‘Stranger!’ accused Betty Harrison.
‘Busy,’ said Brinkman. It was true after a fashion, he supposed. He and Ann had played games about Betty’s reaction if she’d known. Playing one now he said to the woman, ‘What’s all the news?’
‘Is there ever any news, in Moscow?’
‘If there is, you always know about it, Betty.’
She gave a mew of feigned offence but Brinkman knew she was pleased at the acknowledgement. ‘I do hear that the wife of a certain someone at the Australian embassy is becoming well known to the Moscow authorities for her liking of the local brew.’
‘Drinking is Australia’s national sport,’ said Brinkman. To Harrison Brinkman said, ‘How are things in the wheatfields?’
The Canadian grinned. ‘Things seem to have gone quiet, don’t they?’
‘Tonight might be interesting,’ said Brinkman.
‘I sometimes think you people would be better off reading tealeaves in cups,’ said the woman.
Harrison frowned and Brinkman was surprised she said it, innocuous though it was. Appearing to realise the offence Betty tried to recover, smiling over Brinkman’s shoulder. ‘More strangers,’ she said, beckoning.
Brinkman turned, as the Blairs walked up to them. Because of the level of the reception – ambassadorial rank – dress was formal and Blair was wearing a black tie. It was the first time Brinkman had seen the American in a dinner suit. He thought the man looked ill at ease. And he thought Ann looked stunning. She wore a black evening dress, one shoulder bare, with a single diamond clip the only jewellery apart from earrings. She had her hair up, in a chignon, a style she hadn’t adopted before. She smiled at them all, appearing quite controlled and said, ‘Hi.’
‘Hello,’ said Brinkman, relieved she wasn’t finding it difficult. He searched for his own feelings and was surprised by them. He was jealous, he realised. He resented the proprietorial way Blair cupped his wife’s elbow and the man’s closeness to her and everyone’s acceptance that Ann belonged to him. Brinkman stopped the rush of impressions, astonished at himself. What possible, conceivable justifiable right did he have to feel jealous? Presenting himself with the question, Brinkman tried to answer it. Did he love her? He didn’t know – not honestly know – any more than he knew if Ann loved him. It was a word they avoided, like they were avoiding actually looking at each other now. Jealousy wasn’t love; it was coveting something belonging to someone else. Did Ann belong to Blair any more? Another thing they avoided but he thought he knew the answer. Blair had offered her the way out – although he had no way of telling if the man had been serious – and Ann hadn’t taken it. There wasn’t a furtive telephone call or a hurried, snatched meeting when there wasn’t some reference to how much she was going to hate staying on, after the scheduled time. And there could only be one obvious inference from that.
Ann was talking animatedly to Betty Harrison, using the woman as he tried to use her earlier, and Blair was discussing something with the Canadian. As a waiter passed Brinkman said to Ann, ‘Can I get you a drink?’ aware the moment he spoke that he was being overly solicitous and that Blair was turning towards the man anyway. Committed, Brinkman said hurriedly, ‘Both of you,’ and Betty saved the moment by saying, ‘Always the perfect gentleman.’ Brinkman handed glasses to both of them, wondering if the flush he felt burning his face were obvious.
‘I was just saying to Ann that we haven’t seen nearly enough of each other.’
‘No, we haven’t,’ agreed Brinkman, glad to be taken over by the woman.
‘Things have been a bit disorganised, with Eddie being away,’ said Ann.
Soon, thought Brinkman, Betty Harrison was going to realise how steadfastly he and Ann were looking at her to escape looking at each other.
‘He’s back now,’ said Betty, taking over her role as social leader. ‘Let’s make a definite date. Here! Now!’
‘Not clear what I’m doing in the next few weeks,’ said Brinkman, too quickly. He wasn’t sure how well he was coming out of this tonight; he certainly didn’t think he could sustain an enclosed evening, with only six or eight people.
‘Nonsense,’ rejected Betty. ‘Whatever is there to do in Moscow?’
‘We’ll talk on the telephone,’ said Brinkman, still retreating.
‘Tomorrow,’ persisted the woman. ‘I’ll fix things up with Ann and then we’ll make contact with you.’ She turned brightly to the other men and said, ‘I’m fixing up a party.’
Her husband, resigned, said ‘Fine,’ and Blair said, ‘That’ll be swell.’
It was becoming ridiculous and if they didn’t do something soon – right now – it would be seen to be. To Ann, Brinkman said, ‘There are more people here than I thought there would be,’ the only thing he could think of.
She looked at him finally, the rigid set of her face the only indication of difficulty. ‘You haven’t been before,’ she said. ‘There usually are.’
She risked a smile, quickly, on and off, for him. What the hell was there to talk about? Brinkman thought. Taking the chance that his voice would not carry in the hubbub, he said softly, ‘You look fabulous.’
Ann blushed only slightly and said, ‘Thank you.’
‘Russians are late,’ said Harrison, from his right and Brinkman positively turned away from Ann, snatching at the interruption.
‘Maybe they’re planning to make a big entrance,’ said Blair.
‘I would have thought they were assured of that anyway,’ said Brinkman. He had to escape! He’d stayed with them long enough – too long – so it wouldn’t look out of place. To the group generally he said, ‘I think I’ll mingle,’ and moved away as he spoke, so there couldn’t be any delaying discussion with Betty about any damned dinner party. He couldn’t think of an excuse for not going but he’d find one, before she called tomorrow. He’d behaved like an idiot, Brinkman acknowledged. A stumbling, first-time-allowed-out idiot. Thank God there had been so many people, jostling and crowding them. Anything less and someone would certainly have noticed. Maybe they had. Betty Harrison was an irritating, constantly tittle-tattling nuisance and she’d got that way by seeing what went on about her. He was less worried about Betty Harrison than he was about Blair. The American was the acknowledged leader of the pack and he’d achieved the position by seeing what went on around him, too.
Risking the presumption Brinkman tacked himself on to the edge of the group surrounding the British ambassador and was allowed to get away with it because of Sir Oliver Brace’s awareness of who his father was. Brinkman endured Wilcox and more cricket and then managed to buffer himself with the trade counsellor who had helped him initiate the wheat success. Street, remembered Brinkman, with some difficulty. The trade official was a vague, wisp-haired man with a habit of letting his conversation drift away in mid-sentence, as if he suddenly lost conviction in the views he first started to express. Brinkman small-talked, only half-concentrating, alert for the Russian arrival and alert, too, for any movement that might bring him close again to the Blairs.
He’d been close enough, for one night.
There was the briefest dip in the level of sound when the Russians arrived, as if everyone had stopped talking at the same time to draw breath, and Brinkman was happy at the positioning of the ambassador’s group because it was near the main entrance and gave him the opportunity of studying the Russians all together, while they were being greeted by the American ambassador and senior officials, before they had time to disperse.
Vasili Didenko led, the acknowledged leader, the red-faced forceful appearance Brinkman remembered from the British parliamentary visit. The man marched rather than walked and from the briefest expressions from some of the people to whom he was introduced he appeared to have a hard handshake. Like a projector throwing up holiday stills against a screen, Brinkman ran through his mind the memorised images of all the people who had been pictured and identified during the recent elections.