A Spy by Nature - Charles Cumming [64]
And with that she raises her glass and we do a three-way chink over the table.
‘Here’s to you, Alec,’ says Fortner. ‘And screw MI6.’
While we are eating pudding something odd happens between Fortner and Katharine, something I had not expected to see.
I have been given a large bowl of tiramisu and Katharine is insisting on tasting it. Fortner tells her to leave me alone, but she ignores him, sliding her spoon into the ooze of my plate and retrieving it with her hand held underneath, catching stray droplets of cream.
‘It’s good,’ she says, swallowing, and turns to Fortner.
‘Can I try yours, sweetie?’
But he rears back, shielding his bowl with his hand.
‘No way,’ he says indignantly. ‘I don’t want your germs.’
There is a startled pause before she says:
‘I’m your wife, for Chrissakes.’
‘Makes no difference to me. I don’t want any foreign saliva on my mint choc chip.’
Katharine is embarrassed, as am I, and she stands up just a few seconds later to go to the ladies.
‘Sorry, Milius,’ Fortner grunts, now shamed into regret. ‘I get real touchy about that kinda thing.’
‘I understand,’ I tell him. ‘Don’t worry.’
To smooth things over, he starts telling me a story about how the two of them met (Paris, conference), but the ease has gone out of the evening: Fortner knows that he has slipped up, that he has showed me a side of himself he had intended to remain concealed.
‘You want coffee, honey?’ he asks timidly when Katharine comes back. I can tell straight away that she has forgiven him, gathered herself together in the ladies and taken a deep breath. There is no hint of admonishment or frustration on her face.
‘Yeah. That’ll be nice,’ she says,-grinning. She has put on a new coat of lipstick. ‘You boys having one?’
‘We are.’
‘Good. Then I’ll have an espresso.’
And the incident passes.
Half an hour later we emerge into the darkness of Wi. Fortner, who has picked up the bill, puts his arm around Katharine and walks east, looking around for a cab. The weight of his arm seems to be pulling her down on one side.
‘We gotta do this again some time,’ she says. ‘Right, honey?’
‘Oh, yeah.’
High up to the left, Katharine gazes at the postcard lights of Piccadilly Circus and says how she never grows tired of looking at them. We walk down the hill towards Waterloo Place and pass the statue commemorating the Crimea.
There are no cabs in sight, but a red Vauxhall Cavalier kerb-crawls us on the corner of Pall Mall. An unlicensed taxi. Fortner looks over nervously as the driver lowers the window on the passenger side and mutters ‘Cab?’ under his breath. I lean down and tell him no thanks. He pulls away.
‘That’s so sweet,’ says Katharine. ‘In New York guys like that come past you whispering “crack, crack”. Here all they wanna do is get to drive you home.’
‘Did you want to go with him?’ I ask.
‘No, we’ll get a black,’ says Fortner firmly.
And no sooner has he said this than one shows up.
‘You sure you don’t want it?’ Katharine says, kissing me on both cheeks.
‘No,’ I tell her. ‘I’m going to catch a train from Charing Cross.’
‘Sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Well, it was lovely seeing you.’
‘Give me a ring,’ I say as she climbs in behind Fortner. I can see the slim outline of her arse and a long slender thigh taut against the cloth of her charcoal trousers.
‘We will,’ he shouts out and the cab pulls away.
It went well.
16
Hawkes
Hawkes leaves the country for the next four and a half months, ostensibly on Abnex business, although I am increasingly of the view that he is involved in other projects with at least one other company. In his absence my encrypted reports are sent to John Lithiby, who has not contacted me directly since the beginning of the year. I have taken this as a sign of his approbation.
There is a rumour in the office - no more than that - that Hawkes