Radio Girls(105)

“And I’ve always appreciated it, Mr. Siepmann.”

“Ah, isn’t that nice? Well, must be tootling on, but of course we’ll soon be seeing a great deal more of each other.”

Cyril lingered, biting his lips.

“Did you need something?” Maisie asked. “Because we’re really very busy, you know. Apparently, that’s the whole reason for this little massive upheaval.”

“I’m sorry,” Cyril said.

“No, you’re not. Don’t bother lying. It’s really never suited you.”

“Maisie . . .” Her sharp glare backed him down. “Miss Musgrave. I didn’t ask for the Week in Westminster assignment. I want you to know that.”

“All right, so I know.”

“I really am sorry. I know you’d have done a fine job.”

“If you believed that, Mr. Underwood, you’d thank your benefactors and ask that I be given the assignment instead. It’s not a plum for you anyway, being a woman’s program and all, and in the morning. It’s not as though you were being assigned to Mr. Bartlett’s broadcasts. It would have been a great chance for me, but for you it’s just another notch as you clamber your way on up. Well, congratulations, and good luck to you.”

She turned around and typed as loudly as she could, even long after she knew he was gone.




Somehow, the terrible day came to an end. Not a single person in Talks felt like staying late. Hilda and Maisie left together and hailed a cab. The driver gave them an apologetic grimace.

“Sorry, misses, but the backseat’s got a poorly spring on one side—bally kid wouldn’t stop jumping on it. One of you will have to ride jump, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t mind,” Maisie said, hopping in to prevent Hilda from taking the awkward seat facing backward. Hilda attempted to give the driver the address in between his tirade on lax child-rearing and all the ills it forebode.

“You could go to the governors, you know,” Maisie said once they were finally en route. “They want a tight ship, not a sloppy one. What amounts to two directors of Talks won’t go down well at all. The salaries, if nothing else.”

“I certainly shall not go to the governors. I’m not going to be seen to be crying like a little girl because Papa doesn’t like me.”

“But that’s not—”

Hilda held up her hand. “He must have already persuaded them. If I were even to try, it would be evidence of my churlishness.”

“But they like you! Or anyway, they like the good press you get. It’s good for the BBC and then they look good, too, and—”

“Yes, everyone’s very quick to assure me I’m indispensable and invaluable and all the things that have led me to this sterling moment.”

It was unsettling to see Hilda be bitter. Maisie jerked her eyes away, staring instead at the ever-disappearing street behind them.

“Miss Matheson?”

“Hmm?”

“I think there might be someone following us.”

She’d thought she noticed a car idling at the bottom of Savoy Street when they were waiting for a cab, but there was always some activity or other around there. And she had maybe registered it starting up when they drove off, but that wasn’t odd in and of itself. But over Hilda’s shoulder, out the tiny rear window, she saw the same headlights following them.

“What makes you sure?” Hilda asked.

“It’s been following us since we left Savoy Hill. I know it. One of the lamps is dimmer than the other.”

“Very good!”

Hilda was suddenly almost cheerful. She turned and knelt on the seat to study their pursuer.

It continued to wend its way after them. Hilda turned back and tapped on the driver’s shoulder. “I say, cabbie, change of plan. Can you take us to 31 Sumner Street instead?”

“Wha’? But that’s miles the other direction!”

“Terribly inconvenient, I know. Will another two shillings compensate?”

He whipped around and roared off with a new spring in his acceleration, if not the cushion.

And they lost their tail.

“Not even trying to turn ’round? That’s a poor show,” Hilda tutted.

“What’s on Sumner Street?” Maisie asked.

“My flat,” Hilda answered simply.

Sumner Street was one of the many London streets sporting rows of elegant white Georgian houses with pillars, on which the house numbers were painted in black. Each house was indistinguishable from the other, unless its residents had done something with the patch of concrete that stood in for a front garden. They didn’t need a garden, really, having ready access to the square around the corner. And the houses themselves boasted their own beauty.

Hilda chivvied Maisie inside number thirty-one just as Torquhil hurtled down the stairs and flung himself on Hilda, barking and wagging his tail in danger to the Staffordshire likenesses of himself on the coat rack shelf.

“There’s my favorite lad. Had a good day?” Hilda crooned. “Not all by your lonesome, are you? Hallo, anyone in?”

“You don’t live alone?” Maisie asked, following Hilda downstairs into the kitchen. She could certainly afford to.

“Landlords aren’t especially keen on renting to lone women,” Hilda said, loading a tray with bread, cheese, and fruit. “Though I could have had my father or brother stand for me, but it’s not a bad thing, having other people about. We can look out for one another, and it means I’ve been able to buy a car. Gorgeous beast. I’ll show you sometime. Yes, you’re a gorgeous beast, too,” she assured Torquhil, and opened a tin of meat for him. After several jetés and a circle around Hilda, he settled to his food.