by M. L. Huie
“Did you pop down to the parade Saturday?”
Jeremy threw a leg over the edge of Livy’s desk and lit a Chesterfield. He had thick dark hair held in place by his signature tonic, a dimple on his right cheek, and clear green eyes. He blew out smoke, unbuttoned his jacket, and leaned toward her.
“Busy, Jeremy.”
“That’s too bad. You missed me in my uniform. Me and some of the lads from my squadron were riding in a Morris. Waving flags, blowing kisses at all the pretty girls. You should have been there. I might’ve blown one to you.”
Livy endured this type of flirting from Jeremy almost daily. True, he was handsome enough, but his insufferable ego made her forget about his looks.
“I’m afraid I was wasting my time elsewhere,” Livy said, wishing she hadn’t loaned Myrtle the column so Jeremy might take the hint that she faced an imminent deadline.
“That’s one thing I miss about the war, the lads all together,” he went on. “We were facing the Luftwaffe, but there’s something about the danger that brings you closer. We’re all still best mates, you know.”
He also routinely inflated his role in the war, referring to his combat heroics every chance he got although he’d served only in the Auxiliary Air Force deploying barrage balloons during the Blitz. While that had contributed considerably to the war effort, Jeremy always made himself sound like David Niven shooting Messerschmitts out of the sky.
“Friends in foxholes. Heard that one before, Jeremy.”
“Well, I mean, how could you understand? I know you did your little bit and all, darling, but it’s different, you know, when the next one coming could have your name on it.”
Livy shoved her chair back so suddenly that the unflappable correspondent Mr. Huggins leapt off her desk almost at attention. “Excuse me, Jeremy,” she said, almost hissing. “Need to powder my nose.” She inched past him and, just for his benefit, said, “Don’t call me darling again.”
Livy stomped up the row of desks toward the washrooms at the front of the office. Behind her back she heard a few whispers, a snort or two, and the clack-clack of typewriters as the writers returned to their work and the proofreaders returned to marking corrections.
She told herself this anger would eventually go away, that she only snapped like this because of the headaches, the alcohol, and because she hadn’t slept a full night in almost a month. It didn’t go away. It didn’t change her behavior either, but that’s what she kept telling herself.
She hated this place. Right now, she hated almost every place.
Livy pushed open the door of the ladies WC and looked around to make sure she was alone. A glance at the cracked face of her mother’s old watch told her she barely had time to get to the Gray’s Inn Road and the two o’clock appointment with—what was his name? Fleming? What would be her excuse to leave work early this time? Was it even worth it? She flicked on the faucet, splashed a bit of water in her face, and then covered it with a hand cloth on the sink. She caught her breath in this long moment of escape and wished it never had to end. But it always did.
“Livy?”
She looked up.
Myrtle stood framed in the doorway, looking her most anxious. “He wants to see you. Mr. O’Toole. Right away.”
* * *
“Miss Nash, you know my wife, of course.”
Livy eased into the stiff black leather chair across from Geoffrey O’Toole. Patricia sat beside him, claws sharpened to a point after a fresh manicure.
Livy said, “Yes, we bumped into each other Saturday.”
The boss had money, and it showed in his clothes and the furnishing of his office. The newsroom of his paper might be a drab affair, but his corner of the building, where he entertained clients and interviewed the few newsmakers who deigned to talk to him, had a look befitting a minister or even the publisher of a real newspaper. A corner window dominated the office, surrounded by walls of thick dark wood. O’Toole’s desk felt more like a battleship than office furniture, with its sleek surface and reinforced edges. Photos of O’Toole, his dark hair slicked back and tiny glasses perched on his nose, shaking hands with a number of minor dignitaries, hung in ornate wooden frames at strategic points all along the walls.
“Nash? That’s Irish, isn’t it?”
“I believe it is, sir.” He asked the same question every time they met.
“But you’re not Irish, are you?”
“No, I grew up in Blackpool.” Another peek at her watch. She’d have to hurry now to make that two o’clock.
