by Tessa Lunney
“What about Roger?… No, even if he raised the alarm about you, Fox wouldn’t bother to chase you, he’d just wait for you to appear by my side and then…”
“And then?”
“One of Fox’s agents showed me his interrogation techniques. He looks to the Middle Ages for inspiration.”
Bertie gulped his whisky. “Don’t tell me.”
“No, it’s best if I don’t. Any news about a possible wife and son?”
“The Hello Girl—I should use her name, Jane—Jane didn’t mention anything. But if you didn’t see them during the war, then I say they don’t exist. Perhaps they’re his brother’s wife and son. Or perhaps they’re dead.” Bertie tapped the photo. “But you can use this, can’t you? I haven’t sprinted through Paris chased by twin thugs for nothing, have I?”
I stared at the photograph. Fox looked so young, younger than me now, his face smooth, his hair already showing his trademark silver. There was something about him that looked so vulnerable—he was standing too straight, perhaps, or the way his eyebrows tended slightly up in the middle like he was confused or upset. Or perhaps it was the man next to him, clearly a bit older, a bit bigger, and a lot more confident. That anyone could be more confident than the Fox I knew was incredible.
“I didn’t want to say or write anything about it as it seemed too likely to be stolen or intercepted or some such.”
“It’s amazing. You’re amazing, Bertie.”
Bertie’s smile was almost boyish. “Also, look… that looks like Eddy in the back corner, doesn’t it? I mean it can’t actually be Edward Hausmann, he’s too young, but a brother maybe? A cousin?”
I peered at the face, a little blurry, but with an uncanny resemblance to a certain Edward Hausmann.
“If it is, Bertie, then that would explain why Fox has put up with him for so long, and why he hasn’t arrested Eddy already.”
“Oh, you think maybe Eddy has dirt on him too?”
“German traitor dirt.”
“He needs to show that Eddy is an even bigger traitor before he makes his move…” Bertie flopped back on the pillows. “Oh, Kiki, why do I sleep with such unsuitable men?”
“Because you love danger.”
“No, that’s why I sleep with you.”
“No, you sleep with me because you love me.”
His skin was still cold and covered with goose bumps, despite the warm blanket, the warm room, and all the whisky. I slipped off my coat, dress, and stockings, and slipped down next to him, smoothing the goose bumps from every inch of skin, giving him multiple reasons to make his flight from London just a memory. His appreciation was vocal and lasted for hours, until we were once again in our most comfortable spot, smoking naked in each other’s arms. I blew a plume of smoke above us, the blue cloud not coming anywhere near the peach and gold light fittings on the high ceiling.
“I’m sorry, Bertie, that this little taste of the spying life has scared you so much. There’s going to be much more.”
“I’m sure I’ll get used to it. We got used to the war, didn’t we?”
“It seems we can get used to anything.”
“Not quite anything. I’m absolutely famished.”
“That’s a call to action. What do you think they’ll serve us—lobster? I really just want a cheese sandwich.”
“Yes! Let’s be awful Brits and insist on sandwiches for dinner.” He kept his hand on me as I made the call to room service.
“I tell you another thing I could get used to: your friend Tom.”
“Oh, Tom-Tom…” I sighed involuntarily.
“Yes, he’s like that, isn’t he? I think I can call him my friend too, now, especially after the welcome hug he gave me when we met for a drink, oh, last week I think it was. The way he acted, you’d never know we’d met only last year. He misses you.”
“He misses life.”
“He said he was hoping for a permanent European posting, that all this traveling to and from London was too much. He garbled some nonsense about wanting to support you in your grief—really, I’ve never met anyone as comfortable with discomfort as you—but when I prodded him on this, he gave that deliciously sheepish smile he has and admitted, ‘I don’t have many friends here and no family. Button’s the best I’ve got. I want to see her more than once a year.’ ”
“So, he really is missing me, then.”
“Are you surprised?”
I couldn’t reply. Sweet missives and whispers were one thing, confirmation of Tom’s need was another. I sank into the soft white bedding.
