East of the Sun Read Free Page B

didn’t tell them about Josie at all. You don’t have to say was something she’d learned the hard way with William.
     
    He was waiting for her outside the grand Greco-Roman façade of the Oxford and Cambridge Club when she ran up the steps around a quarter to seven. As usual he had arranged his backdrop carefully, placing himself on this occasion between two imposing Corinthian columns, his thin hair lit by the golden glow of lamps from the luxurious rooms behind.
    A fastidious man, he was wearing the pin-striped suit she had last seen folded over the arm of his chair in his flat in Westminster. She remembered how he’d lined up his sock suspenders on top of his underpants, a starched collar, his silk tie.
    “You’re looking well, Viva.” He had a sharp, slightly barking voice, used to great effect in the Inner Temple where he now worked as a barrister. “Well done.”
    “Thank you, William.” She was determined to stay calm. She’d dressed herself carefully for this occasion: a coral silk dress—one of Miss Driver’s cast-offs—the silk delicate as tissue. A purple rose covered the scorch marks on the bodice, the reason for it having been given away.
    She’d got up early to wash her hair under a cold tap because the geyser was on the blink again. It had taken ages and a shilling’s worth of coins in the meter to dry. She’d dampened down its glossy exuberance and tied it back with a velvet bow.
    “I’ve booked us a table.” He was steering her toward the dining room, which smelled of roast meat.
    “There was no need to do that,” she said, moving away from him. “I could take the keys and leave.”
    “You could,” he said.
    A waiter led them toward a table set for two in the corner of the grand dining room. Above them, hung in a straight line, portraits of distinguished academics looked down on her gravely, as if they, too, were considering her plans.
    William had been here earlier. A bulky envelope—she presumed it held the keys—lay propped against a silver pepper pot.
    He settled his pin-striped knees carefully under the table, smiled at her blandly, and told her he had taken the liberty of ordering a bottle of Château Smith Haut-Lafitte, a vintage, he told her in that prissy, self-satisfied way she now recoiled from, of which he was particularly fond.
    The waiter took their orders, brown soup and lamb cutlets for him; grilled sole for her, the simplest and quickest thing on the menu. She was ashamed of herself, in spite of everything, for feeling hungry.
    She glanced at him. Still a commanding presence with his impeccable clothes, his air of slightly impatient authority. Still handsome in a bloodless sort of way, although a bad go of malaria during his tour of India had left his skin a permanently waxy yellowish color.
    A few stiff pleasantries, then William glanced around the room and lowered his voice.
    “Are you sure you really want these?” He closed his hand over the envelope.
    “Yes,” she said. “Thank you.” She had made up her mind before this interview not even to try to explain herself.
    He waited for her to say more, manicured nails beating likedrums on the tablecloth. How clean their half-moons were, the cuticles neatly trimmed. She remembered him scrubbing them in the bathroom.
    “Are you going back?”
    “Yes.”
    “On your own?”
    “On my own.” She bit the inside of her lip.
    She heard him make a whistling sigh. “Can I remind you, you have no money—or very little.”
    She forced herself to say nothing. You don’t have to say.
    He squeezed his bread roll, scattering its crumbs over the side plate. He looked at her with his cold, gray eyes, eyes that had once shone with sincerity. The waiter brought his soup.
    “Well, for what it’s worth,” he took a careful sip, “I think it’s an absolutely dreadful idea. Completely irresponsible.”
    “Soup all right, sir?” Their chirpy waiter had approached them. “A little more butter for madam?”
    She waved him