His Majesty's Hope(101)
From behind him a voice asked, “Is this seat taken?” The man the voice belonged to was young and very tall, with a sharp part in his wavy brown hair, a crimson bow tie, and matching, double-point pocket square.
Hugh looked up and shrugged. “It’s all yours.”
The man joined him at the little table. “Let me buy you a drink,” he said. “You look like you could use one.”
“I could.” Hugh took the man’s measure: a confident Oxbridge graduate, probably rich, most likely well-connected. “And you are?”
The man held out his hand. “Kim Philby.”
As John had been presumed dead, his parents had let go of the lease on his apartment. He had nowhere to live. Until a fellow RAF pilot offered up his second-floor efficiency on a tree-lined street in Notting Hill.
Late that night, Maggie rang the buzzer, then climbed three flights of stairs.
John opened the door. He was unshaven, eyes sunken with weariness and a deep sadness. Then his face lit up. “Well, hello there.”
Maggie smiled back. “Hello there, yourself.”
He took her hand and pulled her inside. The apartment was clublike, with tufted leather furniture, wide plank oak floors covered by worn Persian carpets, thick drapes, and clutter—books and gilt-framed etchings and blue and white Chinese urns. But Maggie was oblivious to her surroundings.
They kissed with a longing so deep it made her knees wobble. John wrapped her in his arms. “Finally …”
Somehow they maneuvered down the narrow hallway to the bedroom, where they ended up on his bed, kissing hard, clothing discarded piece by piece.
John leaned over her and, with a fingertip, slowly traced the curve of her cheek. Maggie tried to speak, but couldn’t. She wrapped her arms around him, taking the hardness of his body into her arms.
A clock ticked on the mantel and a breeze from a half-opened window blew over them. John’s hand grazed Maggie’s ribs. “Ow!” she yelped.
He pulled back instantly. “Oh, sorry—did I hurt you?”
“The bullet’s still there,” she said, propping herself up on her elbows. “I’ve decided to leave it in.”
“Why on earth would you do that?”
“It’s my … Berlin souvenir,” she answered lightly.
“Since we’re doing show-and-tell, here are my stitches,” he told her, raising his vest. “Surgery from a lacerated kidney. I’m sure it will fade in time, but I’ll always have a scar.”
They lay back on the bed, silenced by the enormity of their memories, their scars. What had happened in Berlin, what had happened on the train. In a low voice John said, “I don’t want to be alone.”
“You don’t ever have to be alone ever again,” Maggie said softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“I want you to know,” he said, “that everything is, ahem, in working order.”
“What?”
“That my injuries from the crash landing—nothing was damaged beyond repair. Everything is … fully functional.”
“Ah,” Maggie said, “good to know.”
They were both young, but they were both exhausted. “I’m glad to know all is in working order,” she said. “So why don’t we sleep now and test everything out tomorrow?”
“Oh, thank God,” John said. “I want our first time to be special.” He turned over, put his arm around her, buried his face in her hair, and fell asleep instantly. He was restless in his sleep and called out in nightmares, but kept his arm around her. Maggie stayed awake a bit longer, listening for planes overhead, unable to relax.
In the morning John rolled over and kissed her on the lips. “Before we, you know, there’s something I need to tell you,” Maggie murmured.
“What’s that?” he said, kissing her shoulder blade. “While you were … gone, I saw someone. We … stepped out together.”
“What?” John said, distracted.
“His name is Hugh Thompson. He was my handler at Windsor. Last night I’d just come from breaking up with him.”
“What?” John repeated. He stood and started to pace. He spun to face her. “Are you—are you joking?”
“I’m sorry, John. But it’s the truth. And I wanted to tell you earlier, but there was never the right time. And I’ve broken things off with him.”
“The fact that you were with him in the first place—” His face was mottled with anger. “I was in hell in Berlin. Literally in hell. Only the thought of you kept me sane—and barely, at that. And there you were, safe and sound in England, off frolicking with some …”