“No. We were out with friends. Dancing.”
“I went to see 1066 and All That at the Palace Theatre. Second time I’ve been. First time I was laughing so hard I missed half of it.”
She smiled despite herself. “Ten sixty-six? What is it about, this play? I have not heard of it.”
“It was the year of the Norman Conquest. The year a Frenchman, or something near enough to a Frenchman, conquered England. Of course it’s all been downhill since then.”
“Do you consider yourself an Englishman?” she asked, all too aware of how rude she must seem. But he didn’t seem to mind.
“Despite my un-English name? I do. My parents were Poles but I’ve lived here since I was a boy. I’m not sure I’d feel at home anywhere else.” He reached into his breast pocket and, after extracting a card, handed it to her. “Just in case you’re worrying I’m waiting for the perfect moment to make off with your handbags.”
PICTURE WEEKLY
WALTER KACZMAREK
EDITOR IN CHIEF
87 FLEET STREET ? LONDON EC4
CENTRAL 7050
VERBA DOCENT, EXEMPLA TRAHUNT
“Picture Weekly,” she read aloud. “You are the editor of this magazine? You are a journalist?”
“Yes. And I do realize that my profession might lead some to accuse me of criminality. I hope you believe me when I say I’m neither a confidence man nor an ambulance chaser.”
“And this magazine? It is a successful one?”
“Miriam,” Ann said, elbowing her gently. “It’s on every newsstand. You must have seen it.”
“Perhaps I have,” she allowed. “What sort of magazine is your Picture Weekly? Is it full of scandal and film stars?”
“And scandals about film stars?” he offered. “No. They do grace our pages from time to time, but in the main I’m interested in more serious things.”
“Such as?”
“The future of Britain in the postwar era. How the welfare state is changing the fabric of society. The dangers we face at the dawn of the nuclear age. Things like that. With a smattering of lighter fare to leaven the mix.”
“I suppose I shall have to purchase a copy. Is it expensive?”
He grinned once more. “Fourpence an issue but worth every penny.”
Ann nudged her again. “We need to cross the street. For the station.”
“And I need to go the opposite way,” he added. “It was a pleasure meeting both of you. Will you be all right from here?”
Miriam nodded, though she felt strangely reluctant to say good-bye. “We will. Thank you again.”
“Think nothing of it. I do hope you’ll ring me up. For lunch one day, if you like. My offices aren’t far from here. Just so you know.”
She searched his face, still uncertain as to what, precisely, would lead him to suggest such a thing. What did he know of her? What did he see in her that made him wish to learn more?
“Good night, Monsieur Kaczmarek,” she said, not knowing what else to say.
“Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Dassin, Miss Hughes.”
She watched until he was out of sight, and then she turned to Ann, wondering if her friend was as surprised as she. “Are all Englishmen so . . . so . . . ?”
“Practically never,” Ann admitted. “I’m starting to wonder if that fabric Milly sent along was sprinkled with stardust.”
“Perhaps it was. It has been an unusual evening. Very much so.”
“But a good one?” Ann asked, her voice threaded through with hope.
“The very best.”
Chapter Twelve
Heather
August 12, 2016
The streetcar was only a block from Heather’s stop when her phone buzzed. She dug it out of her pocket, hoping the driver wouldn’t choose that instant to hit the brakes, and frowned when she saw the sender. Brett only texted in emergencies. Maybe the laser printer had run out of toner again.
BRETT: where are you?
HEATHER: on my way. what’s up?
BRETT: something’s up. richard’s here. looks like he never went home. in boardroom w guys in suits. they don’t look happy.
It took her a few tries to type out her response.
HEATHER: anyone else we know in there?
BRETT: gregor and moira.
The magazine’s publisher and the head of ad sales. At eight o’clock on a Friday morning.
HEATHER: be there in 5.
The streetcar lurched to a stop, bell clanging as some jerk in a Hummer tried to inch past the open doors. As soon as she found her feet again, Heather pushed her way through a sea of backpacks and down the steps to the street. The magazine’s offices were on the south side of King Street, just at the end of the next block, and as she grew close, and then walked up the stairs to the second floor, she had to remind herself to breathe. Brett might have got things wrong. Gregor and Moira and Richard and a bunch of cranky-looking guys in suits didn’t automatically equal a catastrophe.