Mr.Churchill's Secretary(102)

“Ha!” Sarah laughed. “If you were going onstage you’d need at least three more inches of pancake, scarlet cheeks, and false eyelashes. I’m going for something a little more natural for you.”

She’d done her own face already, and her shining black hair fell in perfect finger waves to her shoulders. She wore a black-silk confection with red-satin roses on the shoulders, very Spanish and seductive.

Then she took a look in the closet. “Hmmm, I think this should do nicely,” she said, pulling out a long dress of white silk and holding it against Maggie.

The dress, while exquisite, was low in front and even lower in the back. Cut on the bias, it would skim the body so closely as to leave very little to the imagination.

“Um, I don’t think so,” Maggie stammered, pulling her tattered flannel robe around her. There was having a glamorous evening, but there was also such a thing as modesty.

“I know it’s very spring ’thirty-eight, but really, it’s not as though anyone else—”

“No, no, no! It’s not outdated—it’s gorgeous—but, um, don’t you think it’ll be a little long? And tight?”

“Oh, darling, this one was always a little too short on me. And there’s plenty of room through the hips. Now, shake a leg, we only have a few minutes.”

Maggie hesitated. Hips? she thought, about to lodge a retort. Then she remembered that Sarah had almost died—and thought the better of it.

“ ‘Beauty for duty,’ Maggie, remember?” Sarah said. “Are you going to shirk?” she demanded, holding out a pair of silver high-heeled evening slippers.

They were going to be too small, Maggie could tell, but she jammed her feet in nonetheless. If she was going to do this, she was going to do it right. “No, indeed.”

“Well, then, get dressed!”

Later, looking at her reflection, Maggie wasn’t displeased. The dress was gorgeous—the gleaming fabric was heavy and cool to the touch. A sea-green wrap covered her bandaged arm nicely. There were circles under her eyes, to be sure, but she was young, and they weren’t that dark. She was perhaps a bit thinner than she’d been a few months ago, but it wasn’t that obvious. There were no sudden lines or wrinkles, no wiry white hairs.

And yet she felt different. She was not the same person she was before.

Suddenly she stuck her tongue out at her reflection in the mirror and picked up her beaded handbag, ready to go downstairs.

Maggie and Sarah walked through the oak-paneled lobby with its urns of fresh roses and scent of floor polish to the American Bar, a clubby little hideaway in the Savoy in the same flat, geometric, elegant deco style as the lobby. Only the fire extinguishers and signs pointing to the nearest air-raid shelters indicated that there was a war on.

Photographs of Hollywood stars—Bette Davis, Greta Garbo, Marlene Dietrich, Errol Flynn, and Clark Gable—looked down from the walls. The room was hazy with smoke; the tinkle of Gershwin on the piano competed with the low murmur of conversation, mostly from men with gray hair accompanied by young women. Who were not their daughters, Maggie noted.

Frain was already there, at a side table a little removed, with a good view of the room. He immediately stood and pulled out a burgundy velvet-covered chair for Sarah and then for Maggie. “Are you feeling better now?” he asked. “Not that you have to feel better, of course. But sometimes a hot bath and some sleep can work wonders.”

“Yes, indeed,” Maggie said. Everything still felt a bit surreal and as though it were moving too fast. She was glad Sarah was there beside her.

A tall and slender waiter appeared at their table. “What may I get for you?” he asked, putting down a gleaming silver bowl of salted almonds.

“I believe I owe you a martini, Miss Hope.” He turned to Maggie. “Would that suit?”

Would it? “Of course.”

“Miss Sanderson?”

“Same, thanks,” she said.

“Three martinis, dry, straight up,” Frain replied.

Apparently, rationing doesn’t exist here, Maggie thought. When the waiter left, she said, “And call me Maggie, please.”

“Then you must call me Peter, both of you. After all, we’ve been through quite the ordeal together.”

The waiter returned silently with the drinks. Drops of water beaded on the glasses.

“An understatement … Peter,” Sarah said as they clinked glasses. They sipped their drinks. The martinis were cold and medicinal.

“Miss Sanderson,” Frain said, “if you don’t mind … I have something I’d like to speak to … Maggie about.”

“Of course. Excuse me, won’t you?” Sarah asked, rising to her feet. “I need to powder my nose.”