Oh, Mona. You were so right, but you had no idea. Even here, where I came for safety, I’m not safe. None of us are.
She kicked a stone, wishing she could be one of the street kids. It must be schoolwork keeping Freddie and his pals inside, as they usually didn’t mind the weather. The street felt dark and deserted without them, except for the music that wound its way inside Phoebe’s nerves.
Not deserted, though. A lanky figure leaned against the jutting wall by number seven, twirling an umbrella. He lurched forward on seeing her.
“Gosh, that’s me lucky!” he exclaimed.
It was Reg.
CHAPTER TWELVE
* * *
The intelligent brown eyes behind the glasses were as sparkling as Phoebe realized she remembered. Which didn’t stop her from jerking a knitting needle from her bag and wielding it like a dagger.
“Stay back, or you’ll have a very embarrassing hospital visit,” she warned.
“Pax, pax,” he said, holding up his hands. “Charming to see you again too.”
She tightened her grip on the needle.
“You’ve been following me. You know what we call that in New York? Creepy! And that’s when we’re being polite.”
“Pax,” he said again. “Fair cop, I did follow you after we met, but it was an accident, I swear. I live one road over. I could hardly believe the chances. That’s the honest truth. This isn’t some Jack the Ripper sort of thing.”
“It would be pretty sorry if it were,” she said. “Murderers are never as sharp as they think they are. You may have suckered one of my neighbors into thinking you’re a charming Englishman, but if you’ve been down here more than ten minutes, there’s no way she hasn’t seen you. She knows your face if I disappear. And the landlady’s son is twelve years old, misses nothing that happens on this road, and likes me—those sorts of boys get more murderers hanged than Miss Marple.”
She would have handed over a week’s salary for a snapshot of his expression. So that’s what they mean by “gobsmacked.”
“Are you a detective?” he asked with a nervous smile.
“Don’t try and be cute,” she snapped. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I thought I would drop off another note. Mrs. Morrison wasn’t in but she said you’re usually expected around now.”
Phoebe made a mental note to throttle Joan.
“Did you think that maybe my not responding to your last note might have meant something?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I did. But I couldn’t resist trying once again,” he said with a deprecating smile.
Phoebe’s heart gave a strange and very uncomfortable leap. She gripped the knitting needle harder, liking the feel of the metal burning into her skin. Liking anything that distracted her from wondering what this man’s game was.
“Oh, hello!” Joan’s voice boomed from the corner. Phoebe gritted her teeth. If only Anne were here. Anne was a whiz at ascertaining a situation and acting accordingly. She could send a man packing with a half-flared nostril. Joan smiled the smile of a would-be matchmaker. “So lovely to see you again,” Joan trilled to Reg. “Won’t you pop up for some tea?”
Phoebe rolled her eyes. Joan sounded more British than the queen.
“Oh, I don’t want to intrude on evening plans,” Reg said, and Phoebe almost softened to him.
“Nonsense, it’s a celebration!” cried Joan, shaking a pink bakery box.
“Wow, did Charlie sell something?” Phoebe asked, forgetting her irritation and how rain soaked she was getting.
“No, silly, we’re celebrating you saving the day!” Joan squealed with laughter. “Come in, come in, you’re wet, you’ll catch cold. Hannah sent a telegram. I’ve bought a cake! Come in! And put that knitting needle away before it rusts.”
Phoebe was half-inside when she realized Reg was joining them, buffeted by Joan and her desire to make things merrier with more.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Phoebe told him, “but I think this should be an Americans-only evening.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Joan snapped.
Phoebe stood firm. Reg looked harmless, even—yes—charming, but she had enough on her plate without a stranger demanding her attention. Joan should know better, especially after the Hedda Hopper catastrophe. He could be anybody. He could be dangerous.
“Quite right,” Reg said. “Americans only. If I could just have one more word, Miss Adler?”
Joan harrumphed but went upstairs, leaving Phoebe and Reg in the tiny vestibule. Phoebe had never lingered there long enough to determine the exact smell. Pea soup, she decided. With a hint of long-dead mouse.
