* * *
• • •
Saturday, Phoebe and Reg went to the British Museum. They sat in front of the Rosetta Stone for a long time.
“It unlocked history,” Reg said reverentially. “So much we wouldn’t understand without it. Not just language, but part of who we were.”
“Yes,” Phoebe agreed. “Though how much do people change, really?”
“You’re a cynic, Phoebe Adler,” he teased.
“I’m a realist,” she corrected him. “People have always been scared of stupid stuff, and done stupider stuff to try and make themselves feel better.”
“Maybe it’s you who should be teaching history, rather than me.”
“Let’s go look at medieval weapons,” Phoebe urged.
He was fun. He was easy to talk to. She liked the way their arms linked. He guided her through Bloomsbury, still teeming with writers and artists, and they shared an eel pie and mash at the Lamb, listening to locals arguing about politics and plays. Phoebe luxuriated in the cacophony so like that at Floyd and Leo’s. She and Reg joined in the general conversation and people listened to her, and laughed at her jokes. And when Reg asked if she’d like to go to a club in Soho that night, she was sorry to decline, even though she was excited for her Nigel adventure. She had to work, she said.
Better not to tell him the truth yet. Not until after she’d looked Nigel Elliott in the eye and decided for herself whether or not he was an enemy.
* * *
• • •
The Egotists’ Club was in Park Place, a street even richer than Park Avenue. Phoebe felt both thrilled and alien as she stood before the white Georgian building, readying herself to go in. Hannah had told her that Nigel seemed to be all right, and indeed might be worth cultivating, but to be on her guard and see if she could outsmart or unnerve him. Phoebe took a deep breath, fighting the girdle that dug into her stomach. There was no mistaking her for someone who belonged here. But so long as she told herself she didn’t care, she had power. She threw back her shoulders and strutted inside.
“May I help you, madam?” the concierge greeted her. Politely, but with a chill, waiting to see if she merited deference. The name Nigel Elliott produced the right response, and her coat was taken with the same regard as if it were a mink, rather than a tired bouclé wool from an end-of-season sale at Saks. Phoebe caught a glimpse of herself in a full-length mirror, no doubt strategically placed so female guests could make sure they were ready to enter in style. From her piled and slicked updo to her good stockings and heels, she looked like the self she barely remembered. The vision of the lady she’d always striven to be. The successful career woman, who was invited to all the best places. She touched her watch, wishing she could tell her parents who she was tonight. Suddenly Nigel was there, leaning in to kiss her cheek in a rush of brilliantine and expensive aftershave.
“Lovely to see you again, my dear, do come in.”
“I have it on good authority that I’m to call you ‘Sir Nigel,’” she said as they traversed a room as grand as a palace.
“My friends are allowed to call me Nigel,” he said with a laugh and a pat on her hand. “Especially the ones to whom I owe my life.”
He looked like a friend. He spoke like a friend. Not that one could always tell. She’d thought Hank, Geraldine, and even Jimmy were friends, after a fashion. Nigel seated her in an enormous leather chair by a fireplace, handed her a glass of champagne and one of those delectable Sobranie cigarettes. If he was out to cause her grief, he was certainly making the journey pleasant.
“Your note suggested that things are going rather swimmingly,” Nigel said. “I couldn’t be more delighted. I do hope that means you are liking London.”
“As a hideout goes, it’s pretty swell,” Phoebe said.
Nigel laughed. “One envisages you lurking in the cellar of a safe house.”
“No, I landed on the top floor.”
He laughed again. “So, are you able to divulge the nature of your work, or is it all terribly clandestine?”
“Clandestine is my middle name,” she said, tapping her nose. “Actually it’s Berneice, isn’t that cruel?”
“My charming wife’s Christian name is Hortense. At least you have ‘Phoebe,’ a truly lovely name for a truly lovely young woman.”
It was real, then, the bond she’d felt on the ship. She could read his tones perfectly. He was a man living a lie, trying not to get caught. He was more unhappy than not. And he let her, a near stranger, know all this, because her own situation was so similar. He was someone she could trust. He was a friend.
