Fifteen minutes later, Maisie exhaled.
“Marvelous!” Lady Astor said, though it was hard to be sure if she was congratulating them or herself. “And not a moment too soon. Some of the letters I’ve gotten lately . . . Gracious, there are a multitude of muttonheads out there. Honestly thinking that America’s example shows too much democracy leads to scrapes. ‘The firm few, not the muddled many, are what’s needed for a strong nation.’ That’s what one imbecile wrote. Do hope this helps sort people out.”
Which seemed a lot of pressure for fifteen minutes a week. But Maisie was keen to try.
By that afternoon, they had early notices from papers and a number of congratulatory telegrams.
“There, you see? I knew it would be a success,” Phyllida said, giving the telegrams an approving pat.
“Surely the more people care about our political system, the more they’ll fight to maintain it, right?” Maisie sought confirmation.
“What idiot would look around the world and think anything’s better than what we have here?” Maisie just looked at her. “Oh, all right. Plenty, but they’re not going to do anything except make fools of themselves shouting in a pub.”
Maisie smiled. But for once she thought Phyllida might be overly optimistic.
By the time she left that evening, her brain felt so full, her hat was tight. It wasn’t a train of thought; it was King’s Cross Station. The damp cold was a relief. It tugged at some of the threads in her mind and unspooled them so they floated behind her as she headed up to the Strand.
“Pardon me, miss.” A hand tapped her on the arm.
She screamed.
It was Simon.
“Easy, easy. We’ll be arrested if we keep on like this,” he said, finally managing to pry her away. But he kissed her again, too.
“Were you waiting for me out here? You could have come inside, you know.”
“But that wouldn’t have been as romantic.”
His lips were moving, he was talking, but Maisie couldn’t take any of it in. All this time, and now here he was. He seemed too big, too much, as if he’d been consigned to memory and was now made solid—it was like a series of fun house mirrors, with everything too big and small and distorted. She had the most horrible sense of wanting to break out and be in normal space again.
“I’m overwhelming you, aren’t I? I’m so sorry, darling. It’s just I . . . I don’t know what to . . .”
“Neither do I,” she breathed.
“I can’t tell you how I missed that voice.” He picked her up and kissed her. “Have dinner with me,” he whispered into her neck. “At my flat. Come home with me.”
She wanted to. She wanted to be with him. Feast off him. Feel everything she’d only ever dreamed about and wondered and hoped. But the suddenness of it, the popping up of him, a jackrabbit in spring . . . Her head was too distorted. Somewhere in the din, she heard Phyllida’s firm advice, reminding her to keep her head, at least, if she couldn’t keep her heart.
“No,” she whispered. “Not at your flat. Somewhere in Soho or Chelsea.”
“I’m longing to be alone with you, darling,” he murmured, stroking the exact spot on the back of her neck where he always made her tingle. She leaned into him, feeling that melting sensation. Just go. Just let go. Just let yourself have this.
“No,” she said, and saw his brows jump at her firmness. “No, it’s too soon, after all this time. No. We’re going for a meal and then I’m going home.”
He looked startled, then smiled and was more gallant than ever, whisking them into a cab and soon after a bistro. And they talked, and ate, and laughed, and she wondered if she saw something in his eyes, some sort of unease, but decided that was the peril of journalistic pursuits. She was always looking for something more in things, creating a danger of seeing things that weren’t there.
I must work on that. Can’t be devoted to the truth if I’m living in even half a fantasy.
For all that some people decried the Marie Stopes clinics as hives of immorality, only married women were officially allowed to partake of their wares. Maisie felt more of a fraud wearing one of Lola’s more understated rings as a wedding band than in a wig and heavy makeup. She tried not to fidget with the ring as the reception nurse was asking her a few rudimentary questions and taking her through to a little examination room.
What she really wanted was a pencil. So many questions, a long story to write, asking about the numbers of women who came in, their ages, their backgrounds. Were they excited? Desperate?
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Simon,” the rosy-cheeked young midwife greeted her. “I understand you want a diaphragm?”