‘There must have been a mole. Someone who knew about Dominic’s position in MI5 and tipped off the Russians. He wasn’t the first to be sold out in that way.’
‘Have you any idea who it might have been? How it might have happened?’
A tiny tear slipped down Victoria’s cheek.
‘I had my suspicions about Jonathon Soames. Call it women’s intuition rather than fact-gathering intelligence, but he was too nice, too good to be true, and I never trusted him. He had a very senior but rather vague role in Whitehall. And he was influential, connected, a member of various security think tanks, the perfect recruit for the Russians. I mentioned it to my superiors and they laughed in my face. Upper-class men stick together like glue, whereas I was always viewed with suspicion, not because of my background, but because of my sex. They dismissed me as a gossip-monger, a troublemaker, and because I had no proof, I began to doubt my own instincts and stopped pushing. Six months later, Dominic was dead.’
‘So you think Jonathon found out that Dominic was a double agent and shopped him to the Russians.’
She nodded, the movement so slow and sad it was as if it was painful to do so.
‘Jonathon made all the right noises when Dominic disappeared. He even organised a small memorial service for him a few years later. Seven years later. That’s how long you have to wait before you can declare someone dead in absentia. I didn’t go. Not because I didn’t want to remember Dominic, but because I couldn’t stand the hypocrisy of Jonathon weeping crocodile tears.’
She sat down on a bench, and Abby didn’t know which was too much for her: her dodgy hips or the weight of the story.
‘Dominic loved you, Ros,’ said Victoria, her words barely a croak. ‘He loved y
ou so much. I told him how dangerous it was for him to keep seeing you, but he said that you were non-negotiable. As for me? Yes, I tried to break up your relationship, but not totally out of love for queen and country. It was more than that. I was jealous. He loved you. Not me. I may have won the battle, but I didn’t win the war.’
‘No one won,’ said Rosamund painfully. ‘Dom’s gone. I loved him, but I didn’t even have the chance to show him.’
Chapter Thirty
An appointment with Dr Melanie Naylor was the last thing Abby needed. She still couldn’t believe she was here. It was only out of nostalgia and the emotion of the previous day’s events at Appledore that she had agreed to attend when Dr Naylor’s secretary had phoned to confirm the appointment.
The clinic was in a double-fronted house in Clapham Old Town. It was smart and expensive-looking – there was clearly money in the high-end marriage counselling business, noted Abby on her arrival. She was asked to sit in a small waiting room, which was like a particularly chic friend’s study, with comfy sofas, glossy magazines on a walnut table, and a jug of water with slices of cucumber floating in it. It was all a bit too informal for her liking.
After a few minutes, she heard a ring on the bell and a familiar voice introducing himself to Dr Naylor, who had answered the door.
‘Mrs Gordon? Do you want to come through?’ said the doctor, popping her head around the door and smiling at Abby.
Melanie Naylor was about forty. No white coat, just a smart navy wrap dress that looked like DVF. Abby glanced at Nick. He was wearing suit trousers and a pale blue shirt. She always laughed at what men wore in hot weather – shorts and brogues, suits with sandals, Lycra or board shorts – but Nick got it just right. She wondered if he had been to see a client. She wondered if he fancied Dr Naylor, pretty and perfectly poised as she held the door open for them.
Abby sat down on a fashionable-looking orange sofa and glanced up at the certificates on the wall. According to her website – which Abby had googled and read at length – Dr Naylor was a halfway house between a counsellor, which sounded truly terrifying, and a divorce mediator, which didn’t sound much better. Throw in the doctorate and Abby had started to feel as if she had some sort of problem, when her only problem was the cheating husband sitting next to her.
There was a desk in the corner, but Dr Naylor didn’t sit at it, instead choosing an Eames chair opposite the sofa. Abby assumed this was a therapist’s trick, a removal of boundaries to create the most open environment possible.
‘So you two separated several weeks ago?’ said Dr Naylor after taking down a few details.
‘That’s right,’ said Abby, deciding that now she was here, there was nothing for it but to be as honest and transparent as possible. ‘I found a text on his phone from another woman. Nick admitted being unfaithful and I asked him to leave the marital home. The problem, and it’s always been Nick’s problem, is that he does things without thinking about the consequences. He always has. I mean, the first time we met, he turned up to Glastonbury without a tent, because his had been stolen. Who does that? Nick does, because he believes that things will always work out in the end. But it can’t work itself out this time.’
She’d said more than she had wanted to, but she felt like a Duracell bunny that had been wound up and was ready to go.
Nick looked uncomfortable. She could feel him squirming on the seat next to her and she was glad.
‘Have to tried to talk about it? Have you tried to work things out?’
‘There was an argument at the time, but it was very emotional,’ said Nick sheepishly.
‘Have you spoken since?’ asked Dr Naylor.
‘I’ve tried,’ replied Nick.
‘There’s nothing to say,’ said Abby flatly. ‘The facts are pretty simple. Infidelity is non-negotiable in our marriage. I can’t get past it. I can’t get past the betrayal.’
She thought of Elliot Hall and her bubble of self-righteousness popped. She flushed, and felt her shoulders sag a little in shame. She hoped Nick wouldn’t bring up her own recent admission that she’d had dinner with someone.
‘I think there’s plenty to say, to talk about,’ said Melanie Naylor reasonably. She turned to Nick. ‘Do you want to tell me what happened?’