“I usually have whatever the waiter recommends,” he said, perhaps sensing her confusion. “They’ll prepare it any way you like. And the vegetables they serve are cooked with some care, which is a rarity in England. Did you want something to start? Or were you thinking of leaving some room for pudding?”
“No . . . perhaps just the fish?”
The waiter returned with their drinks just then, and when prompted by Mr. Kaczmarek he recommended the plaice. “Fresh in from Cornwall this morning.”
“Very good. Shall we both have that, Miss Dassin? Grilled, I think. And an order of samphire as well.”
Miriam took a sip of her wine, then another for courage, and tried to think of something to say. Mr. Kaczmarek, however, had no such difficulties. “You know what I do for a living,” he began. “What is your profession?”
“I am an embroiderer,” she said. Best to be honest from the start. If he were disappointed to discover she worked for a living it was best to know straightaway. “I work for Monsieur Hartnell,” she added, and immediately cringed. That was a detail she might have kept to herself.
“Ah,” he said. “Your employer has been in the news this week.”
“Yes. I cannot say any more. I should not have told you.”
“There’s no need to worry. I assure you I’m not about to start fishing for a story. On my word of honor, I’m not.”
“Very well. Shall you tell me of your work? Of this magazine of yours?”
“I don’t own the thing, so I can’t properly say it’s mine. But I did found it, a little more than twelve years ago, and I’ve been its editor from the start. I was given, or rather lent, the money to get it off the ground. And beyond the staff’s salaries and the costs of running the office and so forth, our profits get plowed back into the enterprise.”
“You said, the evening we met, that it is a serious publication. That your stories are about important things.”
“Much of the time, yes. But I’m not averse to lighter fare. We all need the occasional taste of cake in between our rations of National Loaf. Now more than ever.”
“Why now?” she asked, though she had a good idea of what his answer would be.
“Life here is a far sight less dangerous than it was during the war. I won’t dispute that. But it’s also a good deal more miserable. The nation is beggared, the empire is crumbling, and we just lived through a winter where people froze to death in their own homes because there wasn’t coal enough to go around. No wonder everyone is over the moon about this royal wedding.”
“You know I cannot—”
“I’m not talking about what the princess is going to wear on her wedding day. But you have to admit the timing couldn’t be better.”
She frowned at this, surprised by his cynicism. “I know little of your king and his family, but do you really believe he arranged for his daughter to be married in order to . . . how do you say it . . . ?”
“Relieve some pressure on the government?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t. And from what I do know of the man, I suspect he’d much prefer if she waited a few years. She is very young, after all. I do think, however, that it’s come at an opportune moment. What better way to get people’s minds off the misery of their own lives than by having a national holiday?”
“A holiday? Really?”
“I doubt they’ll give everyone the day off. But there will be street parties the length and breadth of this land.”
“Will you have a party?”
“Me? No. I’ll be busy working that day—we’re doing a special edition of the magazine. But I’m sure we’ll drink a toast to the happy couple at some point.”
“I bought a copy of Picture Weekly. I thought it was very interesting. The person who chooses your photographs has an artist’s eye.”
“That would be me,” he admitted, smiling almost shyly. “Would you like to see our latest issue? I brought it for you.”
She accepted it with a smile, spread it open on the table, and began to read. There were several pages of advertisements, a long article on the hopes for a vaccine against infantile paralysis, complete with many heartrending photographs of children in iron lungs or with splinted limbs, an essay on the import-export gap by a professor of economics, a story about Britain’s many species of game birds, and last of all a photo essay on a young American actress who was starring in a West End musical. She was also the cover model for the issue.