Radio Girls(42)

“No need for any ‘milady’ nonsense. We’re both born-and-bred Americans.”

“Beg pardon, Lady Astor, but Miss Musgrave was born in Canada,” Hilda interjected.

“Ah, yes. A Canadian and a New Yorker, too—isn’t that right? Confusin’ bit of backstory, Miss Musgrave, and good for you, I say. Always keep ’em guessin’. Don’t you agree, Miss Matheson?” She turned to Hilda, with the expectant air of one who is rarely contradicted.

“Most certainly,” Hilda obliged. Maisie would have agreed as well, but she wasn’t asked.

“Now, then,” Lady Astor commanded. “Come along and let me present you to some interestin’ people. Might be good for your BBC, I think.”

Maisie tagged along at a safe distance, discreetly taking notes as Lady Astor introduced Hilda to some of the throng with the air of a matron chaperoning a debutante—a titan in publishing, a magazine editor who eyed Hilda with suspicion, and the artist Laura Knight, whom even Maisie knew was famous for her Self-Portrait with Nude. “I knew I’d done well when the Telegraph called me vulgar,” she said.

Eventually Hilda whispered to Maisie to get some food, and she didn’t need urging. She gathered a treasure trove of salmon mousse and stuffed mushrooms and retreated to a corner, perfect for watching Hilda chat with each person in turn, that curious manner just enough on the edge of self-deprecation to make them feel how much of a favor they would be granting were they to come broadcast.

“Oughtn’t you to be at her side?” A voice sounded suddenly, making Maisie jump. Her accoster looked a lot like Josephine Baker, only with darker skin and a more cynical eye.

“I’m observing,” Maisie explained. “And she said I should eat something.”

“You’re American,” the woman said, her enormous brown eyes glistening with interest. “I am, too. New Orleans,” she clarified proudly. “Wisteria Mitterand.” She held out her hand.

“Jeepers, that’s a gorgeous name!”

“I’m glad you like it. I tweaked it for effect,” Miss Mitterand said, with a wink.

“I’m Maisie Musgrave.” (A name like a bland pudding.) “Are you an actress?”

“I am, and doing far better here than on Broadway.” Miss Mitterand laughed.

“Broadway can be a little shortsighted, I know. My mother acts there.”

“Oh. Will I have seen her in anything?”

“I’m afraid you probably have.”

“Ah. Yes. I’ve acted in some of those shows myself. London theater’s far more exhilarating.” She lit a cigarette, not bothering to point out that she had a chance here to play something more than a maid. No wonder she looked so gleeful.

“Would you want to come and broadcast, do you think?” Maisie asked. Now that Maisie was in a position to advocate for friends, Lola was too busy onstage—or offstage—to come broadcast. But this woman, with her voice and story, might be a real coup.

Miss Mitterand raised a slim eyebrow. “It’s not for you to invite me, is it?”

“Well, no, but I could—”

“You’re very kind. But I suspect I might be a bit . . . racy . . . for BBC Drama.” She chuckled. “But thank you. Truly. I’d love to chat more, but I must put myself back in circulation. I’ve got to secure a dinner date for the next few months or so.”

“Sorry?”

“Steady work or no, I need to pad my income. And maintain appearances. I am the exotic creature here. Don’t look embarrassed; it’s just true. A few months of dinners are good for business. And maybe diamonds. They always love how diamonds look against my skin. Silly, hmm? Well, cheerio, as they say.” She waved an elegant finger to Maisie and sashayed into the middle of the room. And was indeed soon surrounded by men.

“How have you got on?” Hilda asked, materializing like a genie and enhancing the legerdemain with a plate of tiny cakes.

“I think Miss Mitterand could give a very interesting Talk.”

“Excellent. Write up your thoughts for my review Monday.”

“Me? Isn’t that a bit out of my—”

In the limelight of Hilda’s merry, challenging eyes, Maisie’s mouth snapped shut.

Hilda insisted on sending her home in a cab. Neither the luxury nor the pilfered cakes she’d wrapped in a cloth (also, she realized, pilfered—oops) distracted her from her thoughts. Miss Mitterand could tell stories of her working life, and why she was in London, and those stories might make people uncomfortable. Which would be most interesting, as Hilda would say.

She ate a cake. The jolt of joy that burst through her had nothing—she was pretty sure—to do with the excess of butter.

Maisie was still in the sitting room past midnight, her fingers black with pencil smudges, when Mrs. Crewe insisted she turn off the lights or else pay the entire gas bill. What did she need to write so much for, anyway?

“I don’t know. I just do.” There was some question as to who was more surprised—Mrs. Crewe, at receiving an answer, or Maisie, at the answer she gave.




“Early, are you?” Miss Shields sniffed, seeing Maisie stamping the correspondence. “It hardly compensates for all the times you’re late getting back from Talks.”