“All right,” Phoebe said bluntly. “One more word. I recommend ‘goodbye.’ It’s succinct, and works as a sentence.”
“True,” he said with a grave nod that she was pretty sure was half-joking. “But it has an air of finality that seems so, well, final.”
At home, he might be amusing her to gain entrée to television, or Anne. Showing off cleverness because he knew how she valued it. Here, she was thrown. Phoebe had lost any taste she’d ever had for being thrown. Besides, she was impatient to know what exactly Hannah had said. That she’d saved the day! She, Phoebe, was a hero. Extraordinary. Maybe that was what was holding her here, feeding her curiosity to hear what this not-unattractive stranger wanted to say to her. This was a story, anyway. Something to work into a script, or just something to please Mona. Who would be furious if Phoebe didn’t see this through to its end.
“I know you’re a busy woman, Miss Adler,” Reg said. “I respect that. And no doubt you’ve an abundance of reasons for not having another coffee with me. But I’m hoping you might find some time anyway.”
“Why?” she asked. She was playing no game. She was genuinely puzzled.
He ran a hand through his lightly greased mop of dark curls.
“You seem like the sort of person who, the more one gets to know her, the more intriguing she becomes,” he said. His eyes were huge and serious.
The comment might be a line, but Phoebe had to hand it to him, it was a good one. She pushed her glasses farther up her nose. It was possible this man found her interesting enough to want to know her better. Or maybe he took pleasure from getting close enough to get a good poke in the eye.
“Of course, mystery lingers more from a distance,” she said, because it was the sort of thing she would say. Not that she had any usual line for a situation like this. The boys at school had respected and been terrified of her. Then came the war, and no men. After the war, her focus had been on winning and retaining an independence that would hold her and Mona afloat. She always told herself that, once she was secure, that might be the moment to consider romance, if such a thing were to present itself. She didn’t want to need a man. Wanting was one thing. Needing was something very different.
“Have you been to the Seven Stars?” Reg asked.
“Are you trying to recruit me into some pagan worship circle?”
He grinned. “It’s a pub. Very nearly medieval—it actually survived the Great Fire. If you’re disinclined towards a pint, we can have a coffee. After lunch, when it’s quiet enough to let you feel the ghosts.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” she informed him tartly.
“Ah, and they say such delightful things about you.”
She could control her smile, but not her eyes, which she knew were dancing.
“I’ll think about it,” she promised. “And check my schedule. If I can manage something, I’ll let you know.”
“You are a most unyielding businesswoman, Miss Adler,” Reg said in admiration. “That’s all quite fair, and you know how to reach me.”
“Not exactly,” she said, remembering there was an address on the note she’d crumpled.
“Fortunately, I was prepared for just such an
occurrence,” he said, handing over another envelope with her name on it. “I think you’ve got a willing messenger there”—he pointed behind her—“so you needn’t put yourself out with delivery. I hope to hear from you, Miss Adler.” He gave her a funny little salute and loped out the door, a whirl of duffle coat, trailing scarf, and cheerfulness.
Phoebe turned and saw Freddie’s round eyes peering through a slit in the broom cupboard. The willing messenger. Reg was even cleverer than she’d thought. She grinned and beckoned Freddie as she opened the note.
Dear Miss Adler, I daresay a reasonable man would accept your silence as polite refusal, but I am choosing to be an unreasonable man on the chance you’ve lost my address or changed your mind. If either of these things are true, please send word.
“Bourchier Street, that really is the next one over, isn’t it?” she asked Freddie, pointing to the address.
“It is, indeed, miss,” he told her, proud to have his good information sought.
“Did that fellow look all right to you?”
Freddie threw back his shoulders. “I think he might be, miss, him being well-spoken and seeming like a right gent, despite not having posh clothes. He had a sort of . . . good humor, I’d say, miss.”
This was a deeply considered opinion, and Phoebe nodded gravely.
