Radio Girls(41)

Maisie knew what Hilda meant. It was in the quieter letters they received, the sort Reith would never read, but she did. Radio helped people feel less lonely.

“It’s not unlike a favorite book,” Hilda went on, “the way it can be a friend. What’s your favorite book?”

“The Bible,” he answered promptly.

“And yours, Miss Shields?” Hilda said, turning around to draw the secretaries into the conversation.

Miss Shields’s eyes rolled upward just enough to meet Hilda’s.

“Just for a bit of fun,” Hilda clarified.

Miss Shields looked as if she’d rank this “fun” slightly below getting branded.

“I can’t but be curious, even if this is a colossal waste of time,” Reith put in.

“Well,” said Miss Shields. “I suppose it’s the . . . Jane Eyre.” She spoke with an almost defiance that seemed to surprise her. Reith’s brows shot into orbit, and Hilda smiled, a minuscule glint of triumph in her eyes.

Maisie had never owned a book and couldn’t imagine rereading anything when time was so short and the libraries so full. So as to a favorite, “Whichever one I have in my hand,” was the only answer. She was just happy to know how to read and that libraries were free. Hilda looked pleased.

“I suppose mine is Pride and Prejudice, although I do so love poetry,” Hilda mused. “But you see my point, that we turn to these books as old friends. They’re always there and they speak to us. Radio has the same capacity, and we should make more of it, in all our broadcasts. That’s how we’ll build something that will find a home in any number of hearts.”

Reith exhaled cigarette smoke through his nose. “Miss Matheson, you either read too much poetry or are simply a true Utopian. It’s a charming picture you paint, I’m sure, but I don’t think anyone thinks of radio quite so seriously. We simply will do our best with it for as long as it lasts. All right? Now, was there anything else on the agenda?”




Hilda was applying lipstick when Maisie brought the last of the day’s letters for her to sign. She was lovely already, with that milky skin and those penetrating eyes, and the makeup she didn’t need made her exquisite. Striking. Maisie sighed and turned her gaze out the window.

“Good, good, good,” Hilda told each letter as she signed it. “Very good. Are you busy this evening, Miss Musgrave?”

“Me?” How did Hilda always catch her by surprise? It made her feel like part of her was sleeping, when in fact she was sure she was buoyantly awake.

“I’m attending Lady Astor’s salon, and if you’re free, I was hoping you might join me. It’s not just for fun,” Hilda clarified. “Scads of important people will be there. Actors, too, I believe, and so Miss Warwick will likely attend. It’s a good opportunity to woo potential broadcasters.”

“Why would they need wooing? Broadcasting pays.” Maisie was dumbfounded. She’d never heard of an actor to turn down work, money, or food.

“You’d be surprised how often that isn’t enough,” Hilda told her. “Remember, radio’s still not wholly reckoned as a force for good. It might ‘taint a career.’” She couldn’t say that without laughing. “In any case, I’d be glad for your help. As it’s work, I’ll of course give you extra pay. And she serves a lovely buffet supper.”

Extra pay? Had Hilda heard of the docked shilling? It almost didn’t matter, as the enticement of Lady Astor needed little sweetening. Only . . . Maisie looked down at herself. Same old brown frock, same mended stockings. Same face, same hair, same her. She glanced at the carriage clock. Phyllida had left, so there was no borrowing lipstick.

Oh well. No one will look at me, even if I’m not wearing Invisible Girl.

She plucked a fresh steno pad from the stash and they were off.




Lady Astor’s house in St. James’s Square was a jungle of tassels and ornaments and Baroque art. All this, for a house she lived in only when Parliament was in session. Or for “the season,” Maisie reminded herself, hearing Phyllida’s snort.

The place teemed with sequins and feathers and glitter and gloss. True to form, it was the actors who were the most showily dressed. Those born wealthy had a studied ease to their glamour. The intellectuals had given themselves a dusting and the artists competed to see who could be the most avant-garde.

“Ah, Miss Matheson, marvelous!” rang a commanding voice. Lady Astor: a masterful confection of cut cheekbones and arched brows, hair twisted elegantly at her neck, pearls and eyes equally black and sparkling.

“Lady Astor! Wonderful to see you. May I present my secretary, Miss Musgrave?”

Lady Astor extended a gloved hand. Maisie felt all the breath leave her body as she took it. Lady Astor had the sort of grip that could pick you up and pitch you like a horseshoe.

“How d’ye do, Miss Musgrave?” Her voice was patrician English, but with the slightest twang reminiscent of her Virginia upbringing.

“I . . . I . . . It’s such an honor. I’m so pleased to meet you. Milady!” she amended, relieved the room was dim enough to hide her blush.

Lady Astor’s smile was warm, but Maisie could see how just a twitch in her lips could turn it into a hatchet. She should have been an aristocrat back when they had had the power to order death sentences. No one would have ever crossed her.