“Those eyes,” he murmured. “How well can you see me?”
“Up close everything is clear,” she said. She slipped off his own glasses, folded them, and tucked them into his coat pocket. “And yourself, Mr. Bassill? Am I just a shadow now, all rough around the edges? How many fingers am I holding up?”
He took the fingers and kissed each one.
“Three,” he told her.
“Actually, it was four,” she teased.
He laughed and hugged her to him. Then he tilted her head up again, his eyes close to hers. “How much . . . ?” he whispered. “How much do you have to love about a person before you simply love the person?”
Phoebe was glad he was holding her so tightly. Otherwise, she’d slip straight to the ground. The cleaning bill would be astronomical.
“I . . . don’t know,” she croaked. Love? How was that possible? Surely he hardly knew her?
“Well, allow me to take a quick inventory,” he said. “Intelligent, charismatic, funny, fearless, talented. A fighter for justice, a cocker of snooks to all who would thwart her. And under it all, a tender and generous heart. I’ve never said it to anyone before, but I love you, Phoebe Adler.”
Phoebe decided now was not the time to confirm if cocking a snook meant thumbing a nose. She hoped it was a touch more rude.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he said. “I know it’s awfully soon. I just had to tell you.”
“I think I’ve just found one advantage to being blacklisted,” Phoebe said. “You can’t possibly be cadging for a free ride to America.”
He laughed and kissed her temple, then her cheek, then her lips again. “This is what I love about you.”
It was, perhaps, something about her Americanness—or specifically, her New Yorkerness—but Phoebe knew, quite suddenly, that it was really just her. This man running his finger along her cheek saw her—and loved her.
“I hope you don’t mind my saying I’m not sorry you were blacklisted,” Reg said, his eyes twinkling.
“That makes one of us,” she said. “Though things haven’t been going so badly, all things considered.”
“I’m glad.”
The song ended, and a nearby fight heated up. Someone threw a bottle and shouted, “Go to hell, you bastard!” Phoebe couldn’t help smirking a little at this example of how love could turn sour. It wasn’t a bad thing to remember. It kept a person from losing their head.
“I guess that’s our cue to head home,” Phoebe said, with a twinge of relief. This was all too much, too fast, too heady. She wanted to keep kissing him, and she wanted to put a door between them. She wanted to write all this down for Mona, and Anne too. Also herself. She wanted to keep this moment.
“Next Saturday night, if not sooner?” he asked at her door, the way he always did.
“I’ll check my calendar,” she promised with her customary wink.
She stood by the door, watching him until he turned the corner. She wrapped her arms around herself and squealed, something she hadn’t remembered doing since 1943, when she opened the letter saying she had sold a script for a radio play.
As she unlocked the door, something caught her eye. Meard Street was full of people going and coming home. But she was almost sure, just for a moment, that she saw the cut of a flashy suit, the shadow of a hat that was just a bit too familiar. Familiar enough to make her shiver.
“Is anyone there?” she shouted into the darkness.
“Who bloody wants to know?” someone shouted back. Several people laughed at this, and other shouts and catcalls followed.
“Happy bloody New Year to you too!” Phoebe called, and was rewarded by laughter as she went upstairs. It almost warmed her back up again.
* * *
• • •
As far as Hannah was concerned, the holidays weren’t over until the third Monday in January, when Robin Hood resumed filming. She bounded out of bed at five.
“We’re back! A new year, more scripts, more episodes!” She danced around the room as she dressed.
“Wish you had that sort of energy to help me with a new idea,” Paul muttered, glaring at the clock. He was always irascible between stories.
“The rebuilding of the East End!” she cried. “A day in the life of a London librarian! The underground clubs in Soho—find a good one and take me!”
“How about a day on the set of Robin Hood?” he asked, sitting up.
“Don’t be silly, darling, you’re not an entertainment writer.”
He flopped back down and rolled over. “You just don’t want me interfering with all your admirers.”
She froze, her hairbrush halfway through a wave. She’d never told him about enjoying the attention of the men on the set. She’d told no one, not even Shirley. It was a tiny pleasure for her alone.
“All I meant, darling, is you’re a serious writer,” she said soothingly. “And it might look a little odd if my husband writes a story about my show. Anyway, there might be a big profile on us soon. Sidney’s been liaising with a reporter from—”
“Of course he has,” Paul interrupted. “I was joking. I don’t know what his excuse is, besides giving you more to do. Isn’t it dangerous, putting your name more out there?”
“It’ll be about the show, not me.”
“A show that needs no publicity. You’re hardly underdogs.”
Rhoda, attracted by the sound of her parents’ voices, burst into the room and jumped on the bed.
“Can we get an underdog?” she shouted.
Julie, drawn like a magnet by the word “dog,” ran to Hannah. “Want dog, want dog!” she demanded, clinging to Hannah’s legs.
“Good morning to you too,” Hannah said, hefting her daughter to her hip.
“A dog, just what we need,” Paul grumbled, reaching for his robe. “What’s the point in having help if we can’t even keep the kids out of the bedroom till we’re dressed? We could have been sleeping. Or something.”
