“It’s the Dorchester. They don’t put calls through to patrons. That sort of thing is ‘very low behavior,’” he snapped, ripping off his glasses and rubbing his eyes.
Maisie folded her hands and paced, tracing Hilda’s thinking route. “All right,” she said. “Let’s ring five of our usual people, and if we can’t get anyone, I’ll go to the Dorchester myself and tell her. She’ll want to know.”
“You just want to go to a posh restaurant,” Fielden sneered, but fetched the bound book of names and addresses. “I suppose the Strachey woman is always keen,” he said with a gusty sigh.
“No, it’s literature. We should be able to get a writer,” Maisie argued. “It’s daytime. They’ll be home working.”
Fielden looked up at her through heavy eyelids. “If that’s what you call it.”
No one answered T. S. Eliot’s phone. She tried P. G. Wodehouse and was told he was lunching out. She was wondering why all modern writers went by two initials when Fielden scored success. H. G. Wells, having been so thoroughly seduced by Hilda, was enchanted to be their white knight.
“In shining tweed, no doubt. Shiny and turning green,” Maisie commented. “He can afford better.”
“But then how would we know he was an intellectual?”
Hilda returned just before Mr. Wells was due to arrive. “Bad news, I’m afraid,” Fielden greeted her, with a rare almost-smile. “Miss Woolf was unable to come do the Talk today. Fortunately, I was able to reach Mr. Wells, and he should be here imminently. I’ve made a few adjustments to the script—he should manage just fine.”
Maisie waited patiently for him to acknowledge her contribution during the crisis. She wished Hilda didn’t go first white and then red on hearing about Miss Woolf’s cancelation. Inscrutable as Hilda was, it was obvious she had a very good idea exactly why Virginia Woolf didn’t want to come anywhere near her.
Fielden presented Hilda with the amended script, and she skimmed it.
“Topping, Mr. Fielden. Excellent work. Emergencies will occur. We manage them as we can. And it keeps things interesting.” She hung up her coat, fluffed her hair, and beckoned to Fielden. “Come along. Let’s meet Mr. Wells and be obsequious in our thanks. You can manage obsequious, can’t you?”
Fielden’s answer was lost in the stairwell and the return of Phyllida.
“Crikey, you look mithered. What’s happened?”
“Miss Woolf canceled, but Fielden found Mr. Wells to come in.”
And Fielden had been the one to find him. All Maisie had done was help. Which was her job. They were all in it together. She didn’t need credit for every small thing she did. Although a “thank you” might have been nice.
Then again, this is Fielden. If he were to utter those words, he’d probably have a seizure. And that’s way beyond my nursing skills.
A nice enough vision, though, to help her get back to work.
“So that’s the whole of it. I’ve sent notes to the Pinpoint offices, but there’s been no reply, though I suppose that’s down to the holidays,” Maisie summed up the Simon situation as she and Phyllida roamed Selfridges. They’d been allowed to leave early for New Year’s Eve and combed the huge shop for possible bargains.
“He sounds a right maungy taistril!” was Phyllida’s assessment, and Maisie didn’t feel the need for translation. “I’ve nae heard such trammel. Does he expect you to fall all over him, declare undying devotion, when he can barely manage room for you in his diary?”
“I don’t know,” Maisie said. “But I miss him. I miss him awfully. I could easily have said the thing to please him and I didn’t, not well enough. I did the exact same thing with the DG, who knows how many times. Why don’t I ever learn?”
“I think you’re quite well educated enough,” Phyllida said dryly. “And is he here pursuing you, giving you reason to worship his pampered hide? He is not. He’s off being errand boy for his family. You’d always come second, in a family like that. You’re better off as you are. You’ll see. Remember, we’re going to vote this year! We’re on the verge of many great things.”
Maisie nodded automatically. She cast her eyes over the glove display and asked if she could try the plain chocolate-brown kidskin. They glided nicely over her hand and wrist, coming to rest halfway toward her elbow. She circled her wrists and wiggled her fingers as though she were typing. The gloves moved like new skin.
“They’re beauty beyond, Maisie, but they’re well nigh four pounds! You can get gloves nearly as good for half that.”
Maisie clenched and unrolled her fingers a few more times.
“No. Georgina wasn’t good for much, but she was right about one thing. It’s best to pay the money for the top quality. These will keep me warm and look elegant for years.”
And when they stepped back out into the dark, raw afternoon, the sharp droplets of rain and sleet promptly turned their faces red and wet, but Maisie’s fingers didn’t feel a thing.
FIFTEEN