One London Night

by Denise A. Agnew

  “What?” Sylvie couldn’t believe he said that. “Do you really believe that about him?”

  Alec shrugged. “When politicians talk, half of it comes out lies. You know that as well as I do. They tell poor people lies and cater to the rich for their campaigns.”

  She finally remembered to tell him about Michael Parkins and the men who’d broken into the Savoy and how she’d almost lost her job.

  “Good God. You didn’t mention it earlier,” he said.

  “Well, I imagine there’s a lot going on with your job you haven’t told me, isn’t there?”

  He nodded. “Yes. I’m glad you were able to keep your job.”

  “Are you sure? Sometimes I think you wish I’d never shown up in England.” She couldn’t help the words, they just spilled out.

  “That’s rubbish. Of course I…yes, I’d like it if you were back in the United States and safe. That I will admit.”

  They didn’t speak for a while, and then she said, “People see what they want to see, Alec. If you’re poor, you want wealth. When you’re wealthy, people want you to give it all to the poor. There’s a balance no one talks about.”

  “Communistic thinking?”

  She glanced around the Savoy, at once shabby and a bastion of all that was privilege. “No. That won’t work, either. You know that.”

  He snorted a soft laugh. “Don’t give me that evil look. The balance is doing your best, working hard, and not allowing anyone to tell you to get back in line. I’m not a communist, either, Sylvie.”

  Sylvie had always admired Alec’s look at life. Though he’d been born to money and so had she, they understood hardship and what many others with less had to face.

  “Do you believe that, or are you mocking me in your very dry English way?” She punctuated her question with a lopsided smile.

  He sighed. “How did we get into this discussion?”

  “We always have discussions like this, don’t we? It’s nothing new is it?”

  He smiled. “No. You’re right. People are just people. It doesn’t matter how much money they have or don’t have.”

  Their meals came before they could continue, and she noted their tiredness wiped away any reason to finish a political discussion.

  “So, tell me how the reporting has gone. Have you managed many stories beyond Michael Parkins?” Alec asked.

  “Dozens in a very short time.” She explained to him how angry Benjamin became when she wrote more stories than Pugs and James combined. “Benjamin is a real…”

  She shrugged, unable to form a good way to describe him.

  “The man’s a right git,” Alec said.

  She laughed softly. “Yes. That’s the description I was looking for. There’s nothing like a pithy British description.”

  Alec leaned closer, his voice liquid soft and deep. “You know that I’d do anything to protect you from the likes of him.”

  A stirring filled her, a warmth and affection so strong she cupped his cheek. “I know.”

  Alec placed his hand over hers. Her breath caught.

  “But you won’t.” She must be clear. “As I said before, I can take care of myself.”

  He released her hand. “It’s one of the things I like about you. It doesn’t mean I don’t feel…”

  She allowed her hand to slip away from him. “Feel what?”

  He hesitated, and she could see in his eyes the enormity of what he meant to say but couldn’t seem to force past his throat. Whatever he wished to say, she wouldn’t force him to speak.

  “As if you need my protection,” he said.

  What could she say? “You’re very sweet. Just don’t start anything with Benjamin.”

  She yawned, covering her mouth with one hand.

  “Don’t start that, either. It’s catching,” he said.

  A few seconds later he yawned as well.

  “Let’s get some sleep before I fall out of my chair. I can’t think straight,” she said.

  Before long, they’d finished their meals and headed back upstairs.

  When they reached the lobby, he turned to her. “Sleep well.”

  “Where are you sleeping?”

  “I’m returning to the station.”

  She almost offered him her room but thought better of it. She had an idea he’d say no anyway. Then another part of her chimed in. “You can stay in my room and sleep in my chair.”

  A half smile came over his face, along with a slumberous heat. He stood so close, his smoky scent not the least deterrent. She liked him this close and always had.

  “I can’t stay in your room, sweetheart.”

  “I told you I’m not concerned what people think.”