“Oh, that’s right. The Illuminations. Yes, Mrs. O’Toole and I love the seaside.” He shared a glance with his wife, who didn’t look at all like she loved the seaside. “I hope you don’t mind I asked my wife to sit down with us?”
“No. Perfectly fine,” Livy said. Then it hit her. The glare from Patricia. The sudden summons. Saturday before the palace, before the pub.
“You smell like a brewery,” she’d told Livy.
“The Ladies’ Front” had been Mrs. O’Toole’s baby since her husband first introduced the column. It had made her a sort of celebrity in some circles. Truly, if the Press and Journal had a star, it was Patricia O’Toole, and she wouldn’t be happy with a lush proofing her words.
Livy’s stomach dive-bombed.
“Shall I get my girl to fix you a cup of tea?” O’Toole asked.
“Um, no thank you.”
“I trust you found today’s column to be relatively clean,” Patricia said.
“I read it several times, yes,” Livy replied.
For a moment, the O’Tooles looked at Livy, the same vacant smile stamped on both their faces. Bloody hell, was she getting the sack?
“Well, Olivia, I don’t have to tell you how important Mrs. O’Toole’s … and your work is to the success of the P&J. ‘The Ladies’ Front’ continues to be one of the most popular columns with our readers. It’s more than just words on a page for many people, Livy. It’s a—a …”
“A code of conduct,” Patricia added.
“Yes, yes, quite right. Some of these girls pay very close attention to what Mrs. O’Toole has to say. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it doesn’t help them make it through the day. It is a bit surprising then, Olivia, that you, who proofread the column, seem to be rather out of sorts lately,” O’Toole continued. He pushed his glasses up on his nose and leaned forward to open the single brown folder on his desk. He read over it while Patricia glared at Livy like a lion who had missed supper.
Livy’s palms felt clammy. This was it.
“According to your file, you’ve been late to work three times in the past month and have been late back from lunch on four occasions over the same period. And Saturday before the ceremony, Mrs. O’Toole here said you had the—um—smell of spirits about you.”
“She did. Yes. I’m afraid she did,” Patricia chimed in.
Livy tried to remember how much money she had left. How long would it be before Langham kicked her out?
O’Toole sighed a disapproving breath. “My dear girl, I want the very best for my employees here, and in return I ask that they meet the world-class standards of the P&J. Do you understand? Miss Nash?”
“Yes—yes. Sorry.”
Patricia leaned forward in her chair. “Olivia, I don’t presume to know what sort of dilemmas you may be facing when you leave the office every afternoon, but I do know that practically every problem faced by women your age, and older, can be solved by the practical advice and counsel found in the column you yourself proofread every week. Perhaps if you had paid a little closer attention to the content of the piece and did a little less nitpicking over the occasional missed comma or—”
Livy wanted to tell them the column was insulting and ludicrous and beneath her. That she belonged elsewhere doing important work and not sitting here being judged by two people whose only claim to respectability derived from their money and class.
“Olivia?”
“Yes. I understand.”
Livy knew any sort of pushback from her would result in a much longer lecture on the virtues of living according to Patricia O’Toole’s unforgiving principles, but at this point she didn’t give a toss. They’d sack her just the same.
What time could it be? Surely past two. Too late for her two-o’clock appointment now.
* * *
Once Geoffrey O’Toole finally got around to the “your services were no longer required” bit, Livy had shuffled out of his big office and made for Jeremy’s desk. She couldn’t bear facing sweet Myrtle. There might even be tears, and right now she needed a drink more than anything.
What Jeremy Huggins lacked in charm, he more than made up for in procurement of quality booze. It took only a modest amount of eye-batting and pouting to convince Jeremy to sneak down the second-floor fire escape with her and his bottle of Gordon’s. The clouds of the day before had dissipated, so they stole away to a small bench behind a pub next door. Jeremy led the way, which made Livy wonder how many other girls he’d led astray from the P&J. Not that she cared. She found him vile, so Livy felt no qualms about using Jeremy for his gin. Fending off his advances for the next hour or so required nothing more than the occasional glare. In exchange, she enjoyed the best drink she’d had since the war.