“Speaking of your grief, Kiki, do you know who your mother’s mysterious man is yet?”
“Would it surprise you to hear that there are several contenders? It surprised me. I just wish I had her final diary. Then at least I would know everything she had committed to paper. I would know more precisely what I don’t know.”
I knew there must be the traffic noises from the square but they didn’t reach our hushed room. Bertie stroked the skin on my belly, but he didn’t see my belly button, or the sharp jut of my hip bones, or the fingerprint bruises he had left.
“I saw Teddy’s mother again, our annual afternoon tea, when Mrs. Greene comes to London to refresh her wardrobe and see to her charities.” The only person who suffered more than Bertie from Edward Greene’s death was his mother. “She had been going through his boyhood room, finally, and handed me some of his schoolboy diaries. She’d read them, they made her happy… but they’re awful. The schoolboy poetry he wrote…”
“Is schoolboy poetry?”
“In the classical mode, all heroic gestures and jingoistic martyrs. He also wrote about his crushes on this daughter and that daughter of the local grandees. Apart from the vaguely eroticized descriptions of soldiers, there is nothing to suggest that our love was anything but an anomaly. Was it only due to the war? If he had survived, would he have left me in Soho to become a red-faced squire with a horsey wife and six kids? I suspect that he would. I suspect I have been tending a flame for a man who didn’t really exist.”
“He existed, Bertie.”
“But only for that moment.”
“But what a moment.”
“Yes… I suppose I should be happy that I knew some happiness. But what now? What next?”
“Existentially: God only knows, and perhaps, not even Him. Literally: some proper sleep, as tomorrow you’re coming with me to photograph Princes Phillip von Hessen and Carl Eduard, cousins of the English princes and my lovely lover, Prince Theo Romanov.”
“My God, Kiki! This is gold. Remind me to force Himself to double your salary.”
“A dress budget would be nice. I’m practically in rags!”
“Rags fit for royalty.”
“Well, needs must.”
* * *
When I woke the next morning, Bertie was still curled up in the sheets. He didn’t move when I got out of bed, or when I used his bathroom, or even when I called his name to tell him I was leaving. The last few days had clearly come down on top of him with a crump.
I was freshly showered—the Ritz bathrooms were almost as good as Harry’s—but my clothes still stank of yesterday’s adventures. I thought about this in the taxi on the way home. Paris’s pale walls were like a layer cake, a maze, a puzzle. I hoped Bertie’s pursuers were lost in them, were wandering like tourists dazed on sweetness, were not immediately at the embassy speaking to our boss and about to descend on the Ritz.
The Seine sighed in her bed as the traffic ran over bridges. I had the photo of Fox tucked into my coat. This photo was a hand grenade. I wasn’t sure how I could use it, but I would use it, and soon. The more I thought about it, the more I was sure Fox could release Tom from the charges of treason. The more I thought about it, the more I was sure Fox had created those charges himself.
38
“do it again”
“Matches, mademoiselle?” Delphine was perky, perhaps because her feet were now warm in her lovely boots.
“Of course.�
� I handed over some money. “Any news?”
“Mademoiselle.” She stepped closer. “I have seen the tall thin man again, with the big man and two other men, they looked like twins… in fact, all the men looked like brothers, or part of some group, they all dressed the same and they don’t speak French to each other.”
“When did you see them?”
“Last night, after I had left my shoes with Monsieur Levi, you know, the shoemaker, and on my way home… it was late, about nine o’clock.”
“Do you usually work that late?”
“Madame Levi gave me some dinner.” She smiled a shy smile.
“Where did the men go?”
“I think to a café… I didn’t follow them. I didn’t know when you would return.”
“That’s alright. Here.” I handed over some more money. “All work requires payment. Treat yourself to a proper lunch as well.”
“Oh no, mademoiselle. I’m saving for a new coat. A red one.”
But I wasn’t at Gare Montparnasse to gossip with Delphine, though her gossip proved that I was right to come. I wanted to call Fox while the photo was still hot in my pocket.
