While Paul lay sleeping, his bearlike form curled into a fetal ball, Lillian slipped out from under the cool silk sheets, and began putting on her clothes. She dressed quickly, not wanting him to awaken and find her still there.
God forgive her for it, but she’d let Paul continue to believe that he was the baby’s father. And now, there was no turning back. She would always have a link with him, and a power over him, where before the power had all been his. Now, he would not be able to force her into any more compromising situations. She was retired, Paul had insisted on it. She found it strange that he would allow the child to be raised by another man, but his position was too important to be jeopardized by any hints of scandal. He would keep tabs on her and the child, he’d said, and make sure they had everything they needed. But Lillian had refused, and their evening of love had almost turned into a row.
After their passions had been spent, all she wanted was to flee, run home to her husband and hope that she could put it all behind her.
Slipping on her shoes, Lillian checked the clock on the bedside table, its radium dial glowing faintly. 8:45.
Michael’s meeting had started an hour and forty-five minutes ago, and would no doubt go on for a while. She had plenty of time to make it home before him, so why did she feel so anxious?
Perhaps, it was that ominous tone in his voice when he’d called her, that certain hesitation that signaled that something was amiss. Then again, why was she trying to fool herself? It was guilt, plain old guilt that made her feel this way. And time would be the only purgative that would rid her of it. Time...and Michael’s love. She’d betrayed him in body and soul, but now she would stick by him, no matter what happened. Paul had promised to stay out of her life unless absolutely necessary. Lillian said a small prayer that he was as good as his word. She wanted no more of his secretive ways.
Retrieving her coat from the chaise lounge, she took one last look at her lover, her eyes tracing the heavy line of his jaw and the soft pout of his lips. Then she left the room, taking the back stairs and exiting the hotel through a fire door leading into the alley.
She hailed a cab on the Strand, taking it to Charing Cross station, where she boarded the 8:55 train to East Brixton. It was blessedly empty, allowing her to sit and compose the thoughts that raged through her jumbled mind. She wanted to be home before Michael, she wanted to feel his arms around her and know that everything would be all right. And when he walked in that door, she would have the candles lit and the news of his child on her lips.
When the cab pulled up in front of 28 Benedict Road at 9:23, Lillian paid the driver and then rushed inside, slamming the door behind her, a sigh of relief escaping her lips. She left the lights out, preferring the dark, and padded into the kitchen where she brewed up a pot of Darjeeling. The odor of the warm, fragrant tea filled the tiny kitchen, reminding her of her youth and bringing unwanted tears to her eyes. It was a childhood far different than the one she’d told Michael when they first met, one that would horrify him for a vastly different reason. It was one more lie, one more secret between them, and she wanted it all to stop—here and now. She vowed that someday, when this ghastly war was over, and their futures were more secure, she would risk the loss of his love and tell him the truth.
For now, however, the truth must remain where she had always lived...in the shadows.