The last real liquor she could remember—not the watered-down, often bitter swill she’d had to settle for during rationing— had been supplied to her by a Frenchman named Luc. He’d been one of five in her SOE circuit in France. Most nights the group took refuge in the storeroom of an abandoned café to avoid Gestapo patrols. It had taken a while for Livy to warm to Peter Scobee, the commander, but she’d immediately taken to the others. Andrè had been a farmer until his wife was killed in an air raid. His sister, Michelle, and Luc, an older man who’d worked as a mechanic until his garage had been taken over to service German staff cars, completed the small network code-named MANDOLIN.
The French members of the circuit didn’t know Peter’s and Livy’s real names. They were always Marcel and Annette Desjardins, a brother and sister from Paris whose family home had been taken over at the beginning of the German occupation. André, Michelle, and Luc knew not to ask questions. They did their jobs.
Michelle, who was a few years older, soon became something of a big sister to Livy. Despite her small frame and waifish figure, Michelle served as the group’s cook. She scraped together their meager rations and created lavish meals for the five, and usually ate more than anyone else. Her older brother seemed a typical Parisian. André smoked too much, which stained his teeth and bristly blond mustache a dark brown.
Luc, the ex-mechanic, could get almost anything. He supplied drinkable wine and broke the tension with some of the dirtiest jokes Livy had ever heard. Why doesn’t Eva Braun swallow when she gives Hitler a blow job? She doesn’t like sour Kraut. The dirtier the joke, the more Luc’s big grin and wolfish eyes stood out even at night.
As Jeremy poured her third glass of gin and began another story of his wartime exploits, Livy considered how low she had sunk. Sitting on a lonely bench in the middle of the day enduring the come-ons of a third-rate Casanova might not be an all-time low, but it ran a close second. She set her glass down between cracks on the ancient bench, and her fingers brushed the thick business card in the pocket of her skirt. Fleming. What time now? Almost half four. Gin and self-pity had stolen the afternoon.
She didn’t have a job. She didn’t have Peter. And soon enough she might not have a place to live. Fleming and an appointment for which she was two and a half hours late was all she had at this point.
Livy put up her hand, stopping Jeremy midstory. His perpetual smile sagged.
“Do you have a quid for a taxi?”
Chapter Three
Thirty-five minutes later Livy left her properly soused companion sitting in a cab with a promise to return as she took the stairs to the second floor of the building on the Gray’s Inn Road. Three hours late now. Livy doubted Fleming would still be there, and if he was, she reckoned he’d no longer be interested. But she had to try.
She pulled the business card from her skirt and stepped off the landing. The hallway before her felt narrow and secluded. One door stood at the very end of the corridor. Livy hesitated before stepping out onto the polished hardwood floors. Something in that first stride felt portentous to her. The hallway looked long and ominous, as if the walls on either side were closing in with each step. Then again, maybe that was just the gin talking.
She stopped at the door at the end of the hall. MERCURY SERVICE had been stenciled on the opaque glass. There was a slight glow on the other side. Maybe he was still there. Livy let out a breath, straightened her skirt, and reached for the doorknob.
It opened before she touched it.
A blonde woman in a business skirt and a blouse that looked expensive even to Livy’s less-than-qualified eyes was in the middle of putting on her coat. She flashed a perfect smile and then pivoted to the man behind her.
“Your two o’clock is here, sir.”
Livy recognized the man behind the blonde. Ian Fleming leaned on a broad clean desk, a cut-glass tumbler filled with something dark brown in his hand. He glanced down at the face of his watch.
“Just one second, Pen,” Fleming said to the blonde. He reached forward and retrieved a travel brochure from a stack of papers she had under her arm. The front of the colorful trifold advert featured bronzed men and women sunning on a golden beach and wading into the ocean wearing snorkels and flippers. The legend at the top read JAMAICA.
