Mr.Churchill's Secretary(11)

“If we don’t survive, there’s no hope,” Simon rejoined. “As Lord Halifax was quick to point out.”

David colored. “I doubt a ‘poor peace,’ as you say, would ever come to pass,” he said. “As the Boss once said about Hitler annexing Austria, ‘After a boa constrictor has devoured its prey, it often has a considerable digestive spell’—that is, before attacking again. What do you think a ‘poor peace’ would ultimately bring?”

“That’s why we need to act now,” Simon said. “Play the Italian card.”

“The ‘Italian card’?” Paige asked.

“Some people,” John said, giving Simon a pointed look, “believe that Hitler listens to Mussolini. And if we give him some of our Mediterranean territories, he’ll have a little chat with Herr Hitler. Convince him not to invade.”

“Otherwise,” Simon said, “we’re going to end up fighting them both.”

The table was momentarily silent, a chill falling over them.

Maggie looked at Simon. “Do you actually think that Hitler and the King could really someday sit down to tea and crumpets together? Really? Because I don’t. Maybe it’s because I’m an outsider, but surely you know this war is about more than that.”

“Really, darling?” Simon said with a smirk.

Maggie caught his sarcastic tone but was undeterred. “It’s, it’s—” She flung her arms wide, encompassing the dance floor, the park, the city, the country itself. “It’s … this. Your island. Your England. What makes you different. And if you can’t see that, well, then maybe you don’t deserve the”—she fought for the word—“privilege of being English.”

She took a breath. “Yes, things need to change in England. It’s not an empire anymore, and the days of colonialism are over. It’s time for there to be more opportunities for the poor and working class—and women, of course,” she said, giving a hard look to John and David. “But the point’s moot if England’s invaded by Nazis.”

It had been a long day and Maggie grabbed Paige’s wrist. “We’re going to freshen up,” she snapped, leading a surprised Paige away to the ladies’ room.

As the girls left, David gave a soft whistle. “Not bad—for a Yankee. If we could get a few more like her, we might actually win this thing.”

The lounge area of the ladies’ toilet was papered with a silver art deco print that glowed pink in the soft rosy lights that circled the mirrors. Paige took a look at her reflection, smiled, and pulled out a tube of lipstick. “So,” she cooed, painting a crimson bow on her lips. “Feel better now that you’ve got that out of your system?”

A blowsy woman in a low-cut dress left, and Maggie leaned against the marble counter. The ornate gold-framed mirror showed both girls, the same middle height and slight build, one redheaded and one blond.

“It’s just … the waiting, the stress, the talk of invasion. That bastard Dicky Snot-ass. And then that man, that Simon …”

“He’s not that bad, really,” Paige said. “I think he’s just trying to play devil’s advocate. Personally, I think he’s rather handsome.”

“I noticed,” Maggie said. “Simon was acting very … friendly with you.”

“Simon’s such a flirt!” Paige blotted her lips with a tissue. “Want to borrow? Go on, just a little bit. It’ll look so nice with your hair.” Even at Wellesley, Paige had always been generous with her things, lending out lipsticks and Worth satin ball gowns indiscriminately. Maggie smoothed some on.

“Ta-da!” Paige said, spinning around, her shining blond hair floating around her like a halo. “And David’s not an option, of course,” she said, considering, “being Very Very Safe in Taxis, Probably Queer, but—have you ever considered John? You’ll be working together in”—she gave Maggie a significant look—“close proximity now.”

Maggie had a sudden image of John, trim in his dark suit and tie, his expression wry, a stray curl straggling across his forehead.

“He’s a dish, isn’t he?” Paige said, reaching down behind her and straightening the seams in her stockings. “Even with that dreadful hair.”

“No, no, thank you, Emma Woodhouse. I don’t need a matchmaker. And John and I got off on the wrong foot ages ago.” I have enough to worry about, Maggie thought, without—how did Mrs. Tinsley put it?—“mooning” over one of the private secretaries. And an annoying one, at that. “I’ve had enough of bad dates and taxi tigers,” Maggie said. “Besides, you’re the one who seems interested.”