she reminded him, honestly. ‘You fucked up this marriage, not me.’
    â€˜Is it necessary to use language like that?’
    Lady Bellamy laughed at him, in feigned surprise. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Another Harry Bellamy campaign? “Let’s wash the English language whiter than white.” You’re on to a loser trying to remove “fuck” from the vernacular.’
    â€˜I’m not trying to erase it from the English language. Just yours.’
    She stared at him for a full minute.
    â€˜Fuck,’ she said, very deliberately. Then she stretched out and picked up the letter.
    â€˜I forbid you to open it.’
    She slit the envelope with her table-knife, ignoring the shuffling as he collected the other morning mail he had already opened and prepared to leave the room.
    â€˜She’s happy,’ reported Lady Bellamy.
    Sir Hudson pretended not to hear.
    â€˜Don’t make yourself look utterly foolish,’ sighed his wife. There’s no audience to impress. She asks if you have forgiven her.’
    â€˜That’s a ridiculous question.’
    â€˜Any more ridiculous than your asking me to forgive you for letting your mistress die in my bed from a back-street abortion?’
    â€˜You didn’t forgive me,’ reminded the M.P.
    â€˜It wasn’t the first time I’d discovered a whore in my own bed. This one just happened to be dying.’
    It was a familiar, accepted goad, like a picador driving a lance into a nerve.
    â€˜I said Pamela asks if you’ve forgiven her,’ repeated the woman.
    â€˜You know I haven’t. Nor will I.’
    â€˜Then I’ll ignore the question when I reply.’
    â€˜I forbid you