Radio Girls(9)

“No, I’m assisting Mr. Reith. I mean, Miss Shields, but helping her with Mr. Reith. And I’m a part-time assistant to the director of Talks, but I haven’t met him yet.”

Cyril’s eyes twinkled. He opened his mouth, then swallowed his thought in a schoolboy’s unmistakably mischievous grin. He stood and gave her a rather elaborate salute that she hoped was friendly, even though it looked ironic.

“Good luck, Miss Musgrave, and welcome to the madhouse. I hope you enjoy it!”

“Very much, if it has such people in it,” she answered, but only in a whisper, and only to the safety of his back again.

Five minutes later, she forgot she’d ever sat down. No Olympian could have trained harder than under Miss Shields’s direction. Nor was there anyone in Savoy Hill who seemed to move at any pace slower than a canter, as though they were eager to reach the future that much more quickly and make sure it wasn’t gone by the time they got there.

Maisie saw the usual glances slanting toward her, the familiar half smiles. And, of course, the muffled chuckles. Her clothes, her nose, her nothingness, it was the same record, turning around and around. But it didn’t matter. Invisible Girl would rise again. She concentrated on keeping her head down, hugging the walls as she scurried along the corridor, ignoring the ancient echo of the Toronto gang children as they chased her: Mousy Maisie! Mousy Maisie! You can run, but you can’t hide!

Oh, but I can.

She shut the door to her tiny haven and grinned as she settled herself to another mountain of typing.




Too soon, she was shunted back to the corridors. It wasn’t even lunchtime and she was contemplating writing the hospital to ask if they’d post her some Ephedrine.

“Here.” Miss Shields thrust several heavy folders into her arms, papers peeking out from the string binding, yearning to breathe free. “These belong to the Talks Department. I can’t think how they came to be here. Oh, and this.” She added a large brown envelope with the imposing words: “Interoffice Memo: Dir. Talks H. Matheson” emblazoned across it. She also added a disparaging sniff. “I suppose you’ll need a steno pad. You remember where the Talks Department is.”

Since it was a statement, not a question, Maisie pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth and nodded.

Let’s see. It was on the fourth floor, I think, and at the far end of the corridor. Or, no, wait. Maybe it was down this way . . .

Everything Rusty had rattled off that morning sat piled in her brain like unsorted items for a jumble sale. No one took the lift—that much she remembered—unless they were transporting something awkward. It was faster to run up and down the stairs; the more impressive noise was a bonus.

She walked with purpose, drawn to the clatter of loud typing and louder chat. Too late, she realized it was only women’s voices she heard and thus the typing pool. She was accosted by a statuesque blonde, a sketch artist’s dream of curves and curls and country-pink cheeks, depositing work in a tray marked “Output.”

“Hullo! Is that all for us?”

“Er, no,” Maisie muttered. She couldn’t discern any of the women individually, but collectively they oozed glamour and modernity, a sea of red lipstick and snapping eyes. “It’s for the Talks Department.”

The curvy blonde’s interest was further piqued.

“No! You must be the Shields hire! Well, I . . . What are you doing along here?”

Maisie was not about to let the entire typing pool, who, if past was prologue, were the beating heart of gossip and judgment in Savoy Hill, know she was less than thoroughly competent and capable.

“Nothing,” she answered. “Do excuse me.” She strode away fast to avoid hearing giggles.

Down another flight and scooting around an awkward bend in the corridor, Maisie, eyes firm on the polished floor, collided hard with a man carrying a tuba. One of her overworked shoes slid forward, then the next, and then she landed with a hard “phlumph” on the floor. The files gave one great leap—dozens of papers flew free and fluttered down on her, burying her like a pile of autumn leaves.

A musical giggle landed on top of the papers, and Maisie looked up at a girl every studio in Hollywood would have offered a mansion and the moon. Her dark red hair curled in the natural waves only a Mayfair hairdresser could concoct. Enormous green eyes, lashes that could have doubled as hedgerows. She tilted her head; long jet earrings rested against her jaw. Even from the distance of the floor and her infinite humiliation, Maisie could tell the girl’s jersey and skirt were Chanel. And her stockings were most definitely silk.

“Need a hand?” another man volunteered, though not going so far as to set down his own box full of unidentified objects, or even come to a complete stop.

Maisie scrambled to her knees, wondering if there was any chance no one had spotted the holes in her shoes.

“No, I’m all right, thank you,” she told the papers on the floor, sweeping them into piles.

“You’ve got to move quickly around here,” the Chanel beauty told Maisie in the most aristocratic accent she had ever heard. “Can’t blink even for a moment, you know.”

“Yes, I . . . I’m learning that.”

“Miss Warwick!” one of the men called in a deferential but hurrying tone.

“Oh, this is a super place for an education!” she trilled, ignoring him. “Better fun than Cheltenham, and I’ve told my teachers there so. Mind you, I think they were pleased to see the back of me.” Another melodious giggle.