by M. L. Huie
Greetings were exchanged. Fleming held Livy’s chair for her and said, “You look exquisite tonight, Olivia.” His eyes roamed over her red dress, cinched at the waist and perhaps a bit shorter at the knee than she’d usually ever wear. Provocative enough? The way Fleming’s eyes wandered down her body gave her the answer.
Pen attached herself to the rugged Christopher. She gave a wink across the table to Livy. The table beside them erupted in laughter. She craned her neck to see the cause of the ruckus, and when she turned back, Ian Fleming had his hand on her thigh.
“Christopher, we’ve been decidedly less than chivalrous. These girls need libation,” he said, tapping a spoon on one of two martini glasses on the table in front of him. The black-tied waiter appeared. “Waiter, schnapps for the blonde, and I think another round of martinis for the more charming side of the table.” Fleming laughed and threw his arm around the back of Livy’s chair.
He’s laying it on a bit thick, Livy thought. She countered by catching Pen’s somewhat shocked gaze and rolling her eyes as if to say, The boss is soused.
Livy actually felt thankful for Fleming overdoing it. It forced her to step up and leave fear behind. She was playing a new version of herself right now and hadn’t quite gotten the character down. She wasn’t holding up her end just yet.
The drinks arrived. Livy stared at hers. She hadn’t really had alcohol in more than a year. Once she found her way out of its reach, she’d never gone back. But Fleming’s martini sat before her. She picked up the glass. Ice glistened on the surface of the drink as a twist of lemon danced around the edge.
Their eyes met. Fleming’s gaze immediately shifted three tables over. Livy’s followed to see two middle-aged men, both in double-breasted gray suits, smoking and talking over the remains of their dinner. These must be the Russians, the intended audience for tonight’s pantomime. The one who sat facing Livy had small, close-set eyes that enhanced his resemblance to Peter Lorre. He seemed to be holding court with his guest, talking nonstop as he gestured around the room. Plus he had a perfect view of Fleming and Livy. This had to be the talent spotter, Grimov. The Russian scoured the room, which might be suspicious elsewhere, but when you factored in The Ivy’s famous clientele, anyone could be excused for keeping an eye out for Vivien Leigh or Leslie Howard.
Finally, Livy took a sip of her drink. The bitterness of the gin felt good on her tongue. She desperately wanted more.
Instead, she wrinkled her nose, pursed her lips, and pushed the martini away.
“That has to be the worst drink I’ve ever tasted,” she said. Her glare challenged Fleming. “What sort of a place have you brought us to then … sir?”
Fleming smirked. Touché. “It’s my own concoction. I shall make this martini famous one day. People will drink them all over the world.”
Christopher chimed in with “Hear, hear.” Pen cut her eyes at Livy. Her brow furrowed.
They ordered three courses, which began with creamed chicken and coconut soup. Livy had salmon with mousseline sauce, or at least that’s what Fleming called it. She thought it tasted like eggs smeared in butter. The salmon, which was tender, with a delicate smoked flavor, would have been fine on its own. Then, the final course: a truly scrumptious toffee pudding with a slightly sweet cream sauce. If Livy’s stomach hadn’t felt tied in knots, she would have thought the dinner—as they said back home—proper reet grand.
The dinner conversation centered on the war mostly. Christopher, who had a cleft chin, had been a Navy man like Fleming and served on a destroyer. So the boys traded sea tales while Pen ate everything in sight. Livy wondered where she put it all. Between bites, Fleming’s secretary, who seemed beyond bored with the war stories, gave Livy meaningful glances. Livy felt pleased that her disaffected act seemed to be working. But anxiety about the path forward troubled her. Did everything change here tonight?
“Olivia was stationed in Paris just after the war,” Fleming said through a haze of cigarette smoke. “Knows the city better than I possibly could. Isn’t that right, darling?”
Livy put down her fork and gave him a stern look.
“Paris is really like a second home to me,” Livy told Christopher, avoiding Fleming’s leer. “My mother was born there.”
“Your father was English then?” Christopher said. Livy could see why Pen liked him. Good listener, this one.
