The Secret

Steven arrived at the Monsonnier at five to eight and sipped kir while he waited. At fifteen minutes past, the waiter asked if Monsieur would like another. Steven said not; his friend wouldn’t be much longer. At half past he decided that Aline wasn’t coming. He apologised, paid for the drink and tipped well before leaving to walk up and down outside for another ten minutes until he felt absolutely sure she wasn’t going to turn up.

Aline’s hotel was only a five-minute walk away so Steven thought it might be an idea to go there and check that she was all right. He had almost reached the entrance before impulse gave way to consideration and he decided that this might not be a good idea after all. It might look as if he were annoyed that she hadn’t turned up and was looking for an explanation when it was a lady’s prerogative to change her mind, he seemed to remember from some way-back code of manners. They had exchanged contact details so presumably she would be in touch to explain at some point — or not.

Steven smiled, thinking how pleased Tally would be when he told her his ‘date’ had stood him up. He smiled again when he considered that Tally was the best thing that had happened to him for years and then felt the familiar pang of guilt before adding the rider since Lisa of course. He had loved Lisa dearly and their time together had been all too short. Maybe that was the reason why loving someone else still felt as though it had elements of betrayal about it. Silly after ten years but still undeniable.

He was passing a bar when he thought how inviting it looked, typically French with the kind of effortless atmosphere that business people back home tried and failed to emulate by calling their place a bistro, leaving bare boards on the floor and kitting it out with tables and chairs reclaimed from derelict churches. He went inside and ordered un ballon de rouge. It was served quickly and efficiently but without comment, making him reflect on the dislike the English had for the French and in particular for Parisians. It was a view he didn’t share. He preferred to see their perceived rudeness as sophistication. They spoke when they had something worth saying: they listened when there was something worth hearing. Steven ordered a sandwich tunisien and had another glass of wine before deciding on an early night.

In the morning he was on the first flight out of Charles de Gaulle to Heathrow and was sitting in John Macmillan’s office by eleven thirty. Jean Roberts brought in coffee and Steven reported briefly about the Paris trip before Macmillan told him about the two cases of polio in Leicester. Steven had to admit he already knew.

‘Of course, that’s where Dr Simmons works,’ said Macmillan. ‘I should have remembered. How is she, by the way?’

‘Just fine,’ replied Steven, once again noting that Macmillan always referred to Tally formally. He wasn’t quite sure why but suspected it might be because Sir John saw her as the main obstacle to his agreeing to take over at Sci-Med one day. ‘I’ll be seeing her later. I hope to get more details.’

‘It seems straightforward enough,’ said Macmillan, leaning back in the chair, elbows on the arm rests, fingers interlaced in a steeple. ‘Recent immigrant family from Afghanistan.’

‘Do we know which region?’

Macmillan searched briefly through some papers on his desk. ‘North West Frontier country... FATA if that means anything to you?’

‘Federally administered tribal areas,’ said Steven.

‘I’m impressed,’ said Macmillan. ‘I’m told polio is still rife there.’

‘Much to the chagrin of the World Health Organisation,’ said Steven. ‘I’ve learned quite a bit about this over the past couple of days.’

‘I remember now, that’s where Dr Ricard was working. Well, the Leicester situation is something we can’t do much about. It’s a straightforward case of importing a disease from the wilds of Afghanistan into our multicultural wonderland. God help us all.’

Steven smiled wryly. He was well aware of Macmillan’s views on modern Britain. Multiracial was fine, multicultural was the death of all things British and the road to disaster. ‘I was thinking...’ he began.

Macmillan raised his eyebrows.

‘Well, I was wondering as things are a bit quiet for us at the moment if I might take some time off. I’ve been trying to persuade Tally to take a holiday. She’s been working so hard that I’m starting to worry about her, and if this polio business should become more than an isolated incident she might not get a chance again for quite a while.’

‘Makes sense,’ agreed Macmillan. ‘It’s a while since you had any real time off too apart from the odd weekend here and there. Recharge your batteries, that sort of thing.’

‘Thanks, John. I’ll work on Tally this evening.’

‘Give her my best.’

Steven had a quick mental picture of Tally’s face when he passed on Macmillan’s regards. She saw him in much the same light as he saw her: a threat.