Dishonored (9 page)

“I hope you feel better,” Phillip said.

Jane smiled. “Thanks. Nice to meet you, Phillip.”

“And you.” He slammed the door shut and waved at Jane through the window. “Thank you!” he called as the cab pulled off, but
Jane didn’t hear him. She had already turned away and was looking straight ahead. The likes of Major Phillip Mills, good-looking,
charming and sophisticated, were not for her. She had known that for years, never had been and never would be. “Plain Jane,”
she murmured, without bitterness or regret and she settled back to enjoy the ride home.

P
HILLIP REACHED OVER AND SWITCHED ON THE BEDSIDE LAMP.
The light outside was just breaking.

“Are you awake?” He sat up.

“No.” Suzanna rolled onto her side and put her arm up over her eyes. “Not yet.”

Phillip smiled. “It’s six-thirty,” he said. “This is your early-morning alarm call.” He bent and kissed the side of her face
as she moved her arm and opened her eyes. “Oh God, is it really?”

“Yes.” Phillip dropped his legs over the side of the bed and stood, reaching for his cigarettes. “I’ll put the kettle on,”
he said, moving toward the kitchen. Suzanna sat up and, rubbing her eyes, she watched him walk naked from the bedroom. She
knew she had to get up, make tracks, but she couldn’t face it. She shouldn’t even have been at the flat, it was dangerous,
too risky. She felt tense and miserable.

“I shouldn’t have come,” she said as Phillip came back into the bedroom and took his trousers from the chair. “I should have
stayed at the house, Mitchell will find out, I know he will. It was a mistake!”

Phillip pulled the flannels up over his hips and fastened the fly. He walked across to the bed. “Suzanna, stop it! You’re
being paranoid, it wasn’t a mistake.” He leaned toward her and kissed the hollow of her neck. “I needed you last night, I
couldn’t have stayed in Bertram’s flat on my own, I needed to say goodbye to you properly.”

He moved his mouth down to her breast and she caught her breath. “Phillip, don’t,” she murmured. “Please, I have to get dressed,
I have to go.”

He pulled back. “OK.” Turning away abruptly, he finished dressing, pulling his half-buttoned shirt over his head and rolling
up his tie, stuffing it in the pocket of his jacket. “What time is the driver coming to the house?” He fiddled with his cufflinks,
not looking at her. He didn’t really want to know, he didn’t want to know anything about the other side of her life but he
felt he had to ask. He was making conversation, small talk to ease the misery they both felt.

Suzy climbed out of bed, reaching for her wrap. “Seven-thirty,” she answered. “But Margaret’s coming to the house at seven.
She has some papers she wants me to take out for Mitchell.”

“I see.” Phillip picked up his loose change from the dressing-table and caught sight of Suzy’s reflection in the mirror as
he did so. He swung around and caught her up in his arms. “God, Suzanna!” He held her close, breathing in the smell of her,
the smell of their sex, her perfume, all of it making him dizzy with longing. “I love you, Suzy,” he whispered, “I can’t bear
the thought of being without you.” She clung to him. Her fingers gripped the flesh on his shoulders and her body, pressed
tight against him, seemed at once so frail and so strong, his inspiration. He didn’t know how he would ever live without her.

“What are we going to do?” she murmured.

He pulled back and looked at her face. “I don’t know,” he said, “but I’ll think of something, I promise you…” She nodded
and dropped away from him. She didn’t believe him, he knew that. Walking to the bed, she straightened the covers, not properly,
just wasting time, fiddling.

“I’d better go.” Phillip moved toward the door. He had his jacket over his shoulder. Suzy looked at him. “You don’t have to.”

“Yes, I do. I don’t want to be here when you’ve gone, I want to remember the flat with you in it.” He saw Suzy’s face collapse
and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them she had composed herself and, ashen-faced, she stared at him. “Will
you ring me when you get back? Let me know you’re all right?” She nodded. “I’ve left the number of Bertram’s flat on the pad.”
He turned.

“Phillip?”

“Yes?”

She didn’t know what to say, she just wanted to look at him, to keep the image of his face in her mind, to seal it in her
memory.

“Take care.”

He smiled. “You too.” And without another word, he walked away from her and out of the flat. She heard the front door slam,
then nothing, and, slumping down on the bed, she gave in to her grief.