“I think you might be right,” she agreed. “If I may secure your services, when it’s convenient,” she continued, dropping a penny into his hand.
“Right you are, miss, and most pleased,” he said in his most refined tone. Then he couldn’t resist, looking at her with shining eyes. “Is it true, miss, you were a heroine today? I heard Mrs. Morrison shouting about it when the telegram come.”
“A nasty old bat is trying to chase some of us into prison for crimes we didn’t commit,” Phoebe confided. “I was able to thwart her.”
Freddie gazed on her with the sort of worship that once preceded sacrificial offerings. Phoebe had to admit, it was gratifying.
Even more gratifying was the telegram from Hannah:
SHOWER PHOEBE WITH PRAISE SHE’S SAVED US FROM HURRICANE HOPPER = TELL HER TO COME FOR LUNCH SATURDAY = AND I HOPE TO SEE A SCRIPT AS CREATIVE AS HER QUICK THINKING +
“I went out to ring Shirley and she told me the rest,” Joan explained.
The whole thing was suddenly hilarious. Phoebe plunged into the story, the details of which needed no embellishment. They pealed with laughter, Phoebe struggling to catch her breath in between descriptions of Hedda Hopper’s hat, voice, nose, pen, and fury. Their shrieks summoned the family: Bobby, the teenager, stormed out of the flat, casting his mother and Phoebe the look of disdain so endemic to adolescent boys, making Phoebe laugh harder. Alvie ran to the table, comic book dangling from his hands, his curiosity about the joke forgotten when he registered the presence of cake. Then came Charlie, his face thunderous.
“I’m right in the middle of . . . oh, Phoebe, hello,” he said reluctantly.
“Hiya, Charlie,” Phoebe said, nodding respectfully. He had circles under his eyes, and she discerned subtle patches in his trousers. His face grew admiring as he heard the tale. But there was fear in his eyes too. That was the problem. They could laugh all they wanted. They still needed to be afraid.
Charlie handed off his share of cake to the eager Alvie, who couldn’t believe his luck. Joan’s indulgent smile was melancholy, and Phoebe made a note to herself to bring the Morrisons another cake, another time. Under the guise of coffee, lest anyone think it was charity.
“Gosh,” Alvie said, his eyes round like Freddie’s. “Imagine a lady being the hero of the day.”
“Your mother’s one every day,” Phoebe said, annoyed that Charlie and Joan laughed at their son’s remark. “Besides, haven’t you ever read Wonder Woman?”
The boy rolled his eyes. “Borrrr-ing,” he pronounced, and grinned at his father’s laughter. He was less pleased to be told the last piece of cake was Bobby’s, and retreated back into his room.
“Yours is a heck of a story though,” Charlie assured Phoebe. Phoebe, buoyed with cake, laughter, and, she had to admit, Reg, swelled with contentment. She was a heroine, beating the would-be conquering army from the castle. What couldn’t she do now?
Her eyes glazed. She felt herself murmur something as she crossed to her own door. Within seconds, she was typing. She didn’t even need to start knitting first. She was Maid Marian, seeking out Robin and the outlaws in their most recent hideaway—an abandoned house—to tell them of a village being terrorized by the sheriff’s men because it was suspected of harboring an outlaw. As Robin and his men plan to save the village, there is a shout from the watchman—a surprise attack is coming! They’re surrounded. One very young, nervous outlaw believes the attackers’ assurance that anyone who gives himself up will be granted clemency. He rushes out and is immediately killed. All hope seems lost, but Marian was in this house once and knows there is a secret passageway. She leads them all to safety, and while the attackers are busy burning down the house, the outlaws conduct a sneak attack on the village, setting all the people free.
Phoebe flexed her fingers. The secret passageway wasn’t a brilliant choice—it was a Gothic idea and a contrivance. But how much would she have loved such an adventure when she was twelve? The kids watching the show would be enthralled. And it would look awfully exciting. With suspenseful music and the shadows playing off the dark walls of the passage, viewers’ hearts would be happily in their throats. Plus, there were deaths! All good clean fun.
