echanism was missing from her brain； the bit that told you how to behave naturally with other people。
I drew my towel more tightly around me； knotted it at my waist； and sat down at the desk。 I’d been struck before by how strangely absent she was from her husband’s autobiography。 That was one of the reasons I’d wanted to begin the main part of the book with the story of their meeting—until I discovered that Lang had made it up。 She was there； naturally enough； on the dedication page—
To Ruth；
and my kids；
and the people of Britain
—but then one had to wait another fifty pages until she actually appeared in person。 I leafed through the manuscript until I reached the passage。
It was at the time of the London elections that I first got to know Ruth Capel； one of the most energetic members of the local association。 I would like to be able to say that it was her political commitment that first drew me to her； but the truth is that I found her immensely attractive—small； intense； with very short dark hair and piercing dark eyes。 She was a North Londoner； the only child of two university lecturers； and had been passionately interested in politics almost from the time she could speak—unlike me！ She was also； as my friends never tired of pointing out； much cleverer than I was！ She had gained a First at Oxford in politics； philosophy； and economics； and then done a year’s postgraduate research in postcolonial government as a Fulbright scholar。 As if that were not enough to intimidate me； she had also come top in the Foreign Office entrance examinations； although she later left to work for the party’s foreign affairs team in parliament。
Nevertheless； the Lang family motto has always been； “Nothing ventured； nothing gained；” and I managed to arrange for us to go canvassing together。 It was then a relatively easy matter； after a hard evening’s knocking on doors and handing out leaflets； to suggest a casual drink in a local pub。 At first； other members of the campaign team used to join us on these excursions； but gradually they became aware that Ruth and I wanted to spend time alone together。 A year after the elections； we began sharing a flat； and when Ruth became pregnant with our first child； I asked her to marry me。 Our wedding took place at Marylebone registry office in June 1979； with Andy Martin； one of my old friends from Footlights； acting as my best man。 For our honeymoon； we borrowed Ruth’s parents’ cottage near Hay…on…Wye。 After two blissful weeks； we returned to London； ready for the very different political fray following the election of Margaret Thatcher。
That was the only substantial reference to her。
I slowly worked my way through the succeeding chapters； underlining the places where she was mentioned。 Her “lifelong knowledge of the party” was “invaluable” in helping Lang gain his safe parliamentary seat。 “Ruth saw the possibility that I might become party leader long before I did” was the promising opening of chapter three； but how or why she reached this prescient conclusion weren’t explained。 She surfaced to give “characteristically shrewd advice” when he had to sack a colleague。 She shared his hotel suites at party conferences。 She straightened his tie on the night he became prime minister。 She went shopping with the wives of other world leaders on official visits。 She even gave birth to his children （“my kids have always kept my feet firmly on the ground”）。 But for all that hers was a phantom presence in the memoirs； which puzzled me； because she certainly wasn’t a phantom presence in his life。 Perhaps this was why she had been keen to hire me： she guessed I would want to put in more about her。
When I checked my watch I realized I’d already spent an hour going over the manuscript； and it was time for dinner。 I contemplated the clothes she had laid out on the bed。 I’m what the English would call “fastidious” and the Americans “tight…assed”： I don’t like eating food that’s been on someone else’s plate； or drinking from the same glass； or wearing clothes that aren’t my own。 But these were cleaner and warmer than anything I possessed； and she had gone to the trouble of fetching them； so I put them on—rolling up the sleeves because I had no cuff links—and went upstairs。
THERE WAS A LOGfire burning in the stone hearth； and someone； presumably Dep； had lit candles all around the room。 The security lights in the grounds had also been turned on； illuminating the gaunt white outlines of trees and the greenish…yellow vegetation bending in the wind。 As I came up into the room； a gust of rain slashed across the huge picture window。 It was like the lounge of some luxurious boutique hotel out of season； which had only two guests。
Ruth was sitting on the same sofa； in the same position she had adopted that morning； with her legs drawn up beneath her； reading theNew York Review of Books 。 Arranged in a fan on the low table in front of her was an array of magazines； and beside them—a harbinger of things to come； I hoped—a long…stemmed glass of what looked like white wine。 She glanced up approvingly。