Stepping out into the cold early-morning air, Phillip turned up the collar of his jacket and wondered what the hell he was
going to do. It was too early to embark on anything constructive and too late to go back to bed. He was miserable and the
thought of his loneliness, of being without Suzy, filled him with desolation. He decided to walk. Heading in the direction
of Park Lane, he made his way toward Hyde Park Corner and an early morning trek through the park, the heels of his shoes clicking
smartly on the pavement as he went.

Jane left the flat in Queen’s Gate just after seven. She carried her painting stool, a small collapsible easel and her water-color
case along with a huge handbag slung over her shoulder that contained a thermos of coffee and some sandwiches that she’d made
the night before; egg and bacon, her favorite. Heading up to the Serpentine, she had already decided on the view she would
tackle first and was looking forward to it. She walked quickly, the cool mist of the morning chilling her and making her wish
that she’d worn her scarf as well as her hat. She swung her arms and stamped her feet as she walked to keep warm as well as
humming “Don’t put your daughter on the stage, Mrs. Worthington,” loudly and badly out of tune.

Phillip sat down on a bench and looked at the ducks on the water. He pulled his jacket in tight around him, suddenly cold,
and rested his head in his hands, closing his eyes. He felt thoroughly wretched. As he listened to the empty silence all around
him, punctuated only by the odd quack and splash of the birds, he thought of Suzy, of the warmth of her body next to him in
bed, and realized that he had never felt so dismal or alone. He slumped forward and hung his head and it was like this that
Jane first spotted him.

Walking past the Albert Memorial and cutting briskly across the park to the Serpentine, Jane headed straight for the view
she had decided on and the bench she wanted to use. She came through a clump of trees, her feet wet from the dew on the grass,
and stopped at the edge of the water. Her bench was taken. Digging in her bag for her glasses, she hurriedly put them on and
peered across the twenty-yard gap at the obstruction. She couldn’t see his face properly but from the slump of his figure
he looked pretty miserable. She tutted irritably and scanned the pond for another view, one eye on the bench to see if the
man had any intention of moving. At this point Phillip looked up.

For a few moments both Jane and Phillip just stared, each trying to place the other, then Jane realized who it was and smiled,
“Hello, erm… Jane Bennet!” she called. “We met last night?” She pulled off her hat and shook her head so that her hair
fell into place.

“Yes, I remember.” Phillip straightened as she came up to the bench. “How’s the headache?”

“It miraculously disappeared in the cab on the way home. Isn’t that extraordinary?”

He smiled. “Yes, quite extraordinary.” Sitting back, he rubbed his hands wearily over his face, then looked at Jane. “So,
what are you doing, Jane Bennet, in Hyde Park at seven in the morning?” He glanced down at the pile of stuff she had been
carrying.

“Painting,” she answered. “Water-color, for the West Sommerton Water-color Society, study of land and sky.”

“How interesting.”

“Not really.” Jane shrugged. “Pretty dull in fact. I lecture one night a week to a group with an average age of seventy and
if anyone is awake at the end of the evening it’s been a good night!”

Phillip smiled again and stood. “Well, I think I’ll leave you to it, then,” he said. He dug his hands in his pockets and glanced
across the park.

Jane watched his face, pale under the suntan, miserable despite the smile and said, “Would you like a cup of coffee? I’ve
brought a thermos.”

He glanced back at her.

“You look as if you could do with one.”

She was frowning, a crease between her eyes that made her look fiercely concerned, and Phillip liked that; he warmed to it.
“Yes,” he replied, “I could do with one, thanks.” He sat down again on the bench and Jane dug in her bag, pulling out a huge
black flask and a packet of sandwiches. “Here,” she said, handing the tinfoil packet to him. “Bacon and egg. If they don’t
cheer you up then nothing will.”

He took the packet, not at all hungry, and opened it, peering in at the sandwiches. “D’you want one?”

“No, not yet, I’ll save mine for later. Go on though, tuck in!” Jane poured the coffee and handed that across as well.

Phillip took a bite of bacon and egg. “Hmmmmm.”

“They do that,” Jane commented as Phillip moved on to a second sandwich. “You think you’re not hungry and then, wham, one
bite and you’ve got to finish the pack.”