“I need something to keep me company after you’ve gone,” he said.
A cold look passed over the blonde’s crisp Nordic features, but only for an instant. “Shall I freshen your drink before I leave, sir?” she asked.
“Thank you, but no, my dear. Good night.”
She gave Livy another look and then hurried past, her heels clicking on the hardwoods as she retreated down the narrow hallway.
Fleming dropped the Jamaica brochure on the desk behind him and downed the last of his drink. Livy didn’t know whether she should step into the office or apologize for wasting his time and flee. Her mouth felt dry. She felt wobbly from head to toe. This wasn’t another newspaper job. It was something more, and it frightened her as much as it drew her. So she just stood there.
“You might want to close the door—should you decide to come in,” Fleming said, and retreated behind the big desk through another door.
She stepped through the entrance. Briefly she remembered Jeremy waiting in the cab. Then he vanished from her mind.
This looked like no newspaper office Livy had ever seen. No newsroom. No bustle of activity. The compact outer office had thick, wood-paneled walls. The secretary’s desk was the only substantial piece of furniture in the room. A new Royal Arrow typewriter and a black telephone sat in the center of the desk. Otherwise it was completely free of clutter. A large print of Turner’s The Battle of Trafalgar hung behind the desk. Two leather armchairs sat at an angle out front. The look felt sleek, modern, and expensive.
Livy pushed on toward Fleming’s open office door. She noted its thick oak and the rubber seal that ran around the frame. Not the type of door an editor would ever need. Livy wondered what this man might be saying or doing in his office that he didn’t want overheard. She stood in the arch and took in the room.
The inner office didn’t seem much bigger than the outer, perhaps about twelve feet square. A small picture window dominated the far wall with a view of the neighboring brownstones that stretched as far as she could see. In contrast with his secretary’s workspace, the surface of Fleming’s old-fashioned oak desk was buried under newspapers, some dog-eared and opened. A cannonball paperweight kept several carefully stacked piles of papers together. Alongside rested a pair of reading spectacles as well as a pack of Chesterfields and another pack of cigarettes in a white box with three gold bands.
These small details, however, paled compared to the wall-length map of the world that hu
ng directly behind Fleming’s desk. The chart stretched from Alaska and North America on the left to Siberia and the South China Sea on the far right. Tiny lights embedded into the map itself glowed like an elongated Christmas tree from one corner of the world to the next. Most of the lights seemed concentrated in North and South America, Europe, and Africa, but the occasional single light flickered in Czechoslovakia or Peking. Moscow even had its own small bulb. Livy guessed there to be at least ninety to a hundred lights total.
Fleming didn’t stand when she entered the room. He carefully placed one of the cigarettes with the gold bands in a holder and lit it with a heavy gold lighter. Then he gave her a head-to-toes appraisal, like you might size up a secondhand automobile with a few too many miles.
“I was detained—at work,” Livy said.
“Quite, quite,” he said, languidly shifting his eyes back to her face. Then, smiling, he said, “Do sit down.”
Leaving the door open, Livy took a seat in the plush leather chair across from this more-than-mysterious man. He wore another navy suit with a white cotton shirt, but this time with a spotted bow tie. Fleming looked pressed and crisp even though it was the end of the workday. He reminded her of so many officer types she’d met in the war. The privileged men at MI6 who’d turned their patrician noses down at the “amateurs” of the Firm. But this one seemed to be wooing her, and not for the usual reasons a man courted a woman. Still, if it proved to be the latter, Livy would leave him with a broken limb.
“Cigarette?” he said, studying her with those lazy blue eyes that seemed to obscure the gears turning in his head.
“I don’t smoke.”
Fleming’s wide mouth turned down as if the answer was unexpected. “Drink, then?” He half gestured to a credenza to the right of his desk stocked with several bottles, various cut-glass cocktail tumblers, and a leather ice bucket with wet tongs lying on a tray next to it. “Vodka, wasn’t it?”
Livy’s right hand tensed. She didn’t want a drink. She wanted to know what the hell this was about.