“I’ve sold a script,” she said in a low voice. “To a terrific television show. Now I’m working on another, trying to make lightning strike twice.”
“As though you were Zeus himself,” Nigel pronounced. He waved his hand and a waiter descended, set up a tray full of covered silver dishes, and in seconds presented Phoebe with a small plate piled with meats and vol-au-vents.
“I do hope you don’t mind a bit of informal nibbling,” Nigel said. “Women aren’t permitted in the dining room except for luncheon and afternoon tea, though I had a bit of a hunch you would enjoy this arrangement more anyway.”
It was as though he knew that, certain she could trust him, she wanted to ask him more. Though perhaps it did his reputation no harm to be seen whispering to another woman by a fire. People might remember that, and not notice if his toe tapped against the toe of another man.
“So this is a safe space to talk?” she asked. “And you’re a safe pair of hands?”
“Nothing gets heard here. As for me, well . . .” He displayed a pair of well-manicured hands. “Soft, I suppose, but beneath the supple surface, overflowing with capability. I like to think you can put yourself in them with assurance.”
Phoebe didn’t say the words “Robin Hood,” but she told him Hedda Hopper had come to London, sniffing out blacklistees.
“Yes,” he said grimly. “Your country is brimming with wealth and glory, and yet it cannot abide the idea of those it disapproves of getting on with their lives.”
“Do you think that extends so far as sending anonymous threats by mail?”
“That seems a bit extreme,” Nigel said, looking closely to see if she was joking.
“What about sending an actual FBI Hound to London?”
Now he laughed. “For you? Darling, forgive me, but you’re of far too little consequence to warrant such bother.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve got a lot of friends in a lot of places, including various stages of trouble. I know things.”
Another wave of his hand brought a tray of cakes. “Take one of each,” he urged. “We’re only recently off the sugar rationing, we ought to indulge.” He ate a few cakes, clearly relishing every mouthful. “I met that head of the FBI once. Hoover. Rather Dickensian sort of name, when you think of him hoovering people up into his traps and prisons. I’d have thought a nation so powerful would be a bit more fearless, but such are the times in which we find ourselves. They’re afraid of the Soviets; they think you might be in league with the Soviets; and so want you afraid of them. Socratic dialogue at its most inane.”
“If American Communists were really in cahoots with the Soviets and the FBI’s pounding them so hard, you’d think it’d prove the Soviets are all talk, no trousers.”
“Ah, you’ve picked up some local lingo! My congratulations,” Nigel toasted her.
“Doesn’t much help me if it turns out I’m not really safe here,” Phoebe said.
“You are safe,” he assured her. “But they want to keep you all worried. They hope that you might ultimately give yourself up, just for the relief of that worry.” He drained his glass. “Though I daresay it’s not impossible they might find a way to prevent your residency being renewed. Bit anticlimactic, compared to stopping a film from
being distributed, I should think.”
“So they can touch me?” Phoebe hated the fear in her voice. Hated how much Hoover would love it.
“My dear girl, try not to fret.” Nigel took her hand. “I’ll cast a few stones, see if I can learn something of real use for you. Maybe someone once sang a song about you that made you sound like more than you are. Or, of course, it could be personal.”
“I never saw the man in the green hat till he started hounding me.”
“Rotten Hound, if he let himself be seen. Hoover ought to whip him.” He tipped the last of the champagne into her glass. “They may think they have power here, but they don’t know what Britain is still capable of. Don’t forget that.”
Phoebe asked one more favor—if he could find out for her if Reg was who he said he was, or a spy. Nigel laughed.
“My goodness! You have picked up a host of admirers! You had best hope they never find out you’re asking to have them vetted.”
“I had you vetted before I came here,” Phoebe said slyly.
He threw back his head and laughed.
“Of course you did, pet, I would hope for nothing less.” He squeezed her hand. “You’re a clever and resourceful young woman. I have great faith in you. Look how splendidly you’ve managed already.”
“I’ve only managed because I’ve had help,” she admitted.