  “You don’t understand, Sylvie.” Before she could say a word, he pressed a gentle kiss to her mouth that disappeared in seconds as he pulled back. “That’s why I can’t stay. Good night, and I’ll talk to you soon.”

  He turned and left, his departure quick. She stood in the lobby for several seconds, her mind spinning from the whisper of a kiss.

  Chapter 10

  News Of The Day

  New York Herald Tribune

  Some of London’s landmarks have been seriously damaged in the last few days. Eight city churches have been hit and one bomb weighing a ton lay outside the west door of St. Paul’s Cathedral for some time before Royal Engineers bomb disposal experts could take care of it. The West End, Downing Street, Law Courts, and House of Lords have all been hit by high explosives or incendiaries. During night raids, a parachute mine exploded in Ilford in London and destroyed a hundred homes. In Poplar and Lambeth, hits killed over fifty people in shelters. The British Museum’s King Edward buildings were damaged, and the Mile End tube station was closed by a direct hit. On September 23, fire engulfed Clarnico’s and trapped over one hundred in the factory’s basement shelter. By midnight, 24 fires burned in West Ham.

  King George has instituted a new decoration to be called the George Cross for “deeds of valor by civilian men and women in all walks of life.” It ranks with the Victoria Cross. In a broadcast from Buckingham Palace, the King thanked workers who have endured despite danger and even when sirens have sounded and those who have also endured discomfort, peril, and hardship night after night.

  On September 24, more hell ensued. Heavy bombing at midnight caused incidents at Camberwell, Chelsea, Islington, Kensington, St. Mary’s Hospital, Chancery Lane, Queen’s Hall, University College, Lambeth, Marylebone Road, St. Pancras, Waterloo Station, Wormwood Scrubs, Earl’s Court Station, Kew Bridge, and The Times building in Queen Victoria Street.

  The ordinary person is taking the brunt of this horror. They raise the Union flag over the rubble and say business is usual on handwritten signs over businesses and shops.

  * * * *

  Wednesday, September 25

  Sylvie’s typewriter clacked as she hammered out yet another story. She realized other typewriters in the room had gone silent. Pugs had left the office and gone to who-knew-where. James was scribbling something on paper.

  “A bunch of those Times fellas will be over here soon. They can’t seem to find their own space,” Benjamin said as he lowered himself into his chair.

  “I’m sure there’s limited space after all the bombing the last few days.” Sylvie felt sympathy for the staff of the Times. “It could have been us trying to find space in their building.”

  “She’s right,” James said.

  “Sods will be over here taking up room in our shelter,” Benjamin said, sitting back so far in his wooden chair that it squeaked alarmingly.

  “Sods?” James asked with a smile. “Turning British? I thought you hate it here.”

  Benjamin smiled back, but it was sarcasm all the way. “I do. But the word just fits. If there’s nothing else I like about the British, it’s their biting cuts.”

  Right then the door creaked open and in walked Betty Parks. Betty swayed into the room, her elegant, drapey emerald-green print dress far more appropriate for the d
ance floor than traipsing about wartime London. Her platinum blonde hair, elegant features, and striking profile reminded Sylvie more of a movie star than a serious journalist. Benjamin and James looked up, and Sylvie couldn’t deny the men gawked. No, they almost drooled. She couldn’t fault them—any man would admire such a stunning creature. Sylvie found her beautiful, but in an abstract way. If that’s all it had been, Sylvie wouldn’t have felt the twinge of resentment. No, Betty’s personality outweighed her elegance in Sylvie’s estimation. Plus, she didn’t trust the woman.

  “Hello, everyone,” Betty said.

  Benjamin sprang up from his desk as if he’d been shot out of a cannon, a smile twenty miles wide on his face. “Betty, come on in. It’s great to see you. Come sit down.”

  He offered Betty his chair and gestured for her to sit. Betty slinked along the desks, her gaze settling on James. She bypassed Benjamin and went straight for James. Benjamin looked chagrinned.

  Betty sat on the edge of James’ desk and slid one manicured index finger along the desk as if she checked for dust. “James. Haven’t seen you in ages.”

