The Doll’s House by Evelyn Anthony Page B

for months. She’d been too busy. The dining room was hardly ever used.
    â€˜Coffee, hot coffee,’ she said out loud. ‘Pull yourself together. It’s not the end of the world. You’ve been miserable as hell. So what are you crying about, you bloody fool?’
    She switched on the percolator and sat down at the table to wait. She drank the coffee slowly. She didn’t feel any warmer. Five years and they were part of the divorce statistics. Everything they’d shared, all the hopes and enthusiasms when they first fell in love had ended in that decisive slam of the front door as her husband walked out to someone else.
    She was twenty-nine, on the brink of a brilliant career which could end with a top Embassy. So her marriage had failed. It was a casualty along the way she’d chosen. James had asked the impossible. Give it all up and settle down to a domestic life with shopping at Marks & Spencer and taking her children to school as the highlight of her day.
    Rosa got up, washed the coffee mug, replaced it on the shelf with all the others. It was his fault for wanting her to live in his shadow, waste her intelligence and talents. A double first at Oxford, rapid promotion in a job that fascinated her. And she was expected to throw it all away.
    She went upstairs to their room. There was no sign of his leaving. No cupboards gaping, no half-open drawers. It was as if he had never shared it with her. She ran a hot bath and lay soaking in it, trying to think of Brussels and the challenge ahead of her. Concentration was her forte; she could shut out anything and beam in on her subject to the exclusion of everything else. But it didn’t work. Was he right, was I really as selfish as he said …? Did I love him? God knows in the beginning, yes, yes, I was crazy about him. But not for a long time. You can’t love someone if they make you feel guilty. You end up by hating them. As he hates me. Because I’d spoiled it all.
    She got out, dried herself and got into the cool bed. Her head was aching and she felt exhausted. Rosa Bennet, the great success, the rising star. ‘God!’ she mumbled, slowly drifting into sleep. ‘God! What a terrible failure …’
    Air Marshal Sir Peter Jefford left his desk and came to meet her. He was a tall, thin man with greying hair and a neat moustache, impeccably dressed in the dark suit and discreet tie of a senior Civil Servant.
    He had been head of Intelligence in the Foreign Office for three years. He was not a warm person, but he took Rosa’s hand and pressed it sympathetically.
    â€˜Come and sit down,’ he said.
    She was one of Hugh Chapman’s protégés, and Hugh only picked out the best. She’d caught his attention from the start by her top marks in the Foreign Office exam, and he’d recommended her to Jefford. A stint with ‘C’ Section would be very useful, and he felt she would make a significant contribution. Jefford had monitored her progress in the last weeks.
    She had mastered the basic training of gathering information very quickly, and she had a natural instinct for what was relevant. And a phenomenal memory. Her reports were excellent. She was a quick pupil, dedicated in her attitude, emotionally stable, a woman other women accepted because she was no man-eater. And attractive to men. Good company, charming and easy to talk to. Tailor-made for Brussels.
    â€˜I got your memo,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry.’
    â€˜Thank you, Sir Peter. I felt you should know as soon as it happened. It’s very kind of you to see me, it wasn’t really necessary. I know how busy you are.’
    She said all the right things, and he liked her modesty.
    â€˜And it’s definite? Your husband won’t change his mind?’
    â€˜Very definite,’ Rosa answered. ‘I had a letter from his solicitors this morning.’
    She sounded very calm, but she looked pale, and there were