‘If you’re so different,’ Eve says, as Mendelssohn’s ‘Wedding March’, played on a wheezy pipe organ, issues from the open door of the church, ‘why did you choose to run off with conventional, boring, marriedme?’
‘You noticed me. You wanted to hunt me down. You were ready to kill me, if necessary. It’s very sexy, that level of interest.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Plus you were bored, and in my experience there’s almost nothing a bored woman won’t do.’
Eve smiles. ‘You’ve never asked why I fancied you.’
Oxana closes her eyes. ‘I’ve never needed to.’
The minutes pass. Swifts whirl and dip in the grass-scented air. From inside the church comes the murmur of voices, smatters of laughter, and the sound of Anglican hymns renderedwith gusto, if not expertise. Finally, to the strains of ‘O Perfect Love’, Balice and Bili march from the church arm in arm, smiling radiantly. Balice is dressed pretty much as Eve guessed she would be, in mid-length oyster-coloured silk. Bili is dashing in a blue and white sailor’s uniform.
‘Wow,’ Oxana murmurs. ‘Strong look.’
When photographs have been taken at the church door, the guests are directed to a manor house. A marquee stands on the front lawn, inside which a string quartet is playing. There are gilt chairs, linen tablecloths and lavish arrangements of peonies and roses. As they wait in line to greet the brides, Eve and Oxana survey their fellow guests.
‘Who’s that woman over there?’ Oxana asks. ‘The blonde one, looking at you like she knows you.’
‘That’s the chief of the Secret Intelligence Service. We know each other by sight, although God knows what she thinks of me.’
‘She’s got pretty eyes. Like sea-glass.’
‘That’s probably why she got the job.’
They’ve reached Balice and Bili. Kisses and congratulations are bestowed, and outfits praised. ‘You both look fabulous,’ Eve says. She looks around her. ‘And all this is amazing.’
‘You next, maybe?’ Balice glances at her speculatively.
‘It’s certainly a thought.’ She smiles. ‘Right now, we’re doing up our flat. You must come round when we’ve finished.’
‘You look so cute,’ Oxana tells Bili. ‘Is that a real naval uniform?’
‘Yes, it’s mine. I’m in the Bulgarian Submarine Reserves.’
Due to the peculiar rules governing upper-crust English weddings, which ordain that unmarried couples must be split up, Oxana and Eve are directed to tables on opposite sides of the marquee. Oxana is swiftly surrounded by an admiring swarm of older men, while twenty metres away, Eve finds herself seated next to the woman with the sea-glass eyes.
‘Mrs Polastri, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ Eve forces a smile, realising that the woman’s name has completely escaped her. She looks for a name card, but it’s no longer there.
‘We knew each other a little, way back when,’ the woman says.
‘Yes,’ says Eve brightly, casting her mind back to one of the worst days of her life. Rather wildly, while working at MI5, she’d signed up for an inter-service kayaking club. The first outing she attended was on the River Wye, in Wales, and it didn’t go well. Wholly inexperienced, but anxious to show herself a good sport, she found herself hurtling down a fast section of white water, flipping over, and almost drowning. Someone dragged her out, and as she knelt shuddering on the bank, vomiting river water, she distinctly heard the baying and tinkling of upper-class laughter. This woman, though, behaved kindly, staying with Eve while she recovered and making sure that she was OK.What the hell is her name?
‘You were in Russia last year, I believe. After you… left us.’
Eve meets her gaze but says nothing.
‘Balice has let it be known that you were there on a deep-cover mission.’ The woman smiles, dazzlingly. ‘But I think that’s complete bollocks. I think that you and your girlfriend over there, the famous Villanelle – and yes, I know all abouther– simply fucked off on honeymoon together. Can I pour you some of this rather delicious-looking Chablis?’
An icy calm descends over Eve. She slides her glass over the linen tablecloth.
‘It’s nice to see you again.’ The woman pours the wine. ‘But I want you to know that I consider you a traitor and think that you should be in a high-security prison, not living in a five-million pound Hampstead apartment paid for by the Twelve. And as foryour sweetheart, your littlerusskaya psikhopatka… I’d honestly prefer it if she were dead.’
Eve suddenly remembers the woman’s name. ‘That’s a pity, Flo,’ she says. ‘Because she speaks very highly of you. She thinks you have pretty eyes, which I can confirm. But if you even think of coming after us, I can promise you this. I know enough to pull your house down around your ears. And myrusskaya psikhopatkawill take your pretty eyes out on the point of a knife. Do you hear me?’
‘I do, Eve. Loud and clear. But we shouldn’t spoil a happy occasion like this by talking about work.’ She turns to an elderly couple who are peering at the name cards. ‘Are you at our table? Lovely. I’m Flo. This is Eve. And here comes the food. Weddings make one so hungry, don’t you find?’