by Anna Reader
“Only there’s a bottle of bubbly behind this tree, which I hoped you might share with me.” Not waiting for a response, he retrieved the Bollinger, pulled two champagne flutes from his hat, and filled them both to the brim.
“I don’t remember you being quite this charming,” Purdie observed, dimpling slightly as she raised the glass to her lips.
“I won’t hold that against you,” Peter replied, helping her across to a nearby bench which had been decorated artfully with forget-me-knots.
The pair stopped talking for a moment, each of them gazing up at the stars and taking the occasional sip from their glass. The strains of “Tea for Two” wafted towards them from the party, and Purdie unconsciously started to tap her foot in time to the irresistible melody.
“How have you been?” she asked after a while. “Still hunting criminals in our illustrious capital?”
“As a matter of fact, I no longer work for Scotland Yard,” he replied, reaching for the bottle and topping up their flutes. “I packed it in shortly after that day in Surrey.”
“You surprise me,” Purdie said, entirely genuine. “I thought nobbling villains was your raison d’etre.”
“And so it is,” he replied as he watched the bubbles swim to the top of his glass. “I’m simply focussing on a different class of villain. More international. And rather more confidential, as it happens.”
Purdie crossed her arms, leant back into the bench and stared at Peter. “I see,” she said, although of course she didn’t, not entirely. She assumed he meant he was a spy of some sort, but that seemed rather far-fetched. She wasn’t living in a novel, after all.
“I looked for you, you know,” he continued. “I came to see you the day after your father disappeared, and your mother told me that you’d gone travelling. Wouldn’t say where.”
Purdie felt a tingle of remorse. If she hadn’t been quite so cut up about her father’s ‘exit pursued by a bear’, she would dearly have loved to let Peter know where she was heading. And besides, she’d reasoned that there were some things one ought to do alone – she’d needed to get acquainted with her sadness, and certainly didn’t want to be the sort of girl who relied on a chap to mend her broken heart: that was what twins, Pongos, and foreign adventures were for. She had toyed with the idea of wiring him from time to time – to thank him for helping to orchestrate the perfect familial denouement, or to invite him for an Argentinian ramble. However, she’d never quite been able to find the right words, and in the end thought it best to leave it be until she was back in Blighty. And now here he was, having materialised in white tie.
“No,” she replied after a pause. “I’m afraid I needed to disappear for a while. Besides,” she added with a mischievous smile, “if you are indeed working for His Majesty’s Government, it shouldn’t have been too difficult for you to track me down.”
“Oh, it wasn’t,” he replied with a grin. “However, I thought it best to leave you be. One doesn’t want to appear too keen. And I certainly didn’t want to compromise Sister Mechtilde’s cover.”
Purdie’s mouth formed a silent ‘o’ – she was, perhaps for the first time in her life, entirely lost for words.
“I’m afraid my patience is quite exhausted now, however,” Peter said, suddenly getting to his feet and offering Purdie his hand. “I’ve been longing to do this for months.”
This was no time to explore the apparent duplicity of Carmelite nuns. Purdie took Peter’s hand and let him draw her slowly towards him. His head dipped; Purdie’s heart stopped; and a shriek of laughter rent the air.
“No, Blotto,” Pongo declared as she skipped along the garden path towards them. “I most certainly do not want to slope off for an ale. And I think it’s terribly ungallant of you to ask, what with Purdie gone AWOL, and the band playing my favourite tune… Purdie! Dashwood!”
“Hallo, Pongo,” Peter sighed, releasing Purdie with lips still decidedly un-kissed. “Topping to see you, as always.”
“I say, old girl,” Blotto said, shooting Peter a look of apology, “I do believe we’re de trop.”
“Not at all,” Peter replied with impeccable good manners. “Champagne?”
Pongo held out her empty glass instinctively, whilst offering some mute, astonishingly mobile facial expressions to her chum.
“Peter, this is Archibald Blotham,” Purdie said, ignoring Pongo’s silent interrogation and stepping into the breach. “Blotto, Peter Dashwood.”
“A pleasure,” Peter said, topping up Blotto’s glass.
“I say, old man, this is terribly good of you,” Blotto said with a good-natured smile. “We didn’t mean to come stampeding through your tryst.”
“Nothing of the sort,” Purdie responded, lying through her teeth. “I had something in my eye and Peter was helping me, that’s all.”
Pongo snorted, sending tiny bubbles of Bollinger into her nasal cavity in the most unfortunate way.
“Nonsense,” Peter interjected cheerfully, having had quite enough of masking his intentions. “We were undoubtedly on the cusp of a passionate embrace. Your timing really couldn’t have been any worse.”
Purdie giggled, Pongo’s eyes boggled, and Pongo’s escort slapped Peter on the back. “Splendid, splendid!” Blotto cried, delighted by the idea of young love blooming in the gloaming. “Before you crack on, however, I wonder if I could tempt you across the road to the Star and Tankard? There’s an excellent looking local ale on which I’d sorely like to try. One can only drink so much champers before going utterly nose over brogues, in my experience. Much better to punctuate the evening with the odd jar of amber nectar.”
“What an excellent idea,” Peter replied, adding a loaded, “We’ll see you there in a jiffy.”
“Got you,” Blotto said with a broad wink. “Come on Pongo, the first round is on you.”
Pongo rolled her eyes, kissed Purdie on the cheek and followed her beau back down the garden path. Which meant, of course, that Purdie and Peter were alone once again.
“What was that you were saying, Dashwood?” Purdie asked, her blue eyes twinkling in the starlight, “About passionate…”
Before she could finish her sentence, Purdie found herself pressed against Peter’s chest, being kissed in the most gratifyingly enthusiastic way. As first kisses go, this was a corker – the lip-locking equivalent of a Petrarchan sonnet; the first Pimm’s of the summer; bowling the other side’s best batsman for a duck…. Really, top notch.
“Can you make a decent gin and tonic?” Purdie demanded, once they’d drawn away from one another.
“Naturally,” Peter replied, by now wholly unsurprised by this peculiar train of thought. “It was one of the first things my mother taught me. That, and poker.”
Purdie sighed contentedly, and looked up at the glittering night sky. What a splendid world it was, after all.