Hannah waggled her brows at him and he chuckled. There was never as much time for “or something” as she wished.
“How about we get home early and steal a bit of ‘or something’ time this evening?” she suggested.
“Only if I’ve got a new story to celebrate,” he said, laughing. “You know me, can’t sit around twirling my thumbs for long.”
She did know him, and she remembered it wasn’t so long ago that the only reason they needed for lovemaking was that they were in love. She couldn’t say that, not when he was tired and casting about for a new idea. Not when the children needed breakfast and she needed to consult with Gemma about groceries for the week and then get to the office.
What do I expect? We’re not kids. We never were. I’m a plump, middle-aged mama with a demanding job, and he’s a middle-aged daddy fighting to stay competitive in a field that would as soon kill him as look at him. We’re lucky to get a half night’s sleep.
“When can we get the underdog?” Rhoda insisted.
“When things settle down a bit,” Hannah promised.
Gemma wrangled the girls off to the kitchen amid demands to know when things would settle down, and Hannah followed, keeping her shoes off so she could think. It wasn’t just a demanding job. It was, by the standards of people like Hedda Hopper, HUAC, and J. Edgar Hoover, a criminal operation. She looked around the cheerful, pale green kitchen, where coffee was percolating, eggs were boiling, and Rhoda was shoveling porridge into her mouth. Hannah helped Julie manage her own spoon, thinking she must look like a mother straight out of Good Housekeeping, not a master of the underworld. It was heady stuff. She was ready to go back to the bedroom and engage in all manner of “or something.”
Paul, shaven and shiny, came whistling into the kitchen. Hannah leapt up, but he gave her only a chaste peck on the cheek—he always said children shouldn’t see more than tha
t—then dropped kisses on each daughter’s head. He accepted toast from Gemma, took the newspaper, and strode away whistling.
“I hope that means an idea is starting to take shape,” Hannah said. “He’s like a wounded tiger when he’s between stories.”
“So he be,” Gemma said. “But little different from any other man I’ve seen.”
“I suppose they can be a bit ridiculous, really,” Hannah said.
“Not much supposing there,” Gemma agreed.
* * *
• • •
Everyone was excited to be back at work. Hannah had convinced Sidney to dole out handsome Christmas bonuses rather than tins of Walkers shortbread, but the money wasn’t the incentive. Articles about the show appeared in every important entertainment publication, and every department was praised. Everyone had a story about friends or relatives who, over Christmas, had expressed pride, pleasure, and a touch of envy for their being so exalted as to be connected with such a program. Nearly all of them had once been assured that television was a fad that wouldn’t last, that pursuing work in the arts was a certain path to penury. Now they worked on what the papers called “the most entertaining and well-made programme for children on television.” Such adulation guaranteed longtime employment. The joy on the set was palpable, and every time Hannah visited it, she swelled with pride.
Though Phoebe had mentioned a suspicious man around her street, there were no further sightings or letters, and the man she spoke of the most was Reg. She sparkled like a Christmas tree when she talked about him, and Hannah remembered the early days with Paul, that feeling of love being so powerful, you could spread your arms and float to the stars. Even Shirley was charmed by Phoebe’s happiness, and Joan insisted on taking personal credit for it, having delivered Reg’s letters.
Not that Phoebe didn’t have her fears. She’d sold—with Hannah’s help—a short play to Woman’s Hour and was working on another, plus another Robin Hood script, but no amount of money she sent home would change the fact that Mona would soon need help breathing.
“I knew this was coming,” Phoebe admitted on Sunday. “But it’s still a surprise.”
Hannah made a mental note to tell Phoebe to use the line in a script sometime. Scripts continued to pour into the Sapphire offices by the sackful, and she and Sidney were bombarded with requests to coproduce television films. “I like this one,” Hannah announced. “It’s about the Peasants’ Revolt.”
“No money in it,” Sidney complained.
“Nonsense. We’ve got people excited about watching medieval stories. This fits right in with our manifest.”
“We maybe ought to show we can do other things,” Sidney suggested.
“We maybe have another problem,” Beryl cut into the argument. “Your man Dale Winston is on the telephone. He says he’s in London for a week and insists he’s meeting with you, and a writer for Robin Hood. He won’t take no for an answer and says this afternoon is most convenient for him if there’s someone based in London.”
Sidney exhaled a ream of language that Hannah was sure was appalling, but his speech was so fast and his accent so heavy, she heard none of it. All she heard was Shirley in her head, saying, Strife.
“Fine,” she announced at last. “He wants a writer, we’ll give him one, and today is as good as any other.”
“Are ye off yer heid?” Sidney bellowed.
“We’ll give him Ivy Morrow. Beryl, that’s going to have to be you.”
A concoction of pride, outrage, excitement, and pure horror danced across Beryl’s face.
“Go on, tell him to swing on by and we’ll give him tea,” Hannah ordered. “Don’t worry about him recognizing your voice later, he’ll likely think all Scottish women sound the same.”
Beryl was too flustered to argue. She stalked back to the phone.
“How can this possibly work?” Sidney asked.
