He bit his lip. Fatigue. He’d said too much. But what the hell! It had provoked a spontaneous but sympathetic reaction. Joe decided to follow up his unexpected advantage. ‘Least I could do in the circumstances. You and me both – in the same boat. And if I’m scuppered, so are you. Your career and mine are hanging by a thread this morning. And, I’ll tell you, it’s the same thread. With gross unfairness I carry on as though nothing has happened … I offer you a new partner one moment only to have you discover the next that he is compromised. Professionally speaking, of course.’ He peered at her suspiciously, realizing that her composure was unusual. ‘Some girls would have been wailing at me by now … or weeping … Don’t you care?’
‘I’m still trying to absorb your news, sir. And its implications.’ She leaned towards him, fixing him with eyes which he could have sworn held a certain understanding and – at last – approval. ‘And of course I care. It would seem to me that a great injustice is about to be done. It’s not my place to say it, but – don’t go chucking in the towel. Surely there’s something you could do?’
He sighed and leaned back in his chair, looking away to glower moodily into the middle distance. And then, with the brittle firmness of a man who has just come uncertainly to a decision: ‘It seems to me we have three choices: we can combine our strengths – such as they are – to plot a rearguard action and go down fighting; we can accept our fate and hear each other rehearsing our farewell speeches in the taxi; or we can simply jump ship. Leave this mess behind us. Climb aboard the next boat train and be in the casino in Monte Carlo by tomorrow evening, glass of champagne in hand.’ Joe fell silent, caught out by a sudden heady vision of eyes full of mischief holding his over the rim of something chilled and fragrant. The champagne bubbling between them was Pol Roger 1911. The eyes were dark and deceitful, and after all these months they still had the power to ambush his thoughts.
He saw Lily’s very different eyes flare in surprise and fix at once on the notes in front of her. All three of his suggestions were alarming and ought never to have been uttered, fuelled as they were by a cocktail of exhaustion, tension and guilt, and triggered by the lethal touch of female sympathy. Always his Achilles heel. Joe sensed, too late, that he was losing control, teetering on the crest of an emotional wave and threatening to drag this innocent down with him. What must she have thought?
She seemed aware of the danger and, when he might have expected a hissing intake of breath and an offended drawing away of skirts at his desperate third suggestion, she replied calmly, ‘I don’t agree. There is a fourth. And I suspect it’s a course you’ve already decided on. We simply carry on doing our jobs for a bit longer. I’ve got a week to work out. That’s the routine. Not sure how long you have – it’s probably different for the upper ranks. I would suggest carrying on normally while awaiting further developments. See what the Home Secretary has to say and then think again.’
He nodded glumly, regretting his outburst and avoiding her eye.
‘And then, sir, when you know the worst, I’ll join you in whichever of the above schemes seems most attractive. With a preference for the last.’
He looked at her in sharp astonishment, scanning her face for signs of flirtation.
‘But may I substitute Nice as our destination? I hear it’s much more agreeable than Monte Carlo in high summer. And they have palm trees along the promenade. I’ve never seen a palm tree.’
Her manner, relaxed and completely un-coquettish, let him off the hook. There was no hint in her tone that she had interpreted his suggestions as in any way salacious. The potential dynamite of his careless third proposition had, in a cool way, been acknowledged and playfully rendered harmless. Joe responded with a surprised stare and a cough, and was back in control again. ‘Point taken, constable. Nice it is, then. We’ll agree on that much. Though perhaps we shouldn’t dismiss Biarritz too readily … Now, finish up those biscuits. You won’t be getting any lunch today. I’m going to leave you here to absorb that lot while I dash to my rooms and change and then set out for Jermyn Street for a shave. There’s a man at Trumper’s who can make a down-and-out look like Douglas Fairbanks in ten minutes flat. He may well be able to work his magic for me. Can’t be seen going about London looking like a ruffian. To think that today of all days I chose to wear a slouch hat!’
He grabbed a black felt hat from the hat stand and put it on, pulling it down exaggeratedly low over his forehead and leering. ‘There! What do you think? Shall I be taken for a Bolshevist, do you suppose?’