Skydancer by Geoffrey Archer

amusingly indiscreet about the way politicians could be manipulated by the technical departments, and she had found her own humour growing waspish as she talked of the odd personalities she encountered in her work. Their conversation had ranged widely after that. They had laughed a lot, and been reflective too. They had compared their upbringings, his in the steely clamour of Tyneside, hers in the quieter comforts of a London suburb. The food had been passable and they had been well into their second bottle of Valpolicella by the time the bill arrived.
    It had still been daylight outside, on a fine summer’s evening, and they had decided to go for a walk; their second bottle only half consumed, Peter had taken it with him, she remembered. Strolling along the railings by Hyde Park, Mary had burst out giggling.
    â€˜Just look at you with that bottle sticking out of yourpocket!’ she had exclaimed. ‘If you’re not careful I’ll ring the
Daily Mirror
and get them to come and take a picture of you. It’d look good on the front page with “Britain’s Mr H-Bomb” beneath it!’
    â€˜But they’d brand you as a Russian spy!’ he had countered, smiling.
    She had slipped her arm through his, and before long they headed to his hotel to finish the wine. There had been just one glass in his room, so they shared it. It had been years since she had felt so at ease with a man.
    â€˜I want to make love to you,’ he had said suddenly.
    The hotel bedroom was cramped, and had smelled of stale pipe-smoke. She had blinked at him in momentary surprise.
    â€˜I . . . I think I’d like that.’
    It had seemed as if her voice answered without her brain instructing it. His invitation had been so casual and so natural that it appeared simple, yet quite unlike her to agree so readily.
    She had already known he was married – he had talked about his family during dinner – but on that evening such knowledge seemed no barrier. Normally she would never have considered such spontaneous intimacy with a man – particularly a married man. But somehow this had not felt like adultery; simply a natural conclusion to an extraordinarily pleasant evening.
    It had not stayed so simple however. Perhaps it might have done if they had merely said goodbye the following morning, and returned to their previous official relationship across the desk in the Defence Ministry, but everything had been too good that evening for them not to want to repeat it.
    Peter had arranged to stay in London again a few weeks later, and he contacted Mary discreetly a week in advance. On that second meeting she had asked himmore about his wife. She had not intended to at first, but she felt she had to know more.
    At first he had joked about his continuing disagreements with Belinda, and the irony of a nuclear weapons specialist being married to an ardent disarmer. Mary had seen behind the humour, though, and realised his marriage was in serious trouble. Instinct had told her to be cautious, but already she was in the grip of a sexual longing the strength of which she had never experienced before.
    â€˜Damn you, Peter!’ Mary cursed in retrospect, tightly pinching the bridge of her nose to try to hold back the tears now relentlessly filling her eyes. ‘It’s all your fault!’
    She picked up the glass from the coffee table and downed the rest of the gin.
    â€˜Oh hell!’ she shouted out loud, tempted to hurl the glass across the room.
    Three months had passed since he had told her their affair must end, but that still hurt. Feelings of hatred for him alternated with a passionate craving to win him back again. She had been trying to put it all behind her, but now she would not be allowed to. The investigators were starting to pry – and sexual indiscretion would attract them like bees to honey. Her affair with Peter had been so private and secret; now it would become public knowledge.
    Mary