“Fox.” His voice cut down the line.
“Would you care for tea at Angelina’s today? How about one o’clock?”
“I’ve been expecting you. Give me your number.”
“You might know it already. It’s the public telephone at Gare Montparnasse.”
“Very good, Vixen.”
He rang back in less than a minute.
“Teach me half the gladness that thy brain must know, Vixen.”
“Such harmonious madness? I rather think so. Today I meet with a couple of your friends, Princes Phillip and Carl.”
“I have no German friends.”
“I thought you might have been at military academy together. In Prussia, isn’t it, German military training?” There was a heavy silence at the end of the line.
“Anyway, I’m hoping Pip and Charlie will lead me to their English cousins. Thank goodness you’re sending me and not Fry, though. These men love flattery and Fry’s about as flattering as a dose of the pox.”
The silence continued. I heard nothing from his end, just the tooting of trains here, footfalls and yelled French, the squeal of wheels and rush of steam.
“Did you stay at the academy long or did you cut out early to go to medical school? How is your brother, by the way? I’m surprised you didn’t introduce him during the war. Of course, you couldn’t have if he’d fought for the Germans… a German brother, well, well, the world should listen then, Fox.”
“As I am listening now.” He sounded almost human.
“Have you been wandering brotherless among the stars that have a different birth? Or are you like a dying lady, lean and pale, who totters forth…”
“Vixen.” His voice was raw, his pauses pregnant. “Vixen…”
“Oh, I won’t tell anyone, don’t worry. But you might want to call your dogs off Captain Browne. He was just acting on orders and I’d hate to have to avenge him.”
“You’re threatening me.”
“Just chatting. It really would be much better over chocolate at Angelina’s, you know… I think we could both do with a bit of sweetness.”
He laughed then, an actual hoot, that made my heart jump, that made me grin despite myself.
“Oh, very good Vixen. Hail to thee, blithe spirit!”
“I think you can send me some proper payment now.”
“I don’t have it here. You’ll have to wait until I return to London.”
“I don’t think I can.”
“And yet you will.” There was a new tone in his voice, a softness, a warmth. I had threatened him with exposure and he had laughed; he liked it. I liked that he liked it.
This is not what I had expected at all.
“I’ll confer with Fry for all the details of the princes,” I said. “I have a feeling that a notepad, not handcuffs, will secure the information we need. Will Roger be with him?”
“Roger?”
“Ah, so it was an alias. A tall thin man…”
“You’ll meet him soon, no doubt. Bacon will deal with the details.”
“Fry will? If you don’t want the details, what are you doing in Paris?”
“What indeed.” And he hung up.
39
“phi-phi”
“Kiki, darling.” Theo kissed me on both cheeks but pulled back after he kissed my lips. “What’s wrong? You’re as jangled as a set of keys.”
“As a jazz chord, as a bombed bell-tower.” The traffic outside the café gave me good cover. The trees’ branches were bare, their spindly fingers grasping at the wind. I shrugged in a way I hoped looked suitably insouciant and Gallic.
“I’m just nervous to meet your royal cousins, I suppose.”
“You weren’t nervous about meeting Felix.”
“Wasn’t I? Ah, but he wasn’t German.”
“I see.” He raised an eyebrow. “Kiki, for a gossip writer, you aren’t a very good liar.”
I took his arm, turning away from him to look in the endless windows of the café. My reflection showed that Theo was right, I did look worried.
“Some things can’t be hidden.” I had to change the topic. “Does my costume pass muster?”
“Like you were on parade.”
“I am on parade, Theo, only when I present arms, I whip out my pen.”
He laughed. “Very well, don’t tell me now. I’ll find out soon enough.” He leant in with a whisper. “We have ways of making you talk.”
If only he knew.
