Mr.Churchill's Secretary(101)
Maggie was at a loss. Was Winston Churchill, the Prime Minister of England, really sitting in her hotel room, asking her about her artistic abilities?
“No, sir.” She was sure he didn’t want to hear about her problem sets and crossword puzzles.
“You should. ‘Happy are the painters, for they shall not be lonely,’ I always say.”
She was silent, listening. What was he getting at?
“Painting,” he continued, leaning back and pulling on his cigar, “is a friend in times of need. Do you understand me, Miss Hope?”
“I think so, sir.”
“It doesn’t have to be painting. It could be cooking, music. Photography. Doesn’t matter. The important thing is to KPO. Do you know what KPO means, Miss Hope?”
Of course. “Keep Plodding On, sir.”
“Absolutely right. KPO. That’s what we do, keep plodding on.”
Abruptly, he rose, gave a quick bow. Then he gestured with his cigar and walked out of the room. Maggie scrambled to her feet and followed.
“And, Miss Hope?” he said at the doorway.
“Yes?”
“Meet your new roommate.”
What now? Maggie thought. Who else gets to see me in all my bathrobed glory? But as Mr. Churchill walked away, a tall, slender figure entered the room.
“Sarah!” Maggie shrieked, reaching out to hug her. “Sarah!”
“Ooof,” Sarah said, nearly knocked over by Maggie’s attack. “Careful, love.”
“Oh, sorry, sorry,” Maggie said, releasing the girl from her embrace. “Are you all right? How are you? Good Lord, Sarah.”
“Can’t complain.” She gingerly reached up to her head and patted it through a white gauze bandage. “Better than the alternative, you know.”
Maggie shook her head in disbelief as she closed the door. “Come, sit down, now,” she said, leading Sarah over to the chair the P.M. had just vacated, and sitting down opposite. “You know, that bastard Frain let us think you were dead.”
“Well, it was touch-and-go for a while there,” Sarah said, removing her hat and setting it on the walnut side table. “But as you know, we dancers may look pretty, but we’re strong as steel on the inside. I wasn’t going to let a little bump on the head finish me off. Not when I might be dancing Odile again.”
Maggie took a deep breath. She had to ask. “Do you remember … I mean, did you see …”
Sarah knew what she was asking. “No, I don’t remember anything,” she said. “And probably a good thing, too. Although Mr. Frain filled me in on the details.”
“Mr. Frain?”
“Came to see me at the hospital. Convinced me to play dead for Paige—Claire—that bitch—in the interrogation room. My best role to date. Juliet’s death scene will be nothing after this!” Sarah spoke in a strong voice, but Maggie could see her hands worrying at each other.
“It was quite the—”
“Yes,” Sarah said quietly.
Maggie reached over and took her hand. “Yes. Yes, indeed.”
THIRTY-TWO
THE PHONE RANG. It was David. “Hullo, Maggie. How’re you holding up?”
“Doing pretty well,” Maggie said, “considering. By the way, you’ll never guess who’s with me.”
“We know—Sarah,” David said smugly. “Yes, Snodgrass and Frain have taken me into their confidence. Finally. I know all about Sarah’s part.…”
Maggie rolled her eyes at Sarah, across the room. “David,” she mouthed and Sarah nodded.
“So anyway,” David continued, “we’re all going to the Blue Moon Club tonight. Good band playing and all.”
“The Blue Moon?” Maggie said, jolted. “At a time like this?” She still felt shaky and weak. Surely Sarah couldn’t be up for it, strong as she sounded.
“Well, I say, Magster—we saved London. I do think we’re entitled to a few drinks and dancing.”
“I don’t know.…”
Walking over to Maggie and the telephone, Sarah said, “Here, give me that.” She took the receiver. “Right. What time? Yes, we’ll be there. With the proverbial bells on.”
She hung up the phone, and Maggie looked at her.
“I nearly died, love,” she said simply. “It’s time to live.”
The agents, whoever they were, had taken all of their not-too-vast wardrobes. Sitting in their room at the Savoy in her bathrobe, Maggie let Sarah style her hair in red ringlets and apply lipstick and powder.
Sarah burned a bobby pin over a candle to rub the black on Maggie’s lashes and smudged some iridescent aquamarine shadow from a carefully preserved tube over her eyelids. “So this is how you do things at the Sadler’s Wells?” Maggie asked.