Phyllida drew her away. “Miss Matheson will earn her way into something much better, you’ll see.”
The Chelsea pub definitely attracted a Bohemian crowd. Maisie glanced around it in satisfaction. However much she might dislike Georgina, she always felt right surrounded by people who wrote and made art. Maybe Simon did, too?
“Maisie!” he cried, reaching for her hand. “Absolutely topping of you to join me. Quaint little snug this, isn’t it?”
That seemed an abuse of synonyms, but he winked, and she noticed his eyes had flecks of gold in them. That tingle danced across her neck again, and she was glad to swallow her sudden heat in the gin-and-tonic he offered her.
“So! Have there been any great new adventures in Savoy Hill since we last met?” he wanted to know.
“Every hour is an adventure there,” she said, not mentioning that there were some adventures the Talks Department could do without. She still hadn’t had a moment to tell Hilda about the meeting. She hadn’t even had time to think about Simon. Or not too much, anyway.
“Every time you mention your BBC, your eyes dance a little reel,” he said.
She grinned, feeling herself blush.
“That’s an awfully old-fashioned dance.”
“I’m an awfully old-fashioned fellow.”
Another wink belied the assertion, as did the achingly on-trend cuffed trousers, Fair Isle jumper, and two-tone brogues he wore. And of course there was his job, one of the few respectable lines for aristocrats. If he was old-fashioned, he’d have to work a bit harder to prove it. He kept smiling, and her hand slid to the banquette, clutching her holdall in an attempt to keep herself from tossing the gin down her throat in one go.
“Your Miss Matheson certainly sounds modern enough,” he said, leaning back and lighting a cigarette. “Got rather a name for herself, hasn’t she? ‘Making the BBC,’ and all that.”
“Have you met her?”
“Not had the honor, tragically, but one does hear stories.”
“I’m glad to report they are all true.”
He laughed. Eyes twinkling, he reached out a hand as though to touch her hair. But Maisie, staring at his approaching fingers, didn’t find out what he was about to do because her grasp on her bag was too tight and the cheap fastener snapped open, sending pencils, pad, several Radio Times, and a Cadbury Nut Bar tumbling to the grubby floor.
“I say, it’s the great flood!” Simon laughed, helping her gather her things. Maisie lunged for the pad. Not so long ago, the Cadbury would have been her first priority for rescue.
“I hope they’re paying you extra to ferry these around,” Simon said, dangling a copy of the Radio Times between his thumb and forefinger.
“You don’t have to treat it like radium,” said Maisie, snatching it from him. “Actually, I write for it sometimes,” she added, realizing as she said so that this was a slight exaggeration.
“Do you?” Simon regarded the magazine with increased interest. “And do these issues have something of yours inside?”
“Oh, no. No, I just—”
“No false modesty here, Maisie dear! I see writing of yours indeed.”
Her notes, scribbled in the margin by the ad. Only not scribbled enough, because they were perfectly legible.
Maybe that’s why Miss Matheson writes like she does?
“That’s nothing, really, just—”
“I do believe you’ve tricked me, my dear! You’re not a secretary. You’re an investigative journalist! Or are you in MI5? No, I oughtn’t ask. You might be able to have me killed.”
“Don’t you like living dangerously?”
He laughed. “I say, if you are an investigative journalist, do let a fellow in, man-to-man, will you? I’ve been longing to show up all our so-called papers, show them what a real media can be.”
“What’s wrong with the newspapers?” Maisie demanded. Simon threw back his head and laughed so hard, she worried he might burst a blood vessel.
“Oh my, Maisie,” he gasped. “I would need such a lot more gin to answer that. But come, you must see most of them are no better than this silly rag your BBC puts out.”
“The Radio Times is listings and supplements. You can’t compare it to the actual Times.”
He wasn’t listening, but amusing himself by flipping through her other copies of the magazine until they were all open to the page with the Siemens ad, all of which she had circled. So much for her stint as a stealth artist.
“Are you shopping for a Siemens wireless set, or are these listening parties good fun?”
“More like bad theater,” she told him, attempting to slide the magazines from his grip. “Silly meetings, really. Lots of babble about . . . about nothing.”
“So you’ve been!” Simon cried. “Now you must take me. We can acquire rotting fruit to throw at the poor players.”