Maisie, tucked in a corner, heard nothing. She was comparing Georges Lema?tre’s original script against Hilda’s revisions. The priest’s upcoming broadcast rendered Hilda giddy, though Reith insisted she have another priest denounce his big bang theory. “A name as repugnant as the concept!” the DG fumed. Hilda argued it was important that science have its say, and much of Oxford and Cambridge agreed, which silenced Reith.
Lema?tre himself insisted the real revelation was Hilda’s revised script, and Maisie agreed. There was never enough time to study the scripts she typed—the Talks assistants were the ones who enjoyed that privilege—but even when she was able to read them thoughtfully, she had yet to understand how Hilda was able to take a treatise and turn it into a conversation, every time. This man had seen something transformative in the stars and Hilda had figured out how to tether his words back to earth for all the ordinary Britons having their tea.
Maisie sighed and shifted her mind to Cyril, across the room.
Maybe he’ll shout, “Hallo, New York. Come tell us what you have for tea over there. And it’s not tea, is it? It’s coffee.” And I’ll go over, and say how the puddings aren’t as good as they are here, and he’ll say something, and I’ll say something . . .
He wasn’t looking at her. She ran the last bite of buttered scone around her plate to pick up stray crumbs and had just popped it into her mouth as Beanie sat down next to her.
“You’re still hungry, aren’t you? I don’t think I can manage the rest of this.”
Beanie, resplendent in green-and-gold silk, looking more glamorous than the actresses she booked for broadcasting, slid half a buttered scone to Maisie.
“It’s lucky you’re not too particular about food, having the appetite you do,” Beanie went on conversationally. “Personally, I make sure to eat a gargantuan breakfast before I come in. Having a cook helps. Mind you, she’s nothing to the cook at the family manse, but what can you do? Still, it’s great fun, isn’t it, lunching in pubs and things? So different from hotels and restaurants, well, my usual sort of restaurant. You ought to see the shock when I tell a school chum I can’t lunch with her because I have to work! And they always say, ‘Now, Beanie, of course you don’t have to,’ and that’s perfectly true, merci la famille, but I’ve really grown very fond of it. Certainly isn’t a bore, anyway.”
Maisie finished the scone, and Beanie accompanied her as she took her tray to the shelves for washing and then out into the corridor.
“Mind you, the chums can’t imagine anything more fun than shopping and parties. I rather think it depends on the party, don’t you? Or I suppose you wouldn’t know.”
It was often annoying when Beanie was right.
“Hallo, Beanie. Hallo, New York. How’s tricks?”
Maisie’s heart jumped.
“She’s not ‘New York.’ She’s Canadian. I rather thought that was known,” Beanie scolded. “But I must say, Maisie, I think you’d do better for yourself saying you’re from New York. Très glamorous, and you should really play up any glamour anyone associates you with. Besides, most people don’t think of New York as America, exactly, or not in the same way.”
“What does that matter?” Maisie asked. Beanie’s commentary might be rude, but it was fascinating, and Cyril was enthralled right alongside her.
“It matters enormously. There are those who are still cross with Americans, what with being rather late to join the war, and they do tend to run on and on when they talk, and at a volume that presumes we’re all deaf,” Beanie boomed. “Not you, of course. The average titmouse is louder than you, and you never have a great deal to say for yourself. Probably anyone would guess you’re Canadian anyway, if they remember Canada exists.”
“I rather thought we were guessing she was a spy,” Cyril interjected.
“Oh, Mr. Underwood, are you still here? You’ve got the most unique sense of humor. A spy, now really! Spies are meant to be dreadfully clever and good with language, you know.”
“And beautifully mannered, I imagine.” Cyril grinned.
Beanie considered.
“No, I’ve never heard of that mattering. But perhaps, why not? Well, must be getting on, cheerio!”
Maisie watched her skip away. It must be so liberating, being so totally at ease with yourself and never caring what anyone thought of you. Then she realized she and Cyril were alone. Or as alone as it was possible to be in a Savoy Hill corridor.
“I . . . I . . .” The pages in her hand were dampening in her sweating palms. “I think I need to be getting back.”
“I as well,” he agreed, frowning. “Another wild and woolly afternoon looms. We’re the storm before the calm, is what I say.”
She smiled. He was so handsome, so charming, so . . .
“Do you know, you’ve got an awfully pretty smile, New York. I do hope you don’t mind me calling you that.”
“Oh, no, not at all,” Maisie assured him, wishing her voice weren’t springing about like a pogo stick.
“You don’t sound very certain.”
“I’m sorry. I do. I mean, I am. Certain, that is.”
“How is it possible that you’ve been working here three months—”