by KJ Charles
Will groped for words. “You’re going to marry him!”
“Red tape,” Phoebe said. “We won’t have the part about forsaking all others in the vows.”
“Then why are you getting married?” Will demanded, before his brain could remind him that this was none of his business.
She didn’t answer for a few seconds, and when she spoke there was no humour at all in her tone. “That’s another story and, if you’ll forgive me, not one I want to tell you at the moment. Suffice to say I love Kim dearly, but ‘love’ means an awful lot of things. I think more people should understand that.”
Will had no idea what to say. Phoebe gave him an elegant little shrug. “Conventions are ghastly and bourgeois, and life can be so much better when one discards them, but there’s also the risk that things get awfully tangled, especially if one’s dealing with people who haven’t discarded them. Being at the vanguard of social upheaval is dreadfully confusing sometimes. Vanguard is the front, isn’t it? It always sounds like the back to me, like the guard’s carriage on a train. Anyway, I think it’s far better if we all talk to each other, and then everyone can decide what they want and how to go about it without getting tied up in knots about things that might not matter at all. So now you know that Kim and I assert no claim over one another, which means you aren’t a...a claim-jumper. Oh, that’s good, isn’t it? Like in the Westerns. I must tell him that.”
“Does he know you’re discussing this with me?” Will asked faintly.
“Good God, no.” Phoebe smiled at the waiter as he removed their barely touched plates, and took out her cigarette case and holder. “Do you mind? Sure?”
Will shook his head and watched her light up. He wished he wanted to smoke, and had a fairly powerful urge to knock back his entire glass of wine in one, come to that.
What she was saying seemed clear enough. Startling, because he hadn’t expected a noble young lady to have quite such a louche approach to relationships, but there you go, that was Bright Young People for you. Maisie had said she was no better than she should be. Define ‘better’, Will thought.
But she was labouring under a misapprehension. She clearly had no idea what Kim had done, if she even knew what he did, and in conscience Will ought to tell her that her blessing wasn’t required because the only thing he planned to do to Kim in the future was kick him downstairs.
“Does he know you’re here?” he said instead.
Phoebe blew out a stream of smoke, angling it away from Will’s face. “Do you think he should? Or are you worried I’m lying? No, I didn’t tell him I was going to do this. It seemed clear that you were worried about claim-jumping; I thought that would be a shame; I’ve told you there’s no such thing; now you can do as you please. I don’t know why men make everything so complicated.”
“Kim didn’t mention anything about your, uh, arrangement.”
“Ask him why not,” Phoebe suggested. “And that’s quite enough of serious things. You and I have come here to enjoy a delicious lunch—I’m sure it will be delicious when we concentrate on the food—so let’s enjoy ourselves and talk about something else. Yes?”
Will searched her face. She smiled at him, merry-eyed. “What, darling?”
“I think you’re rather lovely,” he said, startling himself.
“I know I am,” Phoebe assured him. “But it’s always nice to be told so.”
It was remarkably easy to talk to her, Will found, Honourable or not. He wouldn’t have imagined he’d be able to spend an hour chatting with an upper-class woman at all, infinitely less one who knew that he’d fucked her fiancé. He should have shrivelled up like a salted slug with shame, and the fact that he didn’t was entirely down to his companion.
It was impossible to be embarrassed in the company of someone who so evidently didn’t feel he’d done anything wrong, and who was so open-heartedly pleased to be talking to him. Phoebe had an endless supply of chatter but somehow Will also talked far more than he’d expected to. Perhaps it was because she was cheerfully ready to fill in the gaps while he gathered his thoughts; more likely it was that she seemed to find everything interesting. By the time they were sipping appallingly strong and tiny cups of coffee, Will had explained how the new football pools worked, and learned about the manufacture and utility of artificial silk stockings. They’d discussed the likelihood of any women being returned to Parliament at the forthcoming election, and were well into what one might put in one’s sealed tomb if one were an Egyptian pharaoh. Will was strongly in favour of cursing his tomb to safeguard his riches. Phoebe gurgled with laughter and pointed out it was only fair to share, especially if one were dead.
