The Key to Rebecca - Ken Follett [113]
She glared at him. She seemed close to tears. She said loudly: “Where have you been for the last two days?”
He looked away from her, thinking. “I’ve been at work.”
“And where do you think I’ve been?”
“Here, I suppose.”
“Exactly!”
He did not understand what that meant. It crossed his mind that he had fallen in love with a woman he hardly knew. He said: “I’ve been working, and you’ve been here, and so you’re mad at me?”
She shouted: “Yes!”
Vandam said: “Calm down. I don’t understand why you’re so cross, and I want you to explain it to me.”
“No!”
“Then I don’t know what to say.” Vandam sat on the floor with his back to her and lit a cigarette. He truly did not know what had upset her, but there was an element of willfulness in his attitude: he was ready to be humble, to apologize for whatever he had done, and to make amends—but he was not willing to play guessing games.
They sat in silence for a minute, not looking at one another.
Elene sniffed. Vandam could not see her, but he knew the kind of sniff that came from weeping. She said: “You could have sent me a note, or even a bunch of bloody flowers!”
“A note? What for? You knew we were to meet tonight.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Flowers? What do you want with flowers? We don’t need to play that game anymore.”
“Oh, really?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Listen. We made love the night before last, in case you’ve forgotten—”
“Don’t be silly—”
“You brought me home and kissed me good-bye. Then—nothing.”
He drew on his cigarette. “In case you have forgotten, a certain Erwin Rommel is knocking at the gates with a bunch of Nazis in tow, and I’m one of the people who’s trying to keep him out.”
“Five minutes, that’s all it would have taken to send me a note.”
“What for?”
“Well, exactly, what for? I’m a loose woman, am I not? I give myself to a man the way I take a drink of water. An hour later I’ve forgotten—is that what you think? Because that’s how it seems to me! Damn you, William Vandam, you make me feel cheap!”
It made no more sense than it had at the start, but now he could hear the pain in her voice. He turned to face her. “You’re the most wonderful thing that’s happened to me for a long time, perhaps ever. Please forgive me for being a fool.” He took her hand in his own.
She looked toward the window, biting her lip, fighting back tears. “Yes, you are,” she said. She looked down at him and touched his hair. “You bloody, bloody fool,” she whispered, stroking his head. Her eyes spilled tears.
“I’ve such a lot to learn about you,” he said.
“And I about you.”
He looked away, thinking aloud. “People resent my equanimity—always have. Those who work for me don’t, they like it. They know that when they feel like panicking, when they feel they can’t cope, they can come to me and tell me about the dilemma; and if I can’t see a way through it, I’ll tell them what is the best thing to do, the lesser evil; and because I say it in a calm voice, because I see that it’s a dilemma and I don’t panic, they go away reassured and do what they have to do. All I do is clarify the problem and refuse to be frightened by it; but that’s just what they need. However ... exactly the same attitude often infuriates other people—my superiors, my friends, Angela, you ... I’ve never understood why.”
“Because sometimes you should panic, fool,” she said softly. “Sometimes you should show that you are frightened, or obsessed, or crazy for something. It’s human, and it’s a sign that you care. When you’re so calm all the time we think it’s because you don’t give a damn.”
Vandam said: “Well, people should know better. Lovers should know better, and so should friends, and bosses if they’re any good.” He said this honestly, but in the back of his mind he realized that there was indeed an element of ruthlessness, of coldheartedness, in his famous equanimity.
“And if they don’t know better ... ?” She had stopped crying now.
“I should be different? No.” He wanted to be honest with her now. He could have told her a lie to make her happy: Yes, you’re right, I’ll try to be different. But what