Everyone did their best to smile when Siepmann descended on them, Cyril in tow, “just to say hello.” He was quick to assure everyone that nothing was really going to change, even though there were going to be immense changes.
“Ah, Miss Musgrave, industrious as ever, aren’t you, dear?” Siepmann bent his head around to examine her work.
I wonder how hard it would be to accidentally topple him out the window.
“Yes, I understood you were rather hoping to be producer on the little Westminster program, but you understand that Underwood here needs that sort of experience more than you, don’t you? Of course you do. Very clever little thing. I’ve always said so.”
“And I’ve always appreciated it, Mr. Siepmann.”
“Ah, isn’t that nice? Well, must be tootling on, but of course we’ll soon be seeing a great deal more of each other.”
Cyril lingered, biting his lips.
“Did you need something?” Maisie asked. “Because we’re really very busy, you know. Apparently, that’s the whole reason for this little massive upheaval.”
“I’m sorry,” Cyril said.
“No, you’re not. Don’t bother lying. It’s really never suited you.”
“Maisie . . .” Her sharp glare backed him down. “Miss Musgrave. I didn’t ask for the Week in Westminster assignment. I want you to know that.”
“All right, so I know.”
“I really am sorry. I know you’d have done a fine job.”
“If you believed that, Mr. Underwood, you’d thank your benefactors and ask that I be given the assignment instead. It’s not a plum for you anyway, being a woman’s program and all, and in the morning. It’s not as though you were being assigned to Mr. Bartlett’s broadcasts. It would have been a great chance for me, but for you it’s just another notch as you clamber your way on up. Well, congratulations, and good luck to you.”
She turned around and typed as loudly as she could, even long after she knew he was gone.
Somehow, the terrible day came to an end. Not a single person in Talks felt like staying late. Hilda and Maisie left together and hailed a cab. The driver gave them an apologetic grimace.
“Sorry, misses, but the backseat’s got a poorly spring on one side—bally kid wouldn’t stop jumping on it. One of you will have to ride jump, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t mind,” Maisie said, hopping in to prevent Hilda from taking the awkward seat facing backward. Hilda attempted to give the driver the address in between his tirade on lax child-rearing and all the ills it forebode.
“You could go to the governors, you know,” Maisie said once they were finally en route. “They want a tight ship, not a sloppy one. What amounts to two directors of Talks won’t go down well at all. The salaries, if nothing else.”
“I certainly shall not go to the governors. I’m not going to be seen to be crying like a little girl because Papa doesn’t like me.”
“But that’s not—”
Hilda held up her hand. “He must have already persuaded them. If I were even to try, it would be evidence of my churlishness.”
“But they like you! Or anyway, they like the good press you get. It’s good for the BBC and then they look good, too, and—”
“Yes, everyone’s very quick to assure me I’m indispensable and invaluable and all the things that have led me to this sterling moment.”
It was unsettling to see Hilda be bitter. Maisie jerked her eyes away, staring instead at the ever-disappearing street behind them.
“Miss Matheson?”
“Hmm?”
“I think there might be someone following us.”
She’d thought she noticed a car idling at the bottom of Savoy Street when they were waiting for a cab, but there was always some activity or other around there. And she had maybe registered it starting up when they drove off, but that wasn’t odd in and of itself. But over Hilda’s shoulder, out the tiny rear window, she saw the same headlights following them.
“What makes you sure?” Hilda asked.
“It’s been following us since we left Savoy Hill. I know it. One of the lamps is dimmer than the other.”
“Very good!”
Hilda was suddenly almost cheerful. She turned and knelt on the seat to study their pursuer.
It continued to wend its way after them. Hilda turned back and tapped on the driver’s shoulder. “I say, cabbie, change of plan. Can you take us to 31 Sumner Street instead?”
“Wha’? But that’s miles the other direction!”
“Terribly inconvenient, I know. Will another two shillings compensate?”
He whipped around and roared off with a new spring in his acceleration, if not the cushion.
And they lost their tail.
“Not even trying to turn ’round? That’s a poor show,” Hilda tutted.
“What’s on Sumner Street?” Maisie asked.