She smiled at the waiter as he came with the bill, then raised her brows comically at Will. “Now, do listen, darling. We’re friends, and you haven’t got your lovely legal thingie yet. Like healthy food, which of course is right because one can hardly live without money, can one?”
“Probate,” Will said confidently. He was getting the hang of this.
“Exactly. So suppose you let me pay for this meal as a what-do-you-call it against probate—I’m sure there’s a way lawyers would say it, so imagine I did—and then you take me somewhere absolutely marvellous once your affairs are in order?”
It was as well phrased to soothe male pride as it could possibly be, but Will had that ten-pound note, so he shook his head. “That’s very thoughtful of you but I wouldn’t dream of it. No, really. And, Phoebe, listen.” He wasn’t sure how to say this, and knew very well he should have corrected the misapprehension before, but the truth was he’d been enjoying his escape from reality far too much and this was going to throw a bucket of cold water over everything. “What you said earlier. About, um, claim-jumping. It was a very kind thing for you to say but it’s not, uh, relevant.”
Phoebe gazed at him steadily. Will felt himself redden. He didn’t want to lie to her, even by implication, but he had no desire at all to go into detail either. Perhaps he was bourgeois and conventional, but in his world encounters between men were a secretive thing, not a subject for lunchtime conversation. He ploughed on. “I’ve fallen out with Kim very badly, and that’s entirely down to something he did—a work matter. He didn’t behave well. I don’t imagine I’ll encounter him again and to be honest, I don’t want to.”
Phoebe considered him for another moment, then her face crumpled quite suddenly, like a child’s. “Oh, no. Really? But Will—oh, ugh. Did he do something awful? You needn’t worry about hurting my feelings.”
“He did, yes.” Will took an odd relief in saying the words out loud. “Really awful.”
“He would,” she said viciously. “Honestly, he’d be his own worst enemy if he wasn’t so busy making other people be that for him. It’s too maddening. I am sorry, Will. I shan’t argue, or give you a list of his good qualities, because that’s irrelevant when someone’s been dreadful even if it’s true and it sounds very much the sort of thing women say about men who hit them, doesn’t it? ‘Oh, he’s not like that really, you don’t understand.’ Well, he is. I love him, but he is.” She took a long, soothing drag on her post-prandial cigarette. “I’m terribly disappointed. He doesn’t make friends lightly, and he liked you very much.”
“I don’t think he can have, in the circumstances.”
“I know him better than you do.” There was the tiniest flash of steel in her voice there, glinting like the blue streak of a jay’s wing as it flew. “Which is why I came trampling in on this, when clearly I should have left bad alone. No wonder you were startled.”
“I should have told you right away,” Will said. “Sorry. I was enjoying our lunch too much.”
Phoebe gave him a sudden, brilliant smile. “Oh, well, that’s something, isn’t it? And I’ve had a wonderful time too, so we shall be friends and never mind Kim. Thank you, darling. I shall make you take me to lunch again.”
If he’d absolutely had to blunder into the minefield of the unconventional upper classes, Will wished to hell he’
d met Phoebe first. She was lovely and vibrant and fun and, unlike Kim, not a treacherous shit who used you with cold, deliberate intent. Will had no illusions that he’d have stood a chance with an Honourable, of course, even a Bohemian one, but she’d have let him take her dancing, he was sure, which would have been a lot more fun than the prospect of the dock. If he hadn’t already bedded her fiancé, he’d have chanced his arm and suggested dancing now.
And if he didn’t have the War Office and a criminal gang to think about when he left this charmed interlude, of course.
“Lunch would be marvellous,” he said, and gave her the best smile he could.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Will woke up the next morning feeling very worried indeed. Libra would be coming today to offer him money for the secret. Will would refuse—he had to, if he believed a tenth of what Kim had told him—but then what?
