Maisie was relieved when Hilda and Phyllida came in, escorting the debaters and the moderator, Mrs. Strachey. All married women. Reith groaned softly, but then exerted himself to shake hands and welcome them—he wouldn’t have it said he wasn’t worthy of being called a gentleman.
“Awfully good of all you ladies to come in and give listeners fodder for chat over supper.”
Supper. Simon. She had promised to meet him at seven. If she left now and took a cab, she would only be five minutes late. But then she would miss the debate.
Maybe it won’t be that interesting. Maybe . . .
The woman arguing in favor of married women working was laughing at Reith. “My good man, unless she does absolutely all she wants every day and is subject to no one else’s whim, I think you’ll find the average married woman does work, just not for pay, which itself can hardly be counted as fair and ought to be changed at once.”
She would ring the restaurant and leave him a message. She had heard of people doing such things. She whispered hastily to Phyllida, then nipped across the corridor to the engineers’ second office and snatched up the phone.
“Number please?”
“Er . . . the Spencer, a restaurant. In Chelsea,” Maisie specified.
“Do you know the number, miss?”
“No . . .” Maisie looked desperately across at Phyllida, who was holding the door open. It would have to close at any moment. The BROADCASTING IN PROGRESS sign would light up.
“One moment, please,” the operator informed her, looking up the exchange. Phyllida held up five fingers. Then four. Then three. “I’m connecting you now, miss.”
But the receiver was dangling well away from its rest and Maisie was back inside the studio with seconds to spare as the door closed, the switches flipped, and Billy gave the signal for the debate to begin.
If the Spencer had been a different sort of restaurant, it wouldn’t have let in a sweaty, red-faced woman, coat and scarf akimbo, eyes wild. But Simon’s penchant for “Bohemian” establishments meant that they were used to that sort of thing, so Maisie was admitted, at seven thirty-eight, and raked the room for Simon.
He was at the bar. He stood up and smiled, as he had been trained to do. But there was more ice in his manner than in the drink he offered her.
“I’m awfully sorry,” she gabbled. “It was a terribly important debate—I’d clean forgotten when we spoke—and then the DG, Mr. Reith, I mean, came to observe, and I did try to ring the restaurant and leave a message, but I was called back and—”
“It’s perfectly all right, darling,” Simon insisted. “I do understand. I daresay I’ve had enough such nights myself and not been able to give you the attention you deserve, so it’s no wonder you wouldn’t be able to make the time for me.”
“No, that’s not—”
“Of course it isn’t. Do forgive me. I’m in a beastly mood. Been rather a rotten week.”
He tossed back half his whiskey and gave her a rueful smile. She wanted to stroke his face—a woman could behave such a way in a Bohemian spot—but she didn’t dare. Touching him set something off in her. She knew that if he were to ask her up to his flat, she would go. She wanted him to ask. She hoped he wouldn’t. She didn’t know.
“I am sorry,” she said. “It’s only . . . the debates are so critical, and I’m needed.”
She hoped he wouldn’t guess she was lying. Even Hilda wasn’t required to supervise the debates. They went because they couldn’t stay away.
“And I’m sure it was exciting,” he said. “But I can’t help feeling you’re more fond of your BBC than of me.”
His voice was teasing, and he winked. She laughed, feeling like she was supposed to. But it was a thing that was lying there between them, a parcel neither of them wanted to pick up. She could easily have pointed out he was so keen on his work, and on the social duties he claimed to despise but engaged in anyway, that they had barely seen each other ten times in six months of acquaintance. But his work was important, and he was trying to build something. And there were notes sent back and forth, which made her feel he was present, even when he wasn’t. And. And. And it was true. She was entranced by him, but the BBC had her heart.
He looked at her a long moment, then ordered another drink.
“I have to go away,” he said at last, his voice flat and defeated.
“Oh. You mean for Christmas?”
“Longer than that, I think.” He downed the glass again and turned to her. “Bit of a nuisance with the family, and they need someone to do a bit of managing here and there, so I am called. I cannot shirk.”
Maisie forced her face to remain neutral. Beanie was right. His family was in trouble.
“Is there anything I can do?” she asked.
He took her hand. Again, that tingle. Running all through her body. He turned her palm over and buried his face in it. A long, slow gasp escaped her, which she hoped was masked by the din in the room. Ask me home. Don’t ask me home. Ask me.
He looked up at her, his whole soul in his eyes. “Maisie. Tell me you care more for me than the BBC.”
“I do,” she breathed.
“Do you mean that?”
No. “Yes.”