“That’s okay. I ought to have checked first. Maybe one day I’ll get to see them.”
“Are you a student of her work?” Zahra asked.
“No. I don’t know much about her at all. Only that she might have been friends with my grandmother. That’s why I’m here. In England, I mean. I’m trying to find out more about my nan. She died in March.”
“I am sorry,” Zahra said, frowning in sympathy. And then, as if she had just made up her mind, “I do know someone who is involved with the retrospective. I could speak to him. Let him know why you came to see the embroideries. I can’t promise anything, but he might be able to help.”
“That would be fantastic,” Heather said, her spirits soaring. “Can I write out a note or anything?”
“Just your name and email address, and perhaps your mobile number, too? I’ll explain the rest to Dr. Friedman. He was one of my favorite lecturers when I was an undergrad. I’m sure he’ll do his best to help.”
When Heather emerged from the museum, the afternoon was so beautiful and sunny that she abandoned her plan to take the Tube back to the hotel. It wasn’t so very far back to Soho, only about an hour’s walk according to the map on her phone, and she didn’t want to risk being underground if Dr. Friedman called.
It was almost five o’clock when she arrived back at her hotel, having made a lengthy and expensive stop at Fortnum & Mason. Room service beckoned, and a hot bath, too, but first she needed a nap. It had been a long, long day.
SHE DIDN’T WAKE until almost nine o’clock, and then her first reaction was panic. What if Dr. Friedman had tried to contact her when she was asleep?
She hadn’t missed any calls, but there were a pile of new emails. Two from her mom, one from Tanya with the subject line tell me you love the hotel!, the usual sprinkling of spam, and one from Daniel Friedman.
To: Heather Mackenzie
From: Daniel Friedman
Subject: Miriam Dassin
Dear Ms. Mackenzie,
A former student passed on the message that you are interested in speaking to me—I understand that you are Ann Hughes’s granddaughter. She and Miriam Dassin were indeed friends and I should be happy to meet with you to pass on whatever information I can. Perhaps you could let me know when and where might suit you?
Regards,
Daniel Friedman
To: Daniel Friedman
From: Heather Mackenzie
Subject: Re: Miriam Dassin
Dear Dr. Friedman,
Thank you so much. I’m staying at a hotel in Soho and will be in London until Sunday morning. I can meet with you anytime before then. Just let me know a time and place and I will be there. I really do appreciate your taking the time to speak with me.
Best wishes,
Heather
To: Heather Mackenzie
From: Daniel Friedman
Subject: Re: Miriam Dassin
Dear Ms. Mackenzie,
Why don’t we say tomorrow at noon at the French House on Dean Street? If that’s too early just let me know. I’ll send you a text message now with my mobile number so you have it. Looking forward to meeting you.
Regards,
D
Chapter Sixteen
Ann
September 4, 1947
It was raining, and she was ever so tired, and her eyes felt as if they’d been papered over with sandpaper after hours spent hunched over Princess Elizabeth’s wedding gown. With the day being so gloomy, and the workroom windows newly curtained with muslin in an attempt to keep out prying eyes, it had been a miracle she’d set even one decent stitch. Everything before her had been the same color, or near enough to make no difference, and the satin and pearls and crystal beads had all blended into one amorphous milk-colored blur after a while.
At least the rain had let up a bit. With any luck she’d make it to the Tube station before her coat was soaked through, otherwise—
“Miss Hughes? Hello?”
She stopped short and looked around, an islet in the stream of people hurrying by. The rain kept getting in her eyes, but that was her fault for leaving her umbrella at home again. She wiped at her face, blinked hard, and there he was. Jeremy Thickett-Milne.
“Miss Hughes—Ann. It is you. I wasn’t sure at first. What a lovely surprise. I was terribly disappointed when you didn’t call.”
“I tried. Twice. But the woman who answered said that I had the wrong number.”
His mouth tightened at this. “I do apologize. I expect it was my sister. Her idea of a joke, though not a very good one. In any event, I’ve found you again, so all is well. Are you on your way home from work?”