He’d say he’d burned the pages. He had no other choice. If he claimed he’d given them to the War Office Zodiac would find out quick enough that he was lying, what with having a spy in their department. He wished he found that harder to believe.
Libra arrived at four o’clock that afternoon with a Gladstone bag. Will didn’t even want to know what he had in it. There was nobody else in the shop, so he stood behind the desk, knife once again in an open drawer, close to hand.
“All right, Mr. Darling. I think you’ll find we’ve been more than generous,” Libra said. “I can offer you two thousand pounds—”
“How much?!”
“Two thousand. One thousand now, the other to be paid into your bank the moment you hand over the information.”
Will remembered to breathe. “That is extremely generous. But I’m afraid I’ve changed my mind.”
Libra looked at him levelly. “I advise you to change it back.”
“I can’t,” Will said. “I burned the information. The War Office told me what it was about and I didn’t think they or anyone else should have it, so I burned it. I’m sorry for your wasted trip.”
Libra’s face didn’t change except the colour. He was going decidedly red. “I don’t believe you.”
“I can’t help that. It’s gone.”
“I hope for your sake you’re lying.” He took a step forward. “You owe us that information. You will deliver it or face the consequences.”
“I owe you nothing.”
“You made a deal. Don’t try to back out of it.”
“The paper’s burned, and don’t ask me to remember what it said, because I didn’t understand a word. It’s over. You won’t have it, and nor will the War Office, so nobody loses. Or maybe you both lose, I don’t care. You can all find someone else to bully.”
“It doesn’t work like that,” Libra said. “You made a serious mistake when you refused to hand over our property the first time, and you’re making it a great deal worse now. Give me the information now, and I’ll give you the contents of this bag. Defy me once more and you’ll soon be begging me to take it.”
“Go to hell. I told you not to threaten me. You’ll have nothing from me now or ever, so get out of it. And if you come any closer, I’ll carve you like a Christmas goose,” he added, as Libra began to move.
Libra glanced down at the Messer in Will’s hand and seemed to decide that discretion was the better part of valour. “You’re a fool,” he said, voice not quite level. “That was your last chance and you’ll regret wasting it.”
“Oh, sod off.”
Will let out a long breath as Libra left. That had gone badly, but at least it was over for now. He wondered if Zodiac might believe him, and if they would bother with revenge. Maybe they’d just write the whole thing off and move on. It would be nice, he thought, and didn’t believe it for a second.
THE NEXT DAY WAS A Sunday. Will had gone to the pictures with Maisie of a Sunday a few times in the past months, and absently wondered if she might accompany him before remembering she was visiting her auntie, not to mention that he shouldn’t endanger her by being seen in her company. Damn it. He’d have liked to be with someone today. He felt oddly isolated from the city’s bustle around him: a marked man, targeted, cut away from the herd.
He briefly imagined inviting Phoebe to the cinema, which she’d probably pronounce ‘kinema’. He could find the Stephens-Prince household in Grosvenor Square, saunter up what were doubtless polished marble steps, ask the butler if she was in. That was laughably improbable, but all the same he’d bet she’d come if he asked her, and laugh and squeal at the screen with as much glee as any shopgirl.
He didn’t want to think about going to the pictures with Kim because that was plausible, which made it painful. He meant the false Kim, of course, the one he’d spent a night and day with, and liked, and thought he knew. He could have imagined going to see a Western or a mystery with that man. Sitting together to laugh and gasp, maybe a hand sliding up his leg in the dark of the cinema. Certainly a drink at the pub afterwards, before the night really began...
But that man didn’t exist, so he wasn’t going to the bloody pictures with Will, was he?
He had a powerful urge to go alone. Lose himself in an adventure story, forget about the chaos he’d fallen into. And why not? Someone could break into the shop in his absence with his goodwill, since the information wasn’t there, and if they wanted to set fire to the bloody place as vengeance, it was insured. He might as well enjoy himself while he could.