On Theo’s suggestion, we were meeting the princes at the Café de la Paix near the Opera House. He had left a note for me at home, with the time and place and details of how to address Phillip and Charlie, that I collected as soon as I got home from talking to Fox. With Theo’s note was also a telegram from Tom:
1600 GARE DU NORD READY OR NOT BUTTON
Tom would be here this afternoon. I would have to somehow extricate myself from Theo and his relatives in order to meet Tom on time. Theo could give me a lift, of course, but I wasn’t quite ready for Theo and Tom to meet. I might never be ready, but in the next few days, I didn’t think I could avoid it. I needed both men to pull off this mission.
But between Fox and Tom, Bertie’s chase and Theo’s expectations, the lack of dinner and the excess of whisky and cigarettes, my hands were shaking. As I’d got myself dressed, I’d had to abandon my sheer navy number as I couldn’t do up any of the buttons. I opted instead for a gray silk dress with silver, red, and gold embroidered fish that swam from the shoulder down the front and back to the waist. I wasn’t really a fan of gray but this one slipped over my head and was still neatly pressed from when Odile had taken it in and mended it. I had picked up the dress at the flea market, and the fish covered the moth holes. Red shoes, red coat, red hat, red lipstick that I just about managed to keep on my lips and eyeliner that I’d had to hold my breath to apply. Before I met Theo, I’d had just enough time to telegraph Tom back:
PACK YOUR RIFLE DIGGER. ORDER A DOUBLE FOR ME
Tom would know what it meant… I hoped. I also hoped that the train conductors at Calais would give the telegram to him, as telegraphing a moving train was always chancy. Walking along with Theo now, I realized I should have stopped to get myself a croissant or glass of milk or anything at all to line my stomach. It probably wasn’t the fact that Fox seemed to say he was in Paris to spy on me, or that we laughed together, that made me jittery. It probably wasn’t that Tom was arriving in just a few hours that made me feel keyed up. It was probably that I was simply hungry, as I tried to make my body survive on reviving poisons. Maisie was right, I had forgotten my training and wasn’t taking my own advice. Thank goodness we were going to a café and the Star was paying.
“Where are they?”
“Not here, it seems.” Theo scanned the café. “They’ve taken the princely prerogative to be late.”
&nbs
p; “How very un-German. It works for me though. I wasn’t keen on scoffing breakfast in front of them.”
“And you’ve taken the royal prerogative to eat disordered meals.”
“Just call me Queen Moon.” Now, why was I quoting Keats’s “Ode to a Nightingale”?
The waiter ushered us to our table. Theo had rung ahead to organize something discreet and we were walked past the terrasse tables, the tables in the window that looked out at the terrasse tables, the large tables in the middle of the room, to a quiet place in a corner, with no other diners around us, lit only by the warm glow of a single lamp. The place outside was busy with traffic, other diners laughed and chatted, but in this golden corner, we were alone in the world. I ordered coffee and a dense little orange cake as Theo pushed in my chair.
He sat beside me. “Do you really think Phillip and Carl could help with Felix?”
“Your Edouard is targeting noble families.”
“How do you know?”
“I asked around. A gossip columnist always knows people. Anyway, bitter German princes are exactly the sort of men Edouard loves. But I need to get them talking about politics to be sure.”
“My mother wouldn’t let you, but these days, amongst young men, anything is possible.”
“Amongst young women too.”
“Oh, that was always the case.” Theo smiled. “Cake for breakfast?”
“And scandal for lunch.”
“I think that’s Prince Phillip von Hessen at the door.” Theo did up his jacket button as he stood up, straightened his posture, set his jaw; subtle little movements that transformed him from a Montparnasse taxi driver to someone close to the Russian throne. The café was grand and traditional, with solid columns, gilt-edged murals on the walls and ceiling, and a highly patterned carpet. Theo not only looked at home in it, but made it look homely; I had a strong urge to take his hand and run all the way back to Montparnasse. The man at the door nodded briskly and followed the waiter over to us.
“Theo,” the man said, and shook Theo’s hand with a little click of his heels. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you. I have not met any of my Romanov relatives and, for this, I am ashamed.”