“The person who claims they’ve done everything all on their own is usually deluded or a liar,” he told her in a tone that brooked no arguments. “Now then, I’ve got another engagement, but you and I shall rendezvous again soon. I enjoy your company, my dear Phoebe.”
“Likewise,” she said. “So really, how much of a Red can that possibly make me?”
He laughed and walked her to the entrance, waving his hand to have her coat fetched and then helping her into it. “If I don’t see you before, have a very happy Christmas and New Year’s, my dear girl.” He kissed her cheek and whispered, “If you run into real trouble, ring the number in your pocket.” He kissed her other cheek with exuberance. “Charming to see you again, my dear, utterly charming!”
Phoebe was halfway to Soho before she reached into her coat pocket and found a small card with a number and an address for telegrams. She hadn’t seen or felt him go anywhere near her pockets. Neat trick. I’ll have to work that into a script.
Despite the threats, the man in the green hat, Hedda Hopper, and all of it, she felt better. Someone might be watching her, but far more people were looking after her. There was safety in all those numbers. She held her head high as she walked down the middle of Meard Street.
“I can look after myself too,” she said aloud. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking otherwise.”
Atta girl, she heard Mona’s voice in her head. These bastards don’t deserve the pleasure of thinking you’re scared. You be their Scrooge for Christmas.
* * *
• • •
The holidays passed quickly. A party at Hannah’s, a party at the LeGrands’, a ten-minute phone call with Mona on Boxing Day. Phoebe told her more about Reg and their ongoing adventures—forays to the National Gallery, St. Paul’s, the remains of the London Wall.
“Yes, yes, yes, but what about the kissing?” Mona demanded.
“Still nonexistent,” Phoebe said. “We talk a lot about violent history, it doesn’t lend itself to romance.”
She could hear Mona’s eyes rolling.
“Step on it, kiddo,” Mona scolded. “Time’s a-wasting.”
Phoebe knew it. Each phone call, Mona’s voice was just a bit weaker. Weaker, but angrier. Mona wasn’t going gently into the good night.
“I think he’s got something special planned for New Year’s,” Phoebe said.
“That only keeps him meeting expectations, not exceeding them,” Mona said.
The Bonwit dress came out again on New Year’s Eve. Reg was right. Hope was coming alive in London—all England, if the papers were to be believed. Everyone, even the toughest Teddy Girls, who sported knickerbockers and workingmen’s boots, would put on the style tonight. Phoebe suspected even Beryl would concede enough to the celebratory mood to put on her finest pair of trousers.
Freddie was practicing marbles in the vestibule.
“Gosh, but you look smart, miss,” he greeted her. “Are you off somewhere posh?”
“Seeing as it’s Mr. Bassill, I doubt it, but I thought I’d dress the part.”
It felt alien, not wanting to go “somewhere posh.” She thought of Nigel, who had sent her a short note to say that Reg was a Labour Party member and socialist through and through, but these were no great impediments to his general decency, and besides, he went to Oxford so he probably knew how to behave. Nigel would be in the poshest of places tonight, counting the minutes until he could escape and go where he really wanted to be. “Somewhere posh” was not, perhaps, such an ideal.
Mrs. Cotley opened her door from the dim back of the building and glared at her son. “Not troubling you, is he, miss?” she asked in a warning tone. Freddie looked down.
“Not at all, Mrs. Cotley,” Phoebe told her. “He’s my best pal in the building.”
She realized as she said it that it wasn’t such a compliment to Joan, but she wouldn’t trade Freddie’s shining eyes for anything.
“All right then,” Mrs. Cotley said, resigned if unconvinced. She left the door ajar. The sounds of Nat King Cole singing “Unforgettable” poured into the vestibule.
“Will you be dancing, do you think?” Freddie asked Phoebe.
“I hope so, though I’m awfully out of practice,” she admitted.
“They’re making us dance at school,” Freddie grumbled. “It’s stupid.”
“I always thought so too,” Phoebe agreed. “But I like it now.” She impulsively took Freddie’s hand and spun him around. He laughed and let her be the lead as they goofed about with exaggerated gestures and silly faces.
“This is how dancing should be,” Freddie said in approval.
