Nestlé’s London office was a hulking maw of a Gothic atrocity. Maisie studied her reflection in her pocket mirror, pleased to see her efforts with the stage makeup continued to mask her well. She smoothed her coat and swept inside.
“May I help you?” the receptionist, an overpolished Home Counties young man, too young for his ostentatious pince-nez, intoned in a ponderous accent.
“Good afternoon,” Maisie said in a crisp tone, articulating well enough to not be putting on a fake accent, exactly, but not be readily identifiable as her usual wherever-she-was-from self. “I have an appointment with Mr. Grigson’s secretary. It’s to discuss advertising.”
An authoritative voice, nondescript appearance, and meeting with a secretary rather than the man himself garnered no interest. She was waved in and given directions without ever making eye contact.
Authority faded and Invisible Girl took over, as Maisie measured purposeful steps toward her quarry. The man at reception fulfilled her expectation in thinking nothing of a secretary’s schedule, and forgetting if he even knew that Grigson’s secretary left early on the afternoons of the long monthly board meeting.
Maisie’s careful research did not fail her. At 5:31, she was inside his office.
She went straight to work, forcing herself not to think about what it meant. About Simon. A man who had given her a ring. Who maybe loved her.
The nail file again. This lock was trickier. Or she was shaking. She fussed at it, sweat beading her neck. It was loosening. It was loosening—the nail file broke, the tip stuck inside.
No! Oh, no, no.
But the drawer was open.
Letters. Documents. Reams of them. Something in German, with notes in English. A contract? Notes, letters. A letter to someone about Simon, indicating that a man like him, so well connected and mannered and educated, was just the right sort for building a trusted new media. Eventually, Nestlé was sure to be sponsoring content on the radio, and that would help secure more contracts as well as customers. Maisie took her eight pictures, though she hardly knew what she was looking at and hoped her hands weren’t shaking too much.
Six minutes. She had to go. His diary was open on his desk, appointments in baroque handwriting. Her secretary’s training made her glance at it automatically, confirming his meeting. But it wasn’t open to today. It was open to next week. Drinks. With Simon. And the words: “Final contract.” Maisie had to force her hand to make the marks, writing down the time and place. She hadn’t ever crashed a party in her life. It might be time to start.
She made it all the way to the office door—and bumped into Grigson hurrying in.
“Who are you? What the devil were you doing in my office?”
“Nothing, sir. It was a mistake,” she said, her head firmly down, heart pounding. He must have forgotten something, not that it mattered. She just hoped he’d forgotten her face. She attempted to slither around him.
“I’ll say it was a mistake, all right. Don’t you dare try to get away from me!” He grabbed her arm. A few passersby stopped and stared.
“Let go!” Maisie snarled, attempting to twist free.
“I won’t until you tell me who you are.” He pulled her close with surprising strength and jerked her head back. “I know you, don’t I? I’ve seen your face before.”
“No!” she yelled and jerked away from him and ran down the corridor.
“Stop her! Stop her!”
She could hear feet. She passed faces of people too startled to grab her. Even if they had tried, they would not have held her. No one in this building knew how to run like the girl who had grown up as Mousy Maisie.
She was down the stairs. She was past reception. She was in the street. She ran, and ran, and ran, and didn’t look back. Didn’t think of anything, except reaching Hilda. She made a cursory stop in a café to wash her face and generally make herself presentable and headed on to Lady Astor’s salon, where Hilda, obliged to attend, had arranged for them to meet.
Maisie came in and saw that half of London was in attendance as well. The butler admitted Maisie with a resigned expression. Probably he’d hoped she was the fire brigade.
“Ah, Miss Musgrave!” Lady Astor glided through the throng to clutch Maisie’s hand. “I am so desperately cross about the goings-on at the BBC. Miss Matheson is takin’ it on the chin and you’re holdin’ up your end well, but to not even be made producer on our Week in Westminster when you’ve as good as been it, it’s beyond appallin’. I’ve half a mind to tell the governors to step in, but Miss M says best not to and I expect she’s right. Only she’s always too nice by far, and that’s a fact. What do you reckon, hm?”
Maisie wasn’t sure if she was to weigh in on Hilda’s niceness or whether Lady Astor should use her influence. The thought of how good Hilda was and her taking it on the chin made Maisie’s throat tighten.