“His people were from County Kerry, but Dad was born and raised in Blackpool.”
Fleming snorted. “Well, that explains it.”
The quick jab floated around the table. A familiar joke between coworkers. Livy played it as an insult. Her jaw stiffened into a deep frown. She took her cloth napkin and dabbed the corners of her mouth, as if to say she wanted to leave. In doing so she made eye contact with the Russian Grimov. But, no, he looked over her shoulder. Someone new had arrived.
Applause began back in the lobby and made its way into the dining room as a tall, dark-haired man and a petite redhead maneuvered their way through the throng. It took Livy a moment to recognize the man. Big teeth and big hair. It was the American, Howard Keel, who had been playing the lead in the smash Oklahoma. Pen had bought tickets for the musical a month into its run and had invited Livy. Apparently, the other diners at The Ivy had been more impressed with the show; the restaurant burst into applause. A few patrons reached for the tall man’s hand as he passed, and he shook theirs with grace.
Eventually, the star and his guest found their table. A small spot for two along the inside wall. A lover’s romantic dinner in full view of adoring fans. The bigger the star, the cozier the table.
As the spectacle subsided, Livy looked past Christopher to the Russians nearby. Grimov leaned back in his chair, casting glances at the newly arrived couple. Then he whispered to his tablemate. His eyebrows rose as if passing along juicy gossip. The man with his back to Livy broke out in laughter and turned toward the young couple’s table. This Russian had thick dark hair and jowls that sagged under his cheeks.
Whatever Grimov shared with his comrade didn’t seem particularly innocent. They liked gossip and had apparently come here to take in the scene. Subtlety wouldn’t work on these two.
Despite Livy’s earlier protestations, Fleming ordered another round of his special martini for the table. By her count, he’d managed to put away at least four of the drinks. All through the evening he edged his chair closer to hers and found every opportunity to touch her arm and shoulder. Each time, Livy made a slight show of removing her body from the boss’s grip.
She ignored her new martini, feigning boredom each time Fleming spoke. The final act approached. How would it happen? Fleming would make the initial move, but her response would be the climax.
The cracked face of her watch showed nearly midnight when drinks were finished and the check handled. Fleming, of course, did the honors. In one corner of the restaurant, the tall, dapper West End star nestled with his redheaded friend while in the other the Russians looked ready to make their own departure.
It had to be now.
Fleming stood first, staggering ever so slightly as he played up the tipsy cad. Christopher, who’d stood drink for drink with Fleming, helped Pen up, draping a wrap around her shoulders. As he did, Pen turned into his big chest, kissed her finger, and placed it on Christopher’s dented chin.
Fleming seemed to take that as his cue. He put his left arm along Livy’s hip and leaned down, pressing his lips against hers as he—quite obviously—grabbed her bottom with his roving left hand. The authenticity of the kiss surprised her. The man knew what he was doing, but this was no time for slap and tickle.
She placed her hand against his chest and shoved. The gesture moved Fleming back, although he kept his hand on her backside. Livy grabbed her full cocktail glass and threw Fleming’s soon-to-be-world-famous martini right in his face.
It was a direct hit. Fleming was soaked.
“Livy!” Pen called.
“Steady on,” Christopher added.
She f
elt others in the room register the moment. Heads turned. People stopped eating. They had everyone’s attention.
Finally, Fleming released her, picked up his napkin, and dabbed his wet face. He turned away in the direction of the Russians and said, “Maybe it’s time for you to go home, you damned silly little girl.”
Livy adjusted her dress. She resisted giving a glance to the corner table, in whose honor she had given a command performance.
“Maybe you’d better learn how to handle your drink … sir,” she spat back, turning toward the entrance. Livy shoved past the nearest table, intentionally bumping into one of the diners for added effect. She sashayed her way to the door. Making sure that, if anyone had somehow missed the scene, they’d certainly remember her exit.
* * *
The next day Livy received an urgent call from Pen that Fleming wanted to see her that afternoon. Playing her part now, she decided to make him wait. Livy finally showed up at the office three days later. She wandered in at the end of the business day, looking as disheveled as she could without giving Pen the impression that she’d taken again to drinking.