That was what he did. He shaved, slicked back his hair, made sure the bright silk flower was firmly fixed in his buttonhole to gussy up his appearance, and stepped out. He sauntered round Trafalgar Square like any day-tripper, and dropped in to St. Martin’s-in-the-Fields to listen to the singing—he wasn’t a religious man but church music was a comforting reminder of home. He treated himself to a fine lunch, and then watched Smilin’ Through, the latest Norma Talmadge picture, admiring her beauty and Harrison Ford’s good looks rather more than the plot. It was quite hard to follow the story with his mind jumping spasmodically back to his own predicament every now and then but he managed to lose himself in the tale for the last half-hour all the same.
This was playacting at a carefree existence, but he needed a breathing space without unwelcome anticipation crushing his chest. He needed some time not thinking about threats, or money, or mistakes he shouldn’t have made.
He saw another feature after Smilin’ Through ended, this one with the implausibly handsome Ivor Novello, had a bite to eat, and reluctantly returned to the bookshop around seven-thirty. Night had fallen, and May’s Buildings was very dark and unwelcoming. His heart thudded unpleasantly as he approached his door, and he checked over his shoulder three times as he put the key in the lock.
The key turned, so the lock hadn’t been forced in his absence. He flicked the switch and knew a moment’s relief when the lights came on, driving the shadows to the edge of the shop. He secured the door behind him and went up and down the stacks, then thoroughly checked the back room—under the bed, door and window—and even ascended to the upstairs rooms, before sitting on his bed and accepting that there was nobody in here.
He couldn’t live like this, waiting for attack. It was intolerable and, worse, unsustainable. You couldn’t stay at this pitch of alertness. Either he’d get used to it and then he’d be sloppy, or he wouldn’t and he’d exhaust himself jumping at shadows.
The electric light was yellowy-dim and it mostly made him conscious of how many dark corners the shop had. He didn’t want to be here alone in the silence of the books. He didn’t want to be alone at all.
Shouldn’t have been so bloody obstinate, should you?
He consigned the voice in his head to the devil, and leaned back against the wall, wondering what to do. If he’d had a telephone to hand, he might have been very tempted to call Kim. Now he thought of it, there was one of those new public telephone boxes on Charing Cross.
And if he ’phoned, what would he say?
He didn’t try to answer that. He sat alone in his empty b
ookshop for a while, with paper slowly turning to dust around him, watching spindle-legged harvestmen weave webs to replace the ones he’d swept away. Then he got up, and put his coat on.
There was no queue at the telephone box. He read the number off the card to the operator, who said, “One moment, please,” and waited for an answer. He’d just decided he should hang up when Kim came on the line.
“Secretan here.”
“It’s Will.” He didn’t know what else to say.
“Are you all right?” Kim asked sharply.
“Yes. Fine.”
A tiny pause. “Is someone there with you?”
“I’m not being forced at gunpoint to call you, if that’s what you mean.”
“Glad to hear it.” Another pause. “Is there something wrong? Can I help?”
“I—” He didn’t know what to say. “Nothing. It’s nothing.” He couldn’t think of what to say. He ought to hang up, except that the voice on the end of the telephone was a glimmer of light in a very dark place.
“Long day?” Kim asked.
“Bit of one.”
“Will you come over?”
Will stared at the wooden telephone mount. The varnish was already starting to crack and peel. “All right.”
HE TOOK THE TRAM, WATCHING huddled people out of the foggy window and the pools of yellow light from the lampposts grow and fade as they passed. There was a persistent drizzle in the air by the time he got out, not quite rain, leaving a film of droplets over his clothing and hat. He shook himself like a dog as he went into Kim’s building.
The doorman had clearly been given his name because he let Will go up with a nod. Will knocked on the door. Kim answered.
His rooms were warm, and well lit, with half a dozen lamps giving the place a domestic glow. He was wearing a velvet smoking jacket in a deep purple shade, and matching velvet slippers. Will stood in the sitting room, wet and cold and entirely out of place.