“You,” he said finally. “I can tell you’re a journalist because you keep asking me questions. But I want to know more about you.”
“I’m game. Ask away.”
“Did you always want to be a journalist?”
She shook her head. “Historian.”
“Really?” He was leaning across the table now, his plate pushed aside, his arms folded in front of him. His wrist and its compelling lines of script were so close to her hand.
“Really. It was my favorite subject in school, and university, too. But I didn’t want to teach, and my marks weren’t high enough for graduate school. So I did a postgraduate diploma in journalism. I found a job right away, and that was ten years ago, and in all that time I never really took a moment to stop and ask myself if I loved my work. Until a few weeks ago, that is.”
“What happened?”
“I was made redundant, and I probably should have jumped into a job search right away. That would have been the smart thing to do. But I felt like I had to come here first.”
“To find your nan. And now? What will you do when you return home?”
She was leaning forward, and their heads were all but touching. They were whispering to one another.
“I have no idea,” she admitted. “I hope that doesn’t sound pathetic.”
“Not at all.”
“I know I can keep the wolf from the door. I can pick up work as a copywriter, or I can go the public relations route. Except I can’t stand the idea of writing puff pieces that I don’t care about. I want to write stories that interest me. Stories that keep me up half the night because I can’t turn off my brain. Does that ever happen to you?”
“All the time.”
“I want that, too.”
“Then do it. Tell me, now—what would you write about if you could choose any topic at all? Don’t think—just say it.”
“I’d write about the gown. Nan and Miriam. What it was like to work at Hartnell and create a wedding dress for a princess. How it felt to make such beautiful things and never be acknowledged in any way. I remember thinking that after William and Kate’s wedding. Everyone was talking about her dress and the designer and I don’t think I saw a single article on the people who made it. How hard they must have worked on that dress, and how they couldn’t breathe a word to anyone, not even their best friends.”
“If I were a magazine editor I’d be interested.”
“It needs a hook, though. I wish I were brave enough to ask Miriam. No editor in the world would turn down an interview with her.”
“Why don’t you ask?” he suggested. As if it would be no big deal.
“You told me she hates to talk about herself. I don’t want to upset her.”
“It won’t. She avoids publicity because she tends to attract the attention of hatemongers, to use a polite term for an especially loathsome group of people. That’s why she has no email address or website, and that’s why everyone who knows her is so evasive.”
“Oh, God. I feel like an idiot for not thinking of that before.”
“If you hadn’t included your grandmother’s name in the message you left with my former student, I probably wouldn’t have emailed you back. God knows I get enough of that shit in my own in-box because of my own work. But compared to the vitriol that’s been aimed at Mimi over the years? It’s nothing.”
“I’m sure it’s awful.”
“I’m sorry. I’m ruining our dinner. Once I get started, though—”
“Talk about it as much as you like. I’m happy to listen.”
“Another time, maybe.”
“Sure. Maybe when you’re in New York? Miriam was telling me all about it.”
He looked down and began to fiddle with the stem of his wineglass. “I expect she made it sound as if they’ve decided to award me the inaugural Nobel Prize for history.”
“More or less. When do you leave?”
“In a fortnight.” His eyes caught hers, and she was surprised by how apprehensive he seemed. “Perhaps I might come up to Toronto for a visit? Or you could visit me there?”
“I would love that. I haven’t been to New York in years.”
“Good,” he said, and his accompanying grin made her heart do a little somersault. “But back to the subject at hand—your interviewing Mimi.”
“You make it sound so certain. You’re sure she won’t be upset?”