Fleming didn’t miss a beat. Instead of inviting Livy into the inner sanctum as he always did, he dropped a file on Pen’s desk and left the office without so much as making eye contact with his delinquent correspondent.
Worry creasing the skin under her bright blue eyes, Pen gave the file a cursory look and held it out for Livy.
“He’s pulling you out of Paris,” she said. “Sending you to the States.” Pen’s typically cool exterior vanished. Her heart sank a bit as she swiped the file from Pen’s manicured hand. Livy didn’t read a word. She hated seeing the questions and pain on her friend’s face, so she shoved the file under her arm and stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind her.
That afternoon on the street, she noticed a dark blue recent-model Nash shadowing her as she walked from the office to the Kings Cross Station. When she stepped out of the Camden Town stop about ten minutes later, she saw no sign of the car, nor did it appear on the walk back to her flat.
A short while later, a messenger appeared at her door and pushed a plain brown envelope under it. As expected, the parcel contained the documents for the next phase and a plane ticket for Washington, DC, on BOAC tomorrow morning, from London Airport. Just before bed, she looked out her window. She felt almost pleased to find the very Nash that had followed her from the office now parked up the block alongside the curb. Seemed someone had noticed her act with Fleming a few days ago.
Right, then. Time to take the show on the road.
Chapter Seven
The next morning Livy stepped out of her flat. She stopped, her hand on the doorknob, and wondered when she might be back home. She pushed the thought away, locked the door and turned to hail a cab. As she hopped into the back, she spotted the reliable Nash sedan as it came around the corner and followed her taxi.
The International Departure Lounge at London Airport had the feel of a waiting room in purgatory. Livy never liked flying, and the rows of gunmetal seats filled by departing strangers waiting grimly to be called only added to its netherworld atmosphere. She tried distracting herself with a copy of Look magazine that featured an interview with none other than Joe Stalin inside. She planned to get to the interview but kept getting sidetracked by the very American adverts.
More Doctors Smoke Camels Than Any Other Cigarette.
He’s helpless in your hands with the New Hinds hand cream.
Just as she was getting to the exclusive interview with Uncle Joe, a familiar figure caught the corner of her eye. A man had moved into the seat next to her. At first she only registered the round face, shiny black hair, and beady eyes, accompanied by an overdose of one of the more obvious men’s colognes she’d ever had the misfortune to smell.
It was Grimov, the talent spotter. The man she’d performed for in the restaurant a few days ago, and more than likely a passenger in the Nash sedan. Even though she’d have been disappointed if he hadn’t come, tension crawled up her back and into her neck. It was showtime again.
She gave him a quick glance. His eyes scanned today’s edition of The Times. Just before he could have become aware of her look, she turned and went back to her magazine. He gave no indication he was there to see her, but what other explanation could there be? So, she’d made an impression at the restaurant. Fine, then. If he was there to see her, then she’d wait for him to make a move.
She deliberately flipped past the Stalin interview and tried to lose herself in an article called “The Truth about The Stork Club.”
The echoing voice over the Airport Tannoy announced the imminent departure of a flight to Paris. A woman and her male traveling companion, to Livy’s left, stood and shuffled off to their gate. Livy pulled her legs in so the couple could get by. In that moment, the Russian made himself known.
“Pardon me, miss. Do you have the time? My watch has stopped.” He might have looked like Peter Lorre, but his silky voice betrayed no accent.
Livy glanced at her mother’s old watch and answered him.
He smiled and feigned a pretty disingenuous look of surprise. “Forgive my impertinence, but you seem very familiar. I feel certain we have met before.”
“I hear that a lot. Maybe I have one of those faces.” Livy excelled at playing hard to get. Back to Look.
“No, no I have an excellent memory. I’m sure I have seen you before. Perhaps—no—wait. Yes, now I remember. Of course. After the theatre the other night at The Ivy. The restaurant. You had some trouble, as I recall.”