She typed a title page: The Sneak Attack by Phoebe Adler. It was not the name that was going to end up in the credits, but it was hers. She was going to write it wherever she could.
* * *
• • •
The change at the set of Robin Hood was instant. Dora, head of the Other Girls, greeted Phoebe with a cigarette and a compliment on her excellent knitting. The actors said, “Good morning, Miss Adler,” as they came to the set. Langham shook her hand. Miss Brown had been packed off. And there was a handwritten note from Hannah, asking again that she come to lunch on Saturday. The set became a fun place to be, and her nights were energetic as she wrote and rewrote the script. If she could only have sat down with Mona and Anne in person to tell them about her coup, life would be almost perfect.
* * *
• • •
Hannah answered the door herself, and Phoebe immediately extended her hand.
Hannah seized it and tugged Phoebe into her arms. She smelled of Shalimar, the same “grown-up scent” Phoebe had sneaked to Mona. Phoebe hugged Hannah tighter, then pulled back in case she was about to sniffle.
Hannah laid two hands on Phoebe’s shoulders.
“I wanted to come to the set to congratulate you right away,” she said. “But I thought it best not to make a fuss over you in front of the others. And I was going to invite you to a very posh dinner in town, but in the end I decided we’d be at our most leisurely right here, where we can really chat.”
Rhoda, wearing a prototype of the Robin Hood costume that was about to hit shops, charged into the hall, brandishing a toy bow and arrows with an unsettling menace.
“State your business!” she cried, her eyes narrowed.
“I come in peace,” Phoebe promised her. “And hope not to leave in pieces.”
The girl giggled and aimed instead at a painting of a hunting scene.
“Want to see me hit that deer?” she offered.
“Rhoda, darling, go and help Gemma with Julie,” Hannah ordered. “Later, we’ll go out into the garden.”
Hannah watched fondly as Rhoda galloped away on a pretend horse.
“Her school has asked I send along some manacles,” she confided. “I’m not sure they’re joking.”
“My school asked my parents much the same thing,” Phoebe said.
“And if you and Rhoda had been boys, they’d have
called you scamps,” said Hannah.
“Oh, I got called things.” Phoebe laughed. “But never that.”
“What about a word that rhymes with ‘scamp’?” Hannah asked.
Phoebe laughed again. “You’d think once I grew this huge bust that might have done it, but no. Everyone knew I wasn’t interested in anything except making something of myself.”
Reg popped into her mind, and she wondered if her bust was part of the attraction. She hoped not. Anyway, he’d only seen her swathed in layers of tweed.
“I was never interested in boys either until I married one,” Hannah said with a giggle, pouring them champagne.
“Excuse me?” Paul, walking by on his way out, stopped and raised a brow.
Hannah laughed harder and waved a hand toward Phoebe. “Paul, darling, you remember Phoebe Adler, who—”
“Yes, yes, the name Phoebe has become legendary the last few days,” Paul said, nodding pleasantly. “Congratulations, dear, we’re all safe to fight another day. Or, at least, Frank Langham is.”
There was something in his tone that made Phoebe uneasy, and she was glad to see Paul leave.
If Phoebe was disappointed not to be taken to one of the posh restaurants, Hannah more than compensated by setting out a scrumptious lunch ordered from Fortnum & Mason. The dishes threatened to overrun the table.
“Did you leave any cheese in the shop?” Phoebe asked.
Hannah explained that Shirley was joining them later, and Rhoda and Julie were promised a bit of “elegant lady time.” Phoebe knew Shirley’s presence was a high compliment. Shirley LeGrand did not spare either her time or her friendship indiscriminately.
Hannah, too, was no easy friend, but Phoebe’s handling of Hedda Hopper had evidently upgraded Phoebe to the category of someone to be trusted. They ate with gusto and laughed, and Hannah told stories.
Red Letter Days Page 19
