Radio Girls(30)

Cyril settled next to her, his lazy smile glowing in the semidarkness.

“New York girl, eh?” and he pulled her to him.

All she knew of kisses was what she had seen onstage. This was different. Better. Magic. His lips guided hers, encouraging her to melt into him. She trembled so hard, she was afraid she was going to bite his lip, but his hands were steady on her shoulders and he didn’t pull away, so she must be doing something right.

Please don’t let this stop.

The cab stopped and the yawning driver asked for the fare.

They were on a quiet street, moderately well-kept houses full of sleeping clerks and hardworking hopeful juniors. If it were New York, one house would hide a speakeasy. Maisie grinned. It would be just like Cyril to know of an underground place in London.

He kissed her again, his body pressed against hers. There was nothing except this man, this mouth, this moment.

“Quick, let’s get upstairs,” he breathed.

“What?” She was gasping, embarrassingly loud.

“Shush, come on, this way.”

“Where are we? Is it a nightclub?”

“Ha. Perhaps tonight it will be. It’s my flat. Well, a bedsit, but there’s privacy enough. We’ll take the back stairs. No one will see you.”

“What?” She was still having trouble breathing.

“We ought to hurry,” he urged.

“No, I . . .”

He wasn’t really suggesting what he sounded like he was suggesting, was he? He couldn’t be. This wasn’t . . . His eyes were so bright and liquid. She wanted to kiss him more, kiss him forever. It would be so easy. Say yes. Trust him.

But it was too much at once.

“I don’t think I should. I mean, not the first . . . I’m sorry.”

His eyes chilled, raking her face. “Are you making a joke?”

“I . . . What?”

“You’re not actually . . . ? Look, haven’t I done rather nicely by you this evening?”

It was like walking downstairs and missing the last step.

“What?”

Because there weren’t any other words.

“You can’t . . . Haven’t you done this before?”

She couldn’t look like a girl who had, could she? Plenty of girls did, she knew, but were they ones who still got married?

“It’ll be fun, won’t it?” He took her hand. “You’re not teasing me, are you?”

“What? I, no, I wouldn’t. I’m not that sort, truly.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

“Cyril, I’m . . . not that sort either.”

“You are serious, aren’t you?” His hand pulled away, and she was sinking. “Well, I never. Bit of a turn-up, that.”

“What?”

Which asked so many questions.

“Ah, Maisie, go on. You’re not . . . That is . . . A girl like you, I mean . . . Ah, what’s a bit of practice between chums, eh? Just some fun, a laugh.”

She was never going to laugh again.

“I have to go home.”

Now. Before he saw her cry. He wasn’t going to see her cry.

“I say, look, I’m sorry, all right? Maybe you being American, you can’t understand. Never mind. We don’t need to let them in the salt mine know about it, do we? I mean, you won’t look any better than I will, and no harm done anyway.”

If I had the money, I’d buy him a dictionary and show him the definition of the word.

“I’ll get you a cab, shall I? Maisie! Wait, Maisie!”

She was running. He didn’t have a hope of keeping up, especially now that she had her new shoes. She could hear them, the gang children of the Toronto streets, chasing her still. Mousy Maisie. Mousy Maisie. Mousy Maisie. They were never going to stop chasing her.

On the tram, she fought her stomach’s urge to vomit. She was determined to digest that food. It was the only good thing to come of the evening.

After she’d yanked the velvet ribbons off her dress and thrown them under the bed, she remembered she might see Cyril Monday. It was the sort of thing that could happen.

I’ll just be too busy to bother with him. Miss Matheson can probably guarantee that. And if not, I’ll find a way to help her. Onwards and upwards.

She still wasn’t going to cry.




Despite Cyril’s assurance it wouldn’t be mentioned, Maisie braced herself for an avalanche of humiliation at the BBC. Where the fellows talked, the women listened, and she would be marked: A for Ass.

Well, they can all go to hell. I’m not running away in retreat this time. I’m not the Germans. I’m the conquering army.

Which didn’t stop her dreading their first meeting.

“You don’t look very well,” Hilda said, frowning at her as she typed.

“No, I’m all right,” Maisie lied. She was coiled tight, bracing for a rude comment from Fielden, a knowing glance from Alfred, a smirk from Billy. A giggle from Phyllida. And Beanie would have a four-part soliloquy.

“Well, come along. We’ve got a meeting with the DG,” Hilda ordered. Maisie padded after her, pleased to discover she’d learned to walk almost as quietly as Hilda. Invisible Girl, upgraded.

They passed Rusty, Phyllida, Alfred and his basket, and dozens of others, including Samson the cat, but either Maisie was indeed not floating on the Savoy Hill buzz, or no one would dare even glance at her when she was with Hilda.