“A perfect fit；” she said。 “And now you need a drink。” She leaned her head over the back of the sofa—I could see the cords of muscle standing out in her neck—and called in her mannish voice in the direction of the stairs； “Dep！” And then to me； “What will you have？”
“What are you having？”
“Biodynamic white wine；” she said； “from the Rhinehart Vinery in Napa Valley。”
“He doesn’t own a distillery； I suppose？”
“It’s delicious。 You must try it。 Dep；” she said to the housekeeper； who had appeared at the top of the stairs； “bring the bottle； would you； and another glass？”
I sat down opposite her。 She was wearing a long red wraparound dress； and on her normally scrubbed…clean face was a trace of makeup。 There was something touching about her determination to put on a show； even as the bombs； so to speak； were falling all around her。 All we needed was a windup gramophone and we could have played the plucky English couple in a No。l Coward play； keeping up brittle appearances while the world went smash around us。 Dep poured me some wine and left the bottle。
“We’ll eat in twenty minutes；” instructed Ruth； “because first；” she said； picking up the remote control and jabbing it fiercely at the television； “we must watch the news。 Cheers；” she said and raised her glass。
“Cheers；” I replied and did the same。
I drained the glass in thirty seconds。 White wine。 Whatis the point of it？ I picked up the bottle and studied the label。 Apparently the vines were grown in soil treated in harmony with the lunar cycle； using manure buried in a cow’s horn and flower heads of yarrow fermented in a stag’s bladder。 It sounded like the sort of suspicious activity for which people quite rightly used to be burned as witches。
“You like it？” asked Ruth。
“Subtle and fruity；” I said； “with a hint of bladder。”
“Pour us some more； then。 Here comes Adam。 Christ； it’s the lead story。 I think I may have to get drunk for a change。”
The headline behind the announcer’s shoulder read “LANG： WAR CRIMES。” I didn’t like the fact that they weren’t bothering to use a question mark anymore。 The familiar scenes from the morning unfolded： the press conference at The Hague； Lang leaving the Vineyard house； the statement to reporters on the West Tisbury highway。 Then came shots of Lang in Washington； first greeting members of Congress in a warm glow of flashbulbs and mutual admiration； and then； more somberly； Lang with the secretary of state。 Amelia Bly was clearly visible in the background： the official wife。 I didn’t dare look at Ruth。
“Adam Lang；” said the secretary of state； “has stood by our side in the war against terror； and I am proud to stand by his side this afternoon and to offer him； on behalf of the American people； the hand of friendship。 Adam。 Good to see you。”
“Don’t grin；” said Ruth。
“Thank you；” said Adam； grinning and shaking the proferred hand。 He beamed at the cameras。 He looked like an eager student collecting a prize on speech day。 “Thank you very much。 It’s good to see you。”
“Oh； for fuck’s sake！” shouted Ruth。
She pointed the remote and was about to press it when Richard Rycart appeared； passing through the lobby of the United Nations； surrounded by the usual bureaucratic phalanx。 At the last minute he seemed to swerve off his planned course and walked over to the cameras。 He was a little older than Lang； just coming up to sixty。 He’d been born in Australia； or Rhodesia； or some part of the Commonwealth； before coming to England in his teens。 He had a cascade of dark gray hair that flooded dramatically over his collar and was well aware—judging by the way he positioned himself—of which was his better side： his left。 His tanned and hook…prowed profile reminded me slightly of a Sioux Indian chief。
“I watched the announcement in The Hague today；” he said； “with great shock and sadness。” I sat forward。 This was definitely the voice I’d heard on the phone earlier in the day： that residual； singsong accent was unmistakable。 “Adam Lang was and is an old friend of mine—”
“You hypocritical bastard；” said Ruth。
“—and I regret that he’s chosen to bring this down to a personal level。 This isn’t about individuals。 This is about justice。 This is about whether there’s to be one law for the rich； white； Western nations and another for the rest of the world。 This is about making sure that every political and military leader； when he makes a decision； knows that he will be held to account by international law。 Thank you。”
A reporter shouted； “If you’re called to testify； sir； will you go？”
“Certainly I’ll go。”
“I bet you will； you little shit；” said Ruth。
The news bulletin moved on to a report about a suicide bombing in the Middle East； and she turned off the television。 At once her mobile phone started ringing。 She glanced at it。
“It’s Adam； calling to ask how I think it went。” She turned that off； as well。 “L