“Yes. He’s still drunk. I can’t make heads or tails of him.”

“I can bring the boys up, if you want.”

“No, no. I don’t want them to see him like this. Have you learned anything on your end? About the flat, I mean, and what happened.”

Philip sighed, and the noise amplified down the line, so it sounded like a gust of wind. “I’m afraid he’s in a bit of trouble. They’re trying to hush it up, but the girl won’t cooperate, not that I blame her.”

“Girl? What girl?”

“Just some young woman. From what I can gather, your husband and Burgess went to some kind of party at her flat—friend of a friend, she didn’t know them—and became excessively drunk, started smashing the place up, police were called. Burgess is connected everywhere and somehow got them both off without charges, but that won’t last, not if the girl keeps making a fuss.”

“As she should,” Iris said. “The stupid fools.”

She didn’t hear the footsteps coming up behind her, not until Sasha’s hand reached out and took the receiver from her hand.

“Beauchamp? That you? Beauchamp, old boy! How are you? Yes, yes, it’s me. Been having a nice time out there by the sea, fucking my wife? Goddamn good lay, isn’t she—”

Iris lunged for the receiver, but he twisted away easily, used his height to his advantage.

“Stop! You drunken idiot! Sasha!”

“What’s that? Pistols at dawn? God, no, old man. You can have her. I’m a goner, anyway, right? Big red bull’s-eye, right smack—”

At last Iris snatched the receiver away. He stumbled and crashed to the floor.

“Philip? Philip? No, I’m all right, I’m fine, he won’t hurt me. He’s just drunk.”

“Iris, I’m jumping in the car this instant, I’m driving up—”

“No, don’t—”

“You’re not staying with him. Iris, do you hear me? Iris?”

“I’m here. Look, I’ve got to take care of him, all right? I’ll sober him up. He’ll be fine, he’ll be very sorry. We’ll get him help. That’s all he needs.” She was crying, for some reason. “All he needs is some help. A hospital or something. Good-bye, Philip.”

“Iris—”

She hung up the receiver and dropped on the floor. She lifted Sasha’s sobbing chest and cradled him—smoothed his tarnished hair—they wept together.

“I’m so sorry, darling,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

IRIS BATHED HER HUSBAND and settled him into bed in fresh pajamas. Maybe Burgess was smart, leaving him on the floor like that, so he wouldn’t soil the bed. Although the sheets didn’t seem to have been changed in ages, now that Iris examined them. Well, what more harm could it do?