“I think we’d need something more lethal,” she said, though it was nonetheless tantalizing. Simon didn’t seem to hear her; he was riveted on the ad in the new Radio Times.
“Maisie,” he said slowly, studying the ad. “If I’ve cottoned on to this correctly, a bit of your bad theater is happening tonight. Quite near here—look. Moving locations around, how divinely medieval of them, a veritable traveling troupe!”
“Simon, really, I’d so much rather us just chat here, or perhaps over supper?”
He tossed back the last of his whiskey.
“Supper there will be, I promise, but it’s always best after the show. This, my dear, is what we call ‘kismet.’ Let’s go!”
“Well, the thing is, I—”
He was out the door, and she had to catch his arm to stop him.
“There was a man when I went before, a fellow I recognized, and I would rather he not see me if I can avoid it, is the thing.”
“Curiouser and curiouser!” Simon cried. “All right, then. Let’s have a squint, and if the blackguard is there and is too big for me to knock down, we’ll make our great escape, shall we?”
Simon’s smile was terrifically convincing. He ought to be in advertising. He could sell people on anything. Probably even arsenic.
“Well. All right. But we have to be careful,” she pleaded. She cursed every circle she’d drawn around those absurd ads.
“Certainly. But there’s such a thing as too much caution. Look at me. A second son, with no property to inherit, just a modest sum to live on. I could manage on the interest, but I wanted to do something useful. I want to always write what I think and perhaps make people cross by it. Make a real name for myself, speaking out. But I knew from the start I couldn’t be afraid. Fear is for the weak-minded.”
“Aren’t you afraid of anything, Simon?”
“I try to leave fear behind and look to the future. Making Britain more glorious than ever and all that, what?”
“Didn’t people think that before the war, though?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, that Britain was so strong and glorious and everyone was certain there was nothing but a great future to keep on coming, because all those treaties meant war wasn’t possible anymore. But then it happened anyway and now—”
“Yes, yes, you’re quite right,” he agreed with blunt but easy politeness. “But I prefer to think it’s the sort of thing that makes us stronger going forward.”
She hoped so. It was hard, though, not to feel a little trepidatious. Maisie didn’t believe in ghosts, thought the obsession with spiritualism absurd, but could understand it, too. It was hard to walk through London and not feel the occasional shadow.
She looked at Simon. Tall, handsome, burnished gold and bronze, a man tanned from rough play, not work, sporty, beloved, educated, wealthy, and aristocratic. Born to be feared, not feel it. Not that most people feared aristocrats anymore. Except maybe Lady Astor. A little fear in general can’t be a bad thing, though, can it?
“Maisie, if your head buzzes any louder, you’ll be mistaken for a beehive,” Simon chided.
“Yes. It does that,” she apologized, shaking off the various thoughts.
“Doesn’t it create interference at work?”
Maisie laughed until she saw his confusion.
“Sorry. I thought you meant . . . ‘interference’? Because of the technical . . . ? Never mind. Anyway, it’s good to think at the BBC. They like that sort of thing.”
“Even from secretaries?” he teased.
“Would you want a secretary who couldn’t think?”
“I daresay that would depend on her thoughts. But fair enough. My compliments to the BBC for welcoming thoughts, even from secretaries.”
Then he bent down and kissed her on the lips. Lightly. Then not so lightly. Then she wasn’t sure, because time stopped.
“Well, look at us,” Simon breathed, his mouth still close to hers. Whiskey and cigarettes on his breath. She wanted to weave the scent into a cocoon coat. “We Britons don’t behave like this, I’ll have you know. Even in Chelsea.”
Her laugh came out in a shuddering gasp, and he stroked her cheek.
“I think we may have arrived,” he said, his tone a mix of regret and excitement.
They stood before the gaudy front window of a fortune-telling establishment.
“Inauspicious, to say the least,” Simon said, chuckling. “Shall we venture in?”
Now that they were upon the meeting, Maisie was uneasy. She tugged her hat down as far as it would go. At the mention of “Lion,” they were waved into the pink-and-purple shop’s spacious back room without question.
She didn’t see Mr. Hoppel, but it was otherwise much the same crowd. The golden-haired speaker—Maisie felt silly thinking of him as Lion—continued to detail their plans. His pleasant lilting tones, so perfect for broadcast, were somehow more disquieting than the expected roar.
“Of course, it’s best that we prevent all women working, aside from servants. But we must better instruct them in the care of children.”
Simon nudged Maisie. “Ah, you naughty workingwomen!”