‘Oh, no. Just catching up on my messages,’ she said, standing up, wondering if they should shake hands or air-kiss or something. No, she decided, looking at Rosamund’s face. She was clearly here for a purpose, not socialising. Abby could hardly blame her. In her shoes, I wouldn’t exactly be my first choice for a friend right now, she thought.
‘Thank you for agreeing to see me so quickly,’ Rosamund said. She had called Abby earlier that day.
Abby didn’t like to point out that her lack of work and the desire to sort out – indeed, scotch – any potential legal proceedings had facilitated their prompt meeting.
‘I was just glad you got back in touch,’ she said quickly. ‘I still feel terrible about what happened. I’ve spoken to Elliot. He was under pressure to run the story and didn’t tell me because he knew how angry I’d be.’
‘And I’m sorry for coming round unannounced like that,’ was Rosamund’s surprise response. ‘I shouldn’t have been so abrupt, although you can understand my initial shock and anger when I first read the piece.’
‘Of course,’ said Abby, still feeling guilty.
Ros glanced over at her as they began to walk, a look of good-humoured complicity on her face.
‘I should imagine it’s quite easy to fall into step with men like Elliot. They are rather seductive.’
‘I think he’s just ambitious,’ said Abby, feeling herself blush at the thought of herself being quite literally seduced.
Rosamund nodded. ‘I have always found the third-generation children of wealthy families quite fascinating. They tend to go one way or the other. Either they are lazy, complacent, unmotivated. Everything in life has been given to them on a plate, and instead of building on that success they squander it. Or they can be even more ruthless and driven than their parents or grandparents because they have something to prove. Let’s give Elliot the benefit of the doubt and say his absence of morals is simply a reaction to the achievements of his father. But that’s in the past. Let’s move forward, hmm?’
They walked on, their feet crunching on the gravel, Rosamund pausing every now and then to admire a plant or to stoop to read one of the name labels.
‘Beautiful, aren’t they?’ she said, rubbing a leaf between her fingers then holding them to her nose. ‘But everything in this garden has a purpose. Some plants can cure stomach upsets, some can even stop bleeding. Before modern science, with its pills and powders, this was essentially a giant pharmacy.’
They stopped at a group of plants with a wooden sign reading ‘Neurology and Rheumatology’.
‘Now I think I could do with a few of those,’ said Rosamund, indicating a nearby bench.
‘Sorry, not quite as sprightly as I was,’ she sighed when they were seated. ‘It’s true what they say, you know – everyone feels much younger inside. Some people claim to feel eighteen, but I suppose I think of myself as about twenty-eight, twenty-nine. It’s always a surprise to me when I look in the mirror in the morning, or when I have to sit down quickly.’
She tapped her temple and her wistful expression dissolved.
‘But I’m every bit as sharp up here, however weak the flesh. And frankly, Abby, I don’t buy it.’
Abby looked at her, realising the time had come for Rosamund to explain the purpose of their meeting.
‘You don’t buy it? The story about Dominic?’
Rosamund nodded.
‘Now, I believe you spoke to one Alexei Gorshkov,’ she said after a moment.
‘How did you know?’ asked Abby with surprise.
Ros’s grey brow arched knowingly.
‘I’ve been doing a little research of my own.’
Abby could imagine her on the internet, on the phone, calling her contacts, calling in favours, the years rolling away as if she were back in the Fleet Street newsrooms.
‘Gorshkov is who he claims. He was a senior member of the NKVD during the war, moving up into the KGB and achieving the rank of colonel. No one could tell me if he ever retired, which suggests that he still has “juice”, as I believe the Americans put it.’
‘So if he’s legit, why don’t you believe what he said about Dominic?’
‘Don’t you think I heard the espionage rumours in the sixties, Abby? Dozens of journalists were under suspicion, myself included. There were a few instances when I suspected Dominic of something: an affair, even keeping the wrong company, although as a connected magazine editor he knew everyone from lords to gangsters. But I never believed he was a Soviet agent because I knew my fiancé,’ said Ros more fiercely.
‘And so did Gorshkov. He knew Dominic was working for the KGB.’
‘We only have his word for it.’