ng that perhaps I ought to go。 One of us should put in an appearance； and it doesn’t seem likely to be my husband。”
“I thought you said you didn’t want to leave him。”
“It rather looks as though he’s left me； wouldn’t you say？”
She didn’t talk anymore after that but started fumbling around for her hood again； even though she didn’t really need it。 I found it for her with my free hand and she pulled it up roughly； without thanking me； and walked on； slightly ahead； staring at the ground。
Barry was waiting for us at the end of the track in the minivan； reading a Harry Potter novel。 The engine was running and the headlights were on。 Occasionally； the big windscreen wiper scraped noisily across the glass。 He put aside his book with obvious reluctance； got out； opened up the rear door； and pushed the seats forward。 Between us we maneuvered the bike into the back of the van； then he returned to his place behind the wheel and I climbed in beside Ruth。
We took a different route from the one I’d cycled； the road twisting up a hill away from the sea。 The dusk was damp and gloomy； as if one of the massive storm clouds had failed to rupture but had gradually subsided to earth like a deflated airship and settled over the island。 I could understand why Ruth said the landscape reminded her of Cornwall。 The minivan’s headlights fell on wild； almost moorland country and in the side mirror I could just make out the luminous white horses flecking the waters of Vineyard Sound。 The heater was turned up full and I had to keep rubbing a porthole in the condensation to see where we were going。 I could feel my clothes drying； sticking to my skin； releasing the same faintly unpleasant odor of sweat and dry cleaning fluid I had smelled in McAra’s room。
Ruth didn’t speak for the whole of the journey。 She kept her back turned slightly toward me and stared out of the window。 But just as we passed the lights of the airport； her cold； hard hand moved across the seat and grasped mine。 I didn’t know what she was thinking； but I could guess； and I returned her pressure： even a ghost can show a little human sympathy from time to time。 In the rearview mirror； Barry’s eyes stared into mine。 As he indicated to turn right into the wood； the images of death and torture； and the words “for as in Adam all die” flickered briefly in the darkness； but as far as I could see the little hut was empty。 We rocked down the track toward the house。
ELEVEN
There may be occasions on which the subject will tell the ghost something that contradicts something else they have said； or something that the ghost already knows about them。 If that happens； it is important to mention it immediately。
Ghostwritin g
THE FIRST THING Idid when we got back was run a hot bath； tipping in half a bottle of organic bath oil （pine； cardamom； and ginger） I found in the bathroom cabinet。 While that was filling； I drew the curtains in the bedroom and peeled off my damp clothes。 Naturally； a house as modern as Rhinehart’s didn’t have anything so crudely useful as a radiator； so I left them where they fell； went into the bathroom； and stepped into the large tub。
Just as it’s worth getting really hungry occasionally； simply to savor the taste of food； so the pleasure of a hot bath can truly be appreciated only if you’ve been chilled by the rain for hours。 I groaned with relief； let myself slide right down until only my nostrils were above the aromatic surface； and lay there like some basking alligator in its steamy lagoon for several minutes。 I suppose that’s why I didn’t hear anyone knock on my bedroom door and became aware that someone was next door only when I broke the surface and heard a person moving around。
“Hello？” I called。
“Sorry；” Ruth called back。 “I did knock。 It’s me。 I was just bringing you some dry clothes。”
“That’s all right；” I said。 “I can manage。”
“You need something that’s been properly aired； or you’ll catch your death。 I’ll get Dep to clean the others。”
“Really； there’s no need。”
“Dinner’s in an hour。 Is that okay？”
“That’s fine；” I said； surrendering。 “Thank you。”
I listened for the click of the door as she left。 Immediately I rose from the bath and grabbed a towel。 On the bed； she had laid out a freshly laundered shirt belonging to her husband （it was handmade； with his monogram； APBL； on the pocket）； a sweater； and a pair of jeans。 Where my own discarded clothes had been there was only a wet mark on the floor。 I lifted the mattress—the package was still there—then let it fall。
There was something disconcerting about Ruth Lang。 You never knew where you were with her。 Sometimes she could be aggressive for no reason—I hadn’t forgotten her behavior during our first conversation； when she virtually accused me of planning to write a kiss…and…tell memoir about her and Lang—and then at others she was bizarrely overfamiliar； holding hands or dictating what you should wear。 It was as if some tiny mechanism 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