Yesterday's Spy Read Online Free Page B

carried an inflection of her birth ties. ‘You don’t have to have something to feel guilty about!’ Her voice was high and almost shrill. ‘Don’t you understand that? Guilt is like pain – it hurts just the same whether it’s real or imagined!’
    â€˜I’ll have to think about that,’ I said defensively.
    â€˜You think about it, then. I’ll go and fetch William.’ She pushed the silk cosy down over the teapot to keep the tea warm while she was gone. But she did not go. She kept her hands round it and stared into the distance. Or perhaps she was staring at the silver-framed photo of her brother Marius, the young priest who’d died in that carbolic-smelling basement. Suddenly the sun stabbed into the room. It wasn’t real sun, there was no warmth in it, and precious little colour. It spilled over the embroidered traycloth like weak lemon tea, and made a rim round Caty’s hair.
    They were both like their mother, these Baroni girls. Even as children they’d looked more like visiting townspeople than like village kids. Tall and slim, Caty had that sort of ease and confidence that belied the indecision she expressed.
    â€˜I won’t stay here,’ she said, as if her thoughts had raced on far beyond our conversation. ‘My sister wants me to help with her boutique in Nice. With the money I get from the house, we could start another shop, perhaps.’
    The sun’s cross-light scrawled a thousand wrinkles upon her face, and I was forced to see her as she was, instead of through the flattering haze of my memories. Perhaps she read my thoughts. ‘I’m getting old,’ she said. ‘Steve’s getting old, too, and so are you.’ She smoothed her hair, and touched the gold cross that she wore.
    She was still attractive. Whatever kind of post-natal exercises she’d done after Billy’s birth had restored her figure to that of the trim young woman Steve had married. She used just sufficient make-up to compensate for the pale English winters she’d endured for so long. Her nails were manicured, and long enough to convince me that she didn’t spend much time at the sink, and her hair was styled in the fashion that requires frequent visits to the hairdresser.
    She smoothed the striped silk pants across her knee. They were stylish and tailored. She looked like an illustration that American
Vogue
might run if they ever did an article about English crumpet. I wondered if she spent many elegant afternoons sitting by the log fire in her fine clothes, pouring herself lemon tea from a silver teapot.
    â€˜Do you know what I think?’ she said.
    I waited a long time and then I said, ‘What do you think, Caty?’
    â€˜I don’t believe you just
bumped into
Steve. I think you were sent after him. I think you are still working for the Secret Service or something – just like in the war. I think you are after Steve.’
    â€˜Why would anyone be after him, Caty?’
    â€˜He’s changed,’ she said. ‘You must have noticed that yourself. I wouldn’t be surprised what he was mixed up in. He has this sort of schizophrenia and an obsession with secrecy. I don’t know if you get like that in the Secret Service, or whether the Secret Service choose that sort of man. But it’s hell to live with, I’ll tell you that.’
    â€˜I think you still love him,’ I said.
    â€˜You’ve always hero-worshipped him,’ she said. ‘He was your big brother, wasn’t he? You just can’t imagine that some boring little housewife like me would have the effrontery to be glad to get rid of your wonderful Steve Champion. Well, I am glad. I just hope like hell that I never see him again, ever.’
    I don’t know how she expected me to react, but whatever she expected, I failed her. I saw a look of exasperation. She said, ‘I tried, believe me, I tried very hard. I even bought new