The Gown(57)

That accomplished, Jeremy sat back in his chair, produced a silver cigarette case from his inside breast pocket, and offered it to Ann. “No? You don’t mind if I do?”

“Not at all.”

He extracted a cigarette from the case, lighted it with practiced ease, and blew a gust of smoke toward the ceiling. “There. That’s better. Now, tell me—do you have a long journey home? Since you said you don’t live hereabouts.”

“It’s not so very long. I live just outside the city proper. I grew up there. Where do you live?” she countered.

“Here in town. At my parents’ house, actually. They spend most of their time in the country, you see, so otherwise it would just stand empty. Well, apart from the servants. My sister is meant to be living there, too, but I hardly see her. Either she’s off on holiday somewhere or she’s at some friend’s place. If my parents knew the half of it they’d keel over.”

“Did you—”

“Here’s your wine, sir.”

“Very well. No—I’ll pour. Ann?”

“Only a little. Thank you. What was I going to say . . . ?”

“That this wine is awful? Because really it is. That’s the one problem with these places. Can’t find a decent bottle of claret to save your life. Well, unless you’re at one of the froggie places around the corner.”

She took a sip of the wine and it seemed fine, but what did she know? “No, it wasn’t that. I was going to ask what you were doing before the war.”

“Oh, this and that. I mostly flitted about. Had a thought or two as to what I’d end up doing, which rather mystified my father. To him, you see, the entire point of being a gentleman is to do nothing.” He drained the last of his wine and refilled his glass. “Even before the war, I could tell those days were gone. Like it or not, if I wanted to live in a decent fashion I’d have to earn my keep.”

That was heartening, she supposed. “So what would you have done? If the war hadn’t got in the way?”

“I did love to travel, and I was rather good at finding my way around, learning how the locals lived, that sort of thing. I’d thought of perhaps looking into something in the diplomatic sphere. I’d come down from Cambridge a few years before, and I had a friend who’d promised he’d put a word or two in the right ears. It was all about to come together when the war . . . well, it changed any number of things, didn’t it?”

“It did,” she agreed. “I remember you said you were in North Africa for a while?”

“Yes, and I pray I never see a grain of sand again as long as I live. Awful place. One doesn’t forget, you know. The things one sees and hears. Even the smells, for the love of God.”

The food arrived, saving her from thinking of something to talk about that wouldn’t make him melancholy or down another glass of wine. His spaghetti smelled wonderful, if unfamiliar, and she wished, now, that she had been a little braver when ordering her meal.

“I see how you’re eyeing my dinner. Would you like to try some?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t know how—”

“It’s easy. Give me your fork and I’ll roll it on. See? Like a little cocoon. It helps if you put a spoon underneath. No—just open your mouth. Otherwise it’ll go everywhere. There. Isn’t that good?”

It was a little mortifying to be fed like a child, and in public as well, but the spaghetti was good. Far better, she soon realized, than her vol-au-vents, which were soggy and strangely bland. Perhaps it was just that they suffered in comparison to the richly seasoned pasta.

“I know you can’t talk about your work,” she said, picking up the threads of their conversation. “It being very secret, and all that. But do you find it interesting? Can you talk about it in a general sense?”

“It is interesting. Absolutely. I don’t know if I’ll want to stay on there forever, but it keeps me occupied now. I’ve been able to make a few useful connections, too. You are sure that you don’t mind my being so tight-lipped about it?”

“Not at all. Loads of people can’t talk about their work. And sometimes it’s nice, you know, to talk about other things.” Not my work, she prayed silently.

“I agree. What shall we talk about? I know—what’s the best film you saw this year? Don’t think about it too long. Just say whatever comes into your head.”

That was easy. “The Ghost and Mrs. Muir.”

He grimaced comically at her confession. “Why does every woman I know love that film? I thought it was a heap of romantic piffle. Dreadful stuff.”

“Well, I liked it,” she said, laughing in spite of his disdain for a very fine film. “What’s your favorite?”

“The Secret Life of Walter Mitty,” he said promptly.

“Really? I was thinking you’d say something very serious. Or depressing.”

“Have you seen it?”

“Not yet. Some of my friends have. They say it’s awfully funny.”

“It is. Although I do feel sorry for Mitty. Imagine having a life so dull that one resorts to fantasy as a way of remaining sane? They ought to have advertised it as a tragedy.”

“Yes, but no one wants to see Danny Kaye in a sob story.”

“You’re right about that,” he admitted, and ate the last of his spaghetti. “Are you all done with your vol-au-vents? We could see about some pudding if you like. Or perhaps some coffee?”