“He’ll find her fascinating,” Hannah said, in the tone of one who knew. “Plus, he’ll only understand one word in ten.”
“Hannah—”
“Beryl’s the story editor, she can talk about writing till the man wishes we’d never gotten past hieroglyphics. And she’s smarter than Socrates, he’ll believe anything she says.”
“I suspect that’d be far more effective if he found her pretty,” Sidney said.
“He’ll find her enchanting,” Hannah insisted. “Beryl looks just like anyone’s idea of a British female writer.”
Beryl stumped back into the office, frowning. “This will work best if he thinks me bonny,” she complained. “We likely ought get me a skirt, he won’t cotton to me breeks,” she said, gesturing to her knickerbockers.
“Writers can get away with all sorts of eccentricities,” Hannah said. She thrust her makeup bag into Beryl’s hand. “Do yourself up and the rest will all be charm.”
“Oh, fantastic,” Sidney said, shoving a chunk of Walkers into his mouth.
Dale Winston arrived promptly at three. He was a big man with a ready laugh, but the set of his jaw and glint in his eye bespoke him as a man who was all business. He’d risen to power on a combination of charisma and ruthlessness. Hannah knew the type well.
“Quite the shoestring operation you have here!’ he boomed, casting an approving glance around the small offices. “Keeps expenses low, very smart. Where’s the rest of the staff?”
“Sidney is at the set,” Hannah answered truthfully. He’d needed to go, but equally they thought it best he not be seen. It was one thing for a man like Dale to know Hannah was Sidney’s superior; it was another for him to see it in action. “And my girl had a family emergency, so I let her go home. I can manage a few hours.”
“Now that is something!” Dale pumped Hannah’s hand again. “That is something. You ladies sure can run things, I’ve always said so.”
“Well, we certainly try!” Hannah said brightly. “Do chat with Miss M—”
“Miss McGough,” Beryl said, sticking out her hand. Hannah bit back a “who?” Howard McGough was another of Ring Lardner Jr.’s fake names. His episode about a lord informing on the outlaws and attempting to lynch his own serfs had just aired. Beryl, rather fetching with her hair combed into curls and her face made up, did not look like a Howard. Hannah could see Dale Winston taking in the well-shaped legs in thick stockings and breeches, the men’s jacket and waistcoat, the strawberry-blond curls. As Hannah suspected, Beryl answered his idea of what a young female writer in London might look like, and he was pleased.
“McGough?” Dale frowned in confusion. “I thought you were a man.”
“People do, that’s how I’m able to do all right for myself,” Beryl said cheerfully. “It’s actually Horatia, and who mightn’t go for Howard instead, be frank now.”
Even without Scottish Gaelic, her burr was still a mighty thing, and Hannah bit the inside of her cheek as she watched Dale’s face screw up in concentration, listening. “I do say, I didn’t think I’d be so lucky as to land myself on a show like this,” Beryl went on. “I’m looking forward to writing several more episodes for the next season, and hopefully more after that, should there be yet another. I know it’s not really the sort of thing anyone thinks ought be written by women, but I like to think I bring something extra to it.”
“I’d never have guessed!” Dale laughed. “Sorta makes you wonder how many other writers out there aren’t who they say they are.”
“We’re worse than actors, and no mistake,” Beryl agreed. She went on to dazzle him with an array of projects she was working on—combined plots from several recently submitted scripts—and Dale nodded and made notes.
“You’re a very clever young woman, Miss McGough,” he congratulated her. “I’m glad Miss Wolfson plans on keeping you busy, though she shouldn’t be surprised if I steal you for something else.”
“At a price!” Beryl warned him. “I’m a Scot, aft
er all.” There was a lot of shaking of hands and agreements that they must all meet again, and he was gone.
Beryl seized her handkerchief and wiped her face clean.
“McGough?” Hannah said, eyebrows nearly in her hairline.
“I decided that if I’m going to play at being one of the writers, it’s going to be one of the tops. And a Scot, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Hannah said. “I’ll never be able to repay you.” Her hands were damp—she hadn’t realized how much she was sweating.
“All part of the game,” Beryl said cheerfully. “Though I daresay your original plan means that ‘Ivy Morrow’ is also one of the blacklisted.”
“Ah. Yes. Yes, she is.” Hannah held her gaze. “But you knew that.”
“I suppose,” Beryl admitted. “Is she at least a woman?”
“She is.”
Beryl nodded slowly. “Well, there’s me having mine hat for tea. All right then. All right. ’Tis how it has to be. And I reckon ’tis good for him to see a British writer.”
She looked ready to say more, but stopped. They both knew what she was going to say. Believing there was a British writer on the show would give Dale Winston ammunition to vouch for them, should they ever need it. Hannah was glad Beryl didn’t say anything. Bad enough to think it. No one needed to hear it out loud.
* * *
• • •
A few weeks later, Rhoda had a half term, and Hannah decided to answer a barrage of questions about her work by bringing Rhoda in for an afternoon. She suspected Rhoda would be bored, but Beryl recognized a kindred spirit.
Red Letter Days Page 24