“I’m inclined to agree,” Reg said behind them.
Phoebe grinned and held out a hand to him to join their circle. He stared at her a moment, his mouth open, then joined them for the rest of the song. They bid a disappointed Freddie good night and headed off.
Meard Street was packed with people heading to parties, or at parties, chaos blaring through windows. Reg said nothing. True, he would have to raise his voice to be heard, but that had never stopped him before. His silence unsettled Phoebe.
“Take a breath, Reg, and let a girl get a word in edgewise, won’t you?” Phoebe said at last.
Reg smiled and ran a hand through his hair. “I do apologize,” he said. “I find myself rather taken aback by your appearance.”
“It’s New Year’s Eve, I wasn’t going to dress for digging ditches,” Phoebe said.
“You’d still be lovely if you had,” he said.
Now it was Phoebe’s turn to be wordless. Lovely? She knew she wasn’t the funny-looking kid she once was, but no one except Mona had ever called her lovely. And here was Reg, implying he saw her that way even when she wasn’t wearing makeup and her best dress.
He took her to one of Soho’s jazz clubs, a place they accessed via a tiny alley and several imposing doors. Inside, it was just like a movie—with plumes of smoke and sweaty revelers drinking and dancing. Reg proved to be a good dancer. Phoebe was her usual self, making jokes and banter, but all she could think was that this was the story Mona wanted. This was a real gift for her sister, and better for that realness. Phoebe could have spun fanciful scenarios for Mona, but even over the phone, Mona knew when Phoebe was lying.
She had a sudden jolt. Who else? Who else can read me and know what’s true?
No one, she decided, except Anne. Her sister and her oldest friend. She relaxed and looked up into the brown eyes that were smiling at her. Without
her noticing, Reg had turned handsome. Phoebe blinked away from his eyes to take a breath.
“Happy New Year!” someone shouted. The room burst into “Auld Lang Syne.”
“I thought that was an American thing,” Phoebe said.
“It’s a Scottish song,” Reg reminded her.
“The Scottish don’t get enough credit,” Phoebe said. “They invented television, the telephone, and the refrigerator. Also bicycle pedals and the mackintosh. So they made staying in comfortable, getting around fun, and going out in the rain tolerable. Not sure if they gain or lose points for inventing golf, though.”
“It’s subjective,” Reg said. “Any English inventions that impress you?”
“Fingerprint classification!” Phoebe cried. “A crime writer’s best friend.”
“Do you reckon yourself a crime writer still?”
“I’ll never not be interested in people behaving badly. And getting punished for it,” she finished with relish, her fist clenched.
“I say, you look fierce,” Reg said. “Remind me never to cross you.”
“Hey, Reg,” she said, poking a finger into his chest. “Don’t ever cross me.”
He laughed and wound his hand around her finger, taking her hand and guiding it to his lips. He kissed it once, twice, and folded his other hand over it. “I won’t ever cross you,” he promised.
It was as if they were alone in the room. Phoebe felt herself gulp.
“Good,” she said, but her voice was husky. “’Cause then I’d have to . . . do something,” she finished lamely. Her brain was refusing to function. Her only consolation was that he looked as flustered as she felt.
They took a long, circuitous path home, and Reg’s hand stayed curled around hers. Parties were winding down—the music flooding the streets was quieter. People were still outside—some shouting, some dancing, some fighting, some kissing. Phoebe noticed none of them. She didn’t notice anything until Reg stopped.
“Listen,” he said. The strain of a saxophone playing “Unforgettable” wafted down from a window. “It’s our song tonight.” Reg drew her to him in a slow dance. His other hand was under her coat, pressing into the plum silk. Even with the din around them, she could hear the swish-crush of the fabric against the small of her back. Heat moved up her spine and down her legs as her body involuntarily pressed closer to his. The hand holding hers went to her face and tilted it upward, and there were those enormous brown eyes again. In a film, she supposed one of them might have taken off their glasses. Then he was kissing her and she was kissing him and she forgot everything else until he drew back just enough to raise her glasses to the top of her head.
Red Letter Days Page 23