He looked at her, his mouth full, and then down at the packet. “Are you always right?” he mumbled, still eating.

“God no! But when I’m wrong I don’t tell anyone.” She sat back on her heels and looked at him. Then suddenly she said, “Is
it anything you want to talk about?”

Phillip stopped eating. “No,” he answered abruptly and looked down at his lap. He hardly knew her, who the devil did she think
she was?

When he glanced up again Jane was still watching him. “It’s just that you look so miserable…” she shrugged as she got
to her feet. “And sometimes it helps to talk.” She bent and picked up the top of her thermos. “Finished?”

“Yes.” Phillip started to rewrap the left-over sandwiches, then suddenly changed his mind and looked up at her. “I mean no.
Is there enough for another cup?”

He smiled as Jane’s face relaxed. “I think so,” she answered. He moved on the bench to make room for her and she sat down
next to him, pouring a second cup of coffee into the little plastic top of the thermos.

“Jane?” She stopped what she was doing and turned her face toward him. “What would you do if you thought you might lose the
only thing that really mattered to you?” He averted his eyes as he asked her, not wanting her to see the pain there.

Jane was silent for a while. “I don’t know,” she answered honestly, then a few moments later said, “I think, if it really
meant that much to me that I’d probably do anything to keep it.”

Phillip looked at her. “Anything?”

“Yes, I believe I would do anything.” She smiled, a rather sad smile Phillip thought. “Although I’ve never been in that position,”
she said quietly, “I mean, having something or someone that mattered more than anything else.”

Phillip reached over and took her hand. It was an extraordinarily candid statement and he respected her courage. “Thank you,
Jane,” he said.

“Good Lord!” She laughed, a short embarrassed snort. “What on earth for?” And easing her hand away, she stood, picked up her
bag and plonked it down on the bench between them. “I’d better get started,” she said, pulling out her paints, “before this
place is flooded with American tourists!”

Phillip stood as well and, chucking the dregs of the coffee away, he screwed the cap back on the thermos and handed Jane what
was left of her sandwiches. He dug his hands in his pockets.

“We should get together sometime for a drink or something,” he said, more out of courtesy than anything else, and Jane nodded,
knowing as much. “Thanks for the coffee, Jane.”

She turned to him and smiled. “My pleasure, Phillip.”

“And thanks for…” But Jane had pulled on her hat and bent to set up her stool so he didn’t bother to finish his sentence.
“Goodbye, Miss Jane Bennet.”

She glanced up at him. He was probably the best looking man she had ever seen, she thought briefly. “Goodbye, Major Phillip
Mills,” she said. And watching him stride away she sighed, both with regret and relief, and went about her water-color.

Later that same morning, as Jane finished her first painting, Phillip let himself into Bertram’s flat in Chelsea, having walked
the whole way from Hyde Park. He switched on the heating, drew the curtains in the sitting-room, and opened the top window
to air the place. Then he walked through to the small galley kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee. He peered hopefully
in the fridge but found nothing except half a lemon and a bottle of brown ale. If he hadn’t had a lunch appointment at Kensington
Palace he would have been tempted to forget the coffee and open the beer.

Filling the kettle, he turned on the gas and put it on to boil while he rifled the cupboards for the coffee and sugar. He
wasn’t used to worrying about this sort of thing; at the flat in Grosvenor Square, Suzy’s housekeeper took care of everything
domestic; she even bought his own brand of toothpaste. Finally locating a tin, he scraped the bottom of it for half a teaspoon
of stale instant and made himself a cup of coffee. He took it through to the bedroom, sat down on the small double bed with
only one blanket and looked miserably at his luggage. He had six cases and four boxes, an enormous amount of stuff that had
piled up at Suzanna’s place and that needed to be sorted if he was going to make it through his leave in Bertram’s tiny flat.
It was a depressing thought.

First things first though, he decided, spotting his wash bag; he had to bathe and change for lunch, then find his briefcase.
It was his first meeting with the duke since arriving back in the UK and he was due to brief Edward and his staff on the details
of the job in Baijur. He stood, left the disgusting coffee on the bedside table and looked through his things, finding his
suit bag, the case with his shirts in and his ties; they were all in the luggage he had brought from India. Then he went into
the bathroom to unpack his toiletries.