  The twinkle in James’ eyes showed amusement rather than admiration. “It’s been all of two days. What can we do for you?”

  James didn’t offer her his chair, and Sylvie was shocked at the gratification that gave her.

  Betty’s lower lip protruded just the tiniest increment, and she leaned toward James so her generous bosom pushed against the dress. “I was hoping you would have heard of any openings with the Tribune. My job might be coming to an end soon.”

  “What a pity.” James’ face remained neutral. “I wouldn’t be the one to ask, though. Benjamin’s the boss.”

  Benjamin sauntered around the desks until he reached James and Betty. “He’s right. I’m the one to talk to.”

  If she hadn’t found the whole thing amusing, Sylvie might have left the room.

  Benjamin’s gaze swung to Sylvie and then to Betty. “We may have an opening in the future. But right now we’re solid. If you’ll bring me a story no one else has, I’ll consider you for the future.”

  “Sounds wonderful. I’ll find you that story.” Betty eyeballed James again, but perhaps she’d figured out that James wouldn’t bend to her considerable sexual allure, because she stood.

  “Lunch,” Benjamin said. “Anyone game to visit the pub nearby?”

  James stood and so did Pugs.

  “Delightful idea. I’ll come along if it isn’t an imposition,” Betty said.

  Benjamin beamed, his smile saying he’d enjoy having Betty for lunch. Literally. “We’d love to have you.”

  Betty made a go away gesture. “I’ll meet you there. I’d like a word with Sylvie first.”

  Sylvie wasn’t looking forward to whatever this woman had up her sleeve. She braced herself as Betty waited until the men had left and shut the door.

  “Well, well. This is much better.” Betty sat on the edge of Sylvie’s desk this time and towered over Sylvie in the process.

  Sylvie knew the woman planned to play a game with her. “What can I help you with?”

  “I think you need some advice.”

  Sylvie kept a neutral face and turned slightly toward the woman. “Oh?”

  “You have to know how to play these men.”

  Sylvie didn’t have time for this poppycock. “Betty, I treat people as I’d like to be treated. I don’t play games.”

  Betty sighed. “That’s what I thought. Unfortunately that isn’t the way most of life works. You don’t get anywhere with that attitude in this business.”

  Sylvie decided to lay things on the table. “You sent Michael Parkins to me at the Savoy. It almost caused a riot, and management temporarily threw me out.”

  Betty’s eyebrows rose and she smiled. “I know. I heard.”

  “You think that’s amusing?”

  “Not at all. I figured I’d give you a big story. You may not realize it, but I do like to help journalists who are new to this business. I admit I sent him to you.”

  God, this woman was something else. Sylvie linked her fingers together over her stomach and took a deep breath. “I have work to do, Betty.”

  “That you do, little girl. You see, women like me have paved the way for girls like you. We’ve done the hard work to get where we are. Then girls like you come along and get the attention with the way you look.”

  Sylvie was flabbergasted. “The way I look? Explain what you mean.”

  “Your feminine helpless routine. Needing big, strong fire brigade men to help you out. Oh, I saw the story you wrote about the AFS.”

  “How?”

  “Benjamin showed me.”

  “I see.” Sylvie held her tongue, wondering what the hell Benjamin was thinking.

  “You’re not fooling me, Sylvie. I see how hard you’re working to get attention. But it won’t work.”

  The conversation was so ridiculous, Sylvie decided to say, “So you’ve found me out.”

  Betty didn’t even look at Sylvie, her gaze off in fantasyland apparently. “Men like Benjamin know a quality story when they see it. They’ll always pick a woman with real skills over a pretty face.”

  “I see.”

  Maybe Sylvie’s deliberate passivity finally made it through to Betty. The woman turned her gaze on Sylvie. “You know I went to the Fleet Street station and talked again with that absolutely delicious friend of yours…” Betty paused and raised one delicate eyebrow. “Alec. What a man. I may have to ask him to dinner sometime soon.”

