Cyril gaped like she was an exotic zoo creature. And didn’t laugh.
Stop it, Maisie. Stopitstopitstopit.
Disappointment had loosened her tongue. In the fantasy, she was accepting a glass of something sweet right now, her senses entranced by the heft and curve of the glass, the one-note song it made as it touched Cyril’s, the bubbles tickling her nose, the smell of grapes and the essence of a French countryside turning her tipsy even before she took a sip, or maybe that was his eyes, smile, freckles.
Oh, what did you expect, really? Drinks at the Dorchester, dinner at the Criterion, dancing till two? You don’t know what he earns, and at least he wants to feed you. And you can’t dance. Just trust him. He knows what he’s doing. Trust him.
Cyril seized Maisie’s elbow and pulled her through the throng, murmuring his most refined “Please excuse me” and “I do beg your pardon” as he nudged past this one and that until they slipped into the seats of a couple just leaving.
“The cod’s the best, all right?” Cyril asked her, and shouted an order that was somehow heard above the din before Maisie could answer. She would have preferred rock salmon. Trust him. Trust him. Trust him.
He was right. A steaming plate of fried glory was soon laid before her. The mingled smells of fish in batter and plump chips with crisp skins infused with oil worked on her like barbiturates. It may not have been the elegant meal of her dreams, but she nonetheless ate with gusto.
“So, you’re enjoying it?” Cyril’s voice wafted across to her.
“Everything is perfect,” Maisie said, grinning. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
He couldn’t have been blushing. It was just the heat.
“That’s all right. You looked like you could use a decent feed.”
Now she blushed. She hated looking undernourished. Keep the conversation on him. New York or no, men want to talk about themselves.
“How did you find this restaurant?”
“Chap’s got to know a good chipper. I’ve always fancied things that maybe don’t look the best, but get to know them and you find they’re better than anything posh could ever be.”
“So you don’t like posh things?” She fought down the idea he was talking about her.
“If I did, I wouldn’t be working at the BBC.” He laughed. “Though I think my job’s a doddle compared to yours, working for the biggest taskmasters in the building: Matheson, the Shield, our Lord and Master. Tell me, which is the most maddening?”
Even though he’d asked, Maisie knew the contempt men had for women’s gossip. She considered how to change the subject, but he wasn’t waiting for her answer.
“Funny thing with Matheson,” he said, “having what you’d think would be a man’s job, hm?”
“I suppose that’s part of us being modern? She seems to do well, anyway.”
“Oh, yes, audiences are very keen on the Talks,” he said. “That’s one advantage you have over us Schools lot. You know your audiences choose to listen.”
“But you get plenty of letters from students saying how much they like the broadcasts.”
“If they’re anything like I was at school, they’re being forced to write them.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. You know you’re doing very good work. Mr. Reith wouldn’t be so pleased otherwise.”
“Ha! The DG governs Schools with a tyranny I think Vlad the Impaler might have thought a tad overbearing. It’s why I’m such a heavy smoker.” He lit a second cigarette for emphasis and shrugged. “But it’s a good laugh. And what about you—do you like your job?”
She did. More than she’d ever imagined. But she didn’t want him to think she wanted to be a woman like Hilda. He had to know she was eager to move on to the real work of life, as soon as she was invited.
Probably shouldn’t say that on a first date, though.
“It’s stimulating,” she answered.
“It is that,” he agreed. “Fascinating stuff, radio. Glorious being in on the ground floor, as it were, isn’t it? Maybe we’ll get to see how far it can go. Mind you, my father still hopes I’ll give up this nonsense and go in for law.”
“I’m sure he only wants the best for you.”
“Oh, yes, nothing to be said against dear old Dad. Wants the best for all the brood. The best school, the best job, the best wife. Well, not for Kitty, I suppose. My sister,” he clarified, with a laugh.
Maisie was still trembling from the word “wife.”
In a dim and poky coffeehouse just up the road, he ordered for them again. Rhubarb cake with extra cream, drinking chocolate. And she trusted him, and it was good.
“You’re all right, Maisie,” Cyril said suddenly.
Her heart went pogoing again, around and around the shop.
Except he sounded surprised. Did he? Was he? She shoved the thought down, and while it was struggling to assert itself, Cyril reached over and patted her hand. The voltage sent all her thoughts scattering far beyond Galileo’s reach.
Possibly, just possibly, she was going to be kissed tonight.