“Oh!” Interest flowered. “Do you write for one of the Fleet Street papers?”
“No. Far too bourgeois for me. I write for Pinpoint. Do you know it?”
“I don’t, I’m afraid.” Reams of periodicals coursed into Savoy Hill daily, buffeted either by staff who thought they might be of worth, or by Hilda’s insistence that they all be familiar with more than just the principal papers. (“It’s always useful to hear as many voices as possible. Even those somewhat lacking in coherence.”)
“We’re still new. Just starting to make some rumblings,” he said, rubbing his hands together and grinning a little maniacally. Maisie always liked seeing men passionate about their work, but then, Guy Fawkes probably had been, too. “If you’re keen, I’d be delighted to send you some copies. Wouldn’t presume to ask your home address, but if you’re one of the great new throng of lady laborers, I could post them to you there, if your employer would allow it.”
“They would positively encourage it,” Maisie said. “I work at the BBC,” she told him, lacing her pride with a sliver of nonchalance.
“No! Do you, really?” He laughed again, longer than seemed warranted. “Ah, well, we all pay our respects to Mammon somehow. Secretary, are you?”
And a very good one. But she wondered what it would be like to be asked without the expectation of being right.
“But you do a bit of writing on the side—is that it?” He registered her nod and barreled on, pleased with his perspicacity. “Good show! Always try to do something more—that’s my motto. Well, one of them. But a fun girl like you, seems you ought to be chatting with other clever girls in your free moments. You’re all rather clever these days, aren’t you?”
“Fun”? “Clever”? When had such language ever been applied to her?
“Maybe we always were clever, and you just never noticed.” Was this really her?
“And here I always thought I was observant.” He sighed, weighty with drama.
The watch, still cool on her wrist and heavy with newness, reminded her it was a short lunch. She wasn’t overly sorry.
“Ah, of course.” He nodded. “But do please tell me your name?”
“Maisie Musgrave,” she said, shaking his extended hand.
“Simon Brock-Morland. Perhaps our paths will cross again?”
“I suppose people have written stranger scenarios.” She smiled. She couldn’t help it.
“That almost sounds like a challenge.” He grinned back.
“It was very nice to meet you, Mr. Brock-Morland,” she told him. “Good day.”
The tingle lingered on her neck as she walked up Savoy Place. But she wrestled the feeling down, shoving it somewhere the fist inside could beat it till it broke. She wasn’t going to fall for another handsome man, even if he thought she was funny, and clever. She wasn’t going to run from anyone else again. Not ever.
Loyal to Maisie’s request, Phyllida hadn’t spread the word about her birthday. Not that anyone cared, but Maisie remembered her idea of where she would be by this age. All those carefully wrought plans, little boxes in the back of her mind, each labeled and filled with some segment of life. Love. Marriage. Home. All amounting to security. Though she knew now that they didn’t. She’d seen illnesses, injuries, work shortages strip households bare and send whole families into the streets, where even the other poor wanted to pretend they didn’t exist. Both Phyllida and Hilda were advocates of a better system of helping “unfortunates.” It sounded Utopian. Maisie found most people would rather not care than care, and not help if they could help it.
She blinked away the cobwebs and rejoined the tearoom, where Phyllida was presenting her with a walnut cream cake and a jug of chocolate to pour on top provided by Mrs. Hudson, who regarded Maisie’s appetite as a glorious challenge.
Phyllida was rapturous over the watch. Her Yorkshire flowed like the chocolate.
“Yon Miss Matheson is the most gradley . . . nae, champion . . . topping woman in Britain, nowt finer. I knew she thought the world of you, and why not, but this is really super.”
“Shh, don’t let it get ’round,” Maisie insisted. “I don’t think she got Mr. Fielden anything for his birthday, and he’s her deputy.”
“Yes, but you can’t buy a sense of humor in Selfridges.”
“Or even Harrods.”
Their giggles attracted the ire of the sound effects men, huddled in the corner.
“Do you mind?” Jones growled. “We are discussing how to create a tennis party.”
Which only made them laugh harder.