  Anger boiled up in Sylvie so fast she almost didn’t stop the growl that wanted to spring from her. Instead she took a measured breath and refused to bite.

  “Betty, you’re missing your luncheon with the men. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

  Betty stood, her expression icy. “Don’t say I didn’t try to tell you. You have no idea who you’re dealing with. You need to cultivate relationships with the right people. I could have helped you. I still could.”

  “I think I can tell who the right people are all by myself, Betty.” Sylvie turned back to the typewriter. “Good-bye.”

  Sylvie didn’t look at the woman as she left. After Betty closed the door, Sylvie sat there staring at the wall for some time. Her anger still simmered under the surface. A knock came on the door.

  “Come in,” Sylvie said, hoping like Hades it wasn’t Betty.

  “Well hello there. You’re all alone?” Annie walked in with a smile.

  Relieved, Sylvie said, “Come in. It’s good to see a friendly face.”

  “Have you had lunch yet?”

  “No.”

  “Then let’s get out of here.”

  “As long as it isn’t the pub next door.” Sylvie grabbed her pocketbook from the desk drawer.

  “Why not?”

  “The rest of the newspaper is there, and so is Betty Parks.”

  Annie rolled her eyes. “Oh Lord. Betty Parks. She’s a caution.”

  “She’s more than that.”

  Annie laughed.

  They made their way to a small Italian restaurant a couple of blocks down the street.

  Annie opened the big wood door and gestured for Sylvie to enter. “I’m surprised Guido’s is still open.”

  “Why is that?” Sylvie asked.

  “Because most of us English are insufferably ignorant.”

  Before Sylvie could ask what she meant, a waitress greeted them. The small restaurant had intimate seating with tables barely large enough for two people. Delicious scents wafted from the kitchen.

  “Good to see you again, Miss Annie.” The girl who seated them took their orders and left.

  Sylvie placed the cloth napkin in her lap. “I thought you’d say they would close because of rationing.”

  “Not at all. They don’t offer much on the menu, but they do well with what they can provide.”

  “What did you mean about you English being ignorant?”

  Annie kept her voice low. “Nev
er mind me. I have a good case of disgust lately. Taking this war too much to heart, I guess.”

  “How could you not take it to heart?”

  Annie groaned. “Well, first, I’m more upset with people than anything. Guido’s may shut down because people have threatened to firebomb them. Because they’re of Italian descent, for God’s sake. Guido Sansone came to England in the 1880s, and his family has had this restaurant in more than one place around London. Before this war started, they didn’t have many problems with people looking askance at them because they’re Italian. Now they get rocks thrown through their windows. It’s absolute rubbish.”

  “Of course it is. Maybe they should immigrate to America and run a restaurant in Little Italy in New York City.”

  “Perhaps.” Annie sighed. “They’re used to slurs and comments, but I get weary of ignorance, I really do.”

  “Then let’s not think about it. Let’s have our lunch and talk about more pleasant things.”

  A smile returned to Annie’s face. “Let’s do. Have you seen Alec since the fire?”

  On Monday she’d told Annie about the fire she’d watched the AFS work. She’d left out almost as much as she’d told.

  “No,” Sylvie said. “I haven’t seen him. I think he’s probably spending time with his friend in Belgravia. He certainly can’t afford to stay in the Savoy. And when he’s working, he sleeps at the station.”

  “I see.” Their lunch came, but Annie wouldn’t let go of the conversation. As she ate spaghetti, she said, “You could let him stay with you at the Savoy.”

  Sylvie almost choked on a bite of pasta. “What?”

  “Sorry.” Annie waved a hand. “Sometimes I forget that I’m a bit more free with my thinking about that than most people.”

  “Stay in my room?” Sylvie couldn’t admit that she’d entertained the idea.

  “Yes.”

  Sylvie scoffed. “When we came back from the fire Sunday morning, he seemed almost horrified at the idea of coming into my room to wash up.”

  Annie’s eyebrows waggled. “Oh? That’s interesting.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, he wants to protect your reputation, no doubt.”

  “Yes.”