“I’m Maisie Musgrave.” (A name like a bland pudding.) “Are you an actress?”
“I am, and doing far better here than on Broadway.” Miss Mitterand laughed.
“Broadway can be a little shortsighted, I know. My mother acts there.”
“Oh. Will I have seen her in anything?”
“I’m afraid you probably have.”
“Ah. Yes. I’ve acted in some of those shows myself. London theater’s far more exhilarating.” She lit a cigarette, not bothering to point out that she had a chance here to play something more than a maid. No wonder she looked so gleeful.
“Would you want to come and broadcast, do you think?” Maisie asked. Now that Maisie was in a position to advocate for friends, Lola was too busy onstage—or offstage—to come broadcast. But this woman, with her voice and story, might be a real coup.
Miss Mitterand raised a slim eyebrow. “It’s not for you to invite me, is it?”
“Well, no, but I could—”
“You’re very kind. But I suspect I might be a bit . . . racy . . . for BBC Drama.” She chuckled. “But thank you. Truly. I’d love to chat more, but I must put myself back in circulation. I’ve got to secure a dinner date for the next few months or so.”
“Sorry?”
“Steady work or no, I need to pad my income. And maintain appearances. I am the exotic creature here. Don’t look embarrassed; it’s just true. A few months of dinners are good for business. And maybe diamonds. They always love how diamonds look against my skin. Silly, hmm? Well, cheerio, as they say.” She waved an elegant finger to Maisie and sashayed into the middle of the room. And was indeed soon surrounded by men.
“How have you got on?” Hilda asked, materializing like a genie and enhancing the legerdemain with a plate of tiny cakes.
“I think Miss Mitterand could give a very interesting Talk.”
“Excellent. Write up your thoughts for my review Monday.”
“Me? Isn’t that a bit out of my—”
In the limelight of Hilda’s merry, challenging eyes, Maisie’s mouth snapped shut.
Hilda insisted on sending her home in a cab. Neither the luxury nor the pilfered cakes she’d wrapped in a cloth (also, she realized, pilfered—oops) distracted her from her thoughts. Miss Mitterand could tell stories of her working life, and why she was in London, and those stories might make people uncomfortable. Which would be most interesting, as Hilda would say.
She ate a cake. The jolt of joy that burst through her had nothing—she was pretty sure—to do with the excess of butter.
Maisie was still in the sitting room past midnight, her fingers black with pencil smudges, when Mrs. Crewe insisted she turn off the lights or else pay the entire gas bill. What did she need to write so much for, anyway?
“I don’t know. I just do.” There was some question as to who was more surprised—Mrs. Crewe, at receiving an answer, or Maisie, at the answer she gave.
“Early, are you?” Miss Shields sniffed, seeing Maisie stamping the correspondence. “It hardly compensates for all the times you’re late getting back from Talks.”
“No, Miss Shields,” Maisie murmured.
“Mr. Reith isn’t here yet, you know.”
“Yes, I know.” She knew his schedule better than he did.
Later that morning, he was interviewing a candidate for a Schools producer. Charles Siepmann was not exactly handsome, but he had a dashing quality that drew both Maisie’s and Miss Shields’s eyes. He had a slight acquaintance with Reith already and could afford a measure of familiarity.
“Nice to be waited on by two girls, I should say,” he said when he arrived, laughing as he and Reith shook hands.
“I did warn you, we’re very modern here.” Reith laughed, too. “You’ll find a girl producer in Schools, Miss Somerville. Capable little thing, quite clever.”
“And of course that girl you have running Talks. Most bold of you indeed, sir.”
“Very modern girl, Miss Matheson. Clever, certainly, though does tend to be a bit radical. Some of that poetry—if one can even use the word—she selects for broadcast is frankly shocking, but we try to understand current tastes.”
“I deeply admire your broad-mindedness.”
Reith gave his impression of self-deprecation and indicated for Maisie to take the minutes of the interview. Whether Miss Shields was aggravated or relieved, Maisie couldn’t tell. Probably both.
Siepmann rabbited on about his education (Oxford, after having served in the army), which Reith already knew, his facility for the Schools broadcasts, and his general interests. He took out a cigarette case.
“The girl doesn’t mind?” He jerked a thumb in the vague direction of Maisie.
“Hm? Oh, please go ahead.” Reith gave a magnanimous wave of his hand.
“Ah, yes, modern girls.” Siepmann chuckled, pleased with his own urbanity.
Maisie was surprised he remembered she was in the room.