Livy couldn’t blush on cue, so she lowered her chin and kept focus on the magazine. “You must be thinking of someone else. My plane leaves shortly, so if you don’t mind.”
“Of course, of course, my apologies.” He turned away and buried his gaze in the financial section of the paper.
For a moment Livy wondered if the brush-off she’d given him had been too much. He didn’t speak or look at her for what seemed like several minutes. No, if this man had been keeping tabs on her since the other night at the restaurant, it made sense that he was at least interested. She had to be ready and then make her case.
Grimov indeed bided his time. Several more minutes ticked by. Livy sweated each passing second. Then the voice came once again over the Tannoy, this time announcing the departure of the BOAC flight with a final stop in New York City. Livy closed her magazine and stood to go. Grimov jumped up beside her. His voice different now, lower, soothing.
“I am not mistaken. You are Olivia Nash, and you work for Mr. Fleming and his news service. Or at least you did until the other night, when you made such a show of your displeasure with him. But perhaps that displeasure was merely a … performance?”
“Followed me here to tell me that, did ya? Must not be too good at your job, comrade.”
Grimov’s eyes searched hers. “Then, let us assume I am wrong and that you have actually turned your back on work. And what precisely was the nature of your business with Fleming?”
Livy grinned. “Nice try, but I’ve no intention of betraying an oath in the middle of an airport.”
“Betrayal is a strong word.”
“It is. Sometimes it goes both ways.”
“Is that so?” Grimov didn’t look convinced, but he was listening.
“Look, I have a plane to catch. And a job to do. I’m being sent to America to write about fashion. Bloody dresses.”
“This is a punishment then?”
“Maybe if I’d slept with the boss I’d be doing something worthwhile.”
“You sound like a woman who has been underestimated.”
“You underestimate me. I’m a woman who’s done with that lot.”
Again the voice over the Tannoy announced Livy’s flight. “I believe they are calling you, Miss Nash.”
Livy put a hand on Grimov’s arm. She leaned in close. His scent was stifling.
“You know who I’ve worked for, and you know what we do. What
you saw the other night had been a long time coming, you see. During the war and even now—they treat you like a servant. I don’t ask much. Just want my work appreciated.”
The Russian smiled. “And all I ask is to trust the people who work with me.”
The noise of the departure lounge rose in pitch as others stood to make their way to the gate. The tinny voice again announced the BOAC flight’s imminent departure.
Livy pulled away. “Trust is important in any relationship. Even one that might just be beginning.”
She felt his hands graze the top of her coat pocket. He’d dropped a business card inside.
“If you wish to speak again once you reach your final destination,” he said.
“I’ll talk to one man and one man only. Yuri Kostin. Tell him it’s for old-time’s sake.”
She turned and walked away, wondering just how that bit of theatre had played with the skeptical and over-cologned Mr. Grimov.
* * *
The whining roar of the DC-3 propeller engines diminished to a steady hum as Livy’s flight settled into cruising altitude about twenty minutes after takeoff. Thoughts of her encounter with the talent spotter Grimov had left her as soon as the big plane began its rumble down the runway. Air travel had never been especially comfortable for Livy, though she’d spent the beginning of the war driving RAF pilots to their planes at Blackpool Airport. She’d even slept with one of the flyboys, but always on the ground.
Two hours into the flight, the plane bumped and shook. Livy’d been through much worse turbulence, but something about the illusion of safety on this flight caused her stomach to lurch as the plane did.
Livy smiled as she thought about how her mum might have reacted to that airborne hiccup. The furthest distance her mother had ever traveled spanned the English Channel from Calais to London. Livy reckoned that to be no more than a hundred miles. Now her mother’s daughter was going to America for the first time.
She could still smell Grimov’s pungent scent. If her little act in the departure lounge had gone over, then chances are word would soon filter to Kostin in Washington. Would he remember her? How would he treat the news that his former lover’s frustrations had given her cause to reach out to a foreign country? No doubt he’d be skeptical. Livy knew she would have to be even more persuasive once she met Kostin again. And then what? The lingering thought nagged.
