Jojo lets out a long, stretchy daaaaaaaamn. “Ho-lee shit,” she says, and turns the phone toward Katie. “The photo you sent me did not do him justice. If this is your Simon Bailey, well done. He’s super fucking hot, and the teacher bit is beyond charming.”
Katie stretches to see and can’t help but smile. On the school’s webpage, Simon is undeniably adorable with his slightly mussed hair and perfectly made tie. He has a certain awkwardness and, damn, the butterflies are back.
“Shagging hot schoolteachers,” Jojo says, and slips her phone back into her coat. “Nicely done.”
“I’m not shagging anyone!” Katie cries. “I’ve shagged three people in my life!”
As several people turn to see what kind of adult would openly admit to this, Jojo pretends to stumble backward in shock. “Three people?” she says, clutching her chest. “You probably don’t even know what good sex is.”
“Could that be true?” Katie says, and she is momentarily cheered by the thought of Armie being not that great in bed.
“This is an incredibly dire situation,” Jojo says. “Before you go back to the States, you must get that number up to four. You’re running out of time.”
“I am running out of time,” Katie agrees. “But the manuscript is what I’m worried about. I’m afraid we’re not going to find it—or anything—before I leave.”
Jojo wrinkles her nose. “What else are you looking for?” she asks.
“Lots of things,” Katie says. “I told you I’m positive Nancy Mitford started the autobiography?”
“About Simon’s grandmother,” Jojo says, and Katie nods.
“We’ve seen a few pages, but this just raises more questions,” she says. “Why did Nancy write about Lea and Emma, and how far did she get? If she never finished, why did she stop? If she did finish, why didn’t she publish it?”
“That is a lot,” Jojo notes.
Never mind the missing book, there are a half dozen other strings that still feel loose. The only thing Katie knows for sure is that whatever she was hoping to accomplish in London, she hasn’t come close.
“This is an easy problem to fix,” Jojo says, and again fishes out her phone. “You will stay another week.”
“Jojo! Stop!” Katie grabs her hand. “You can’t! You’ve already done too much, and I have to go home, eventually. I can’t hide out in a bookshop for the rest of my life.”
“Who said anything about the rest of your life? Just another week or two.”
“I can’t,” Katie says again. “I have stuff to do.” When Jojo throws on a skeptical face, Katie adds, “There’s a lunch, next Friday, with an old friend.”
“Oh, sure. A lunch.”
“It’s true,” Katie says.
Last night, after checking her bank balance, Katie emailed a former colleague from the Holocaust Museum about potential job openings, and he responded within the hour. One person is on maternity leave, and another quit, and they could really use her help.
“You can’t reschedule this mysterious lunch?” Jojo says.
Katie shakes her head. “I’m afraid that, if I do, it’ll never happen.” She’s also afraid Jojo will talk her out of it.
“Didn’t know you were so into your meals,” Jojo says. “How about Wednesday? This should give you enough time for a proper shag, as well as your all-too-important lunch.”
“I guess that could work?” Katie’s voice sounds as unsteady as she feels. “Though I’m more interested in finding this manuscript than getting in a ‘proper shag.’”
“You’re boring,” Jojo says.
“You have to let me pay you back,” Katie says. “For change fees, at least.”
“Nah, I should pay you for all the time you’ve spent with Clive. Listen, I need to pop into Marchesi,” Jojo says, and nods toward a building across the street, a pink-fronted bakery with a window display that resembles some kind of Parisian winter fantasy. “Do you want to come with, or wait here?”
“I’ll wait,” Katie says, and sits on the edge of the pool.
As Jojo scampers across the road, Katie checks her phone and sees her updated itinerary, along with several texts from Armie—all pictures of Millie, who looks by turns fretful or passed out asleep.
Thanks for sending! Katie types. I’ve extended my trip so can she stay until Wed.? She pauses, letting her hands and the phone fall into her lap. The conversation with Jojo left Katie feeling not guilty, exactly, but stung on Armie’s behalf. Hope everything is going well, she writes. With you. And the new girl. Not for all the money in the world could Katie remember her name. Sorry if I made things more difficult, she continues. I wasn’t the most gracious there, at the end. We had some good years, my forever friend, and even the shit I can’t imagine going through with anyone else. OK, bye!
Heart in her throat, Katie turns off her phone. She exhales, feeling both slightly better and slightly worse for having said these things.
November 1942
G. Heywood Hill Ltd.
The group trekked along Curzon Street, in the blackout dark, the only light from the occasional opening and closing of a door, or the burst of an electric torch.
It was past ten o’clock and, ordinarily, Nancy would’ve fallen off her perch by now, but they were buzzy from the morning’s news about the Allied invasion of Algeria. Already a person had to reserve a table at most restaurants and cafés two days in advance, but tonight lines were out the door. It didn’t help that there were five of them: Nancy, Hellbags, Jim, Cecil Beaton, and Lord Berners.
“I think Johnny got to them,” Helen groused. “I think he’s gotten to every maître d’ and concierge in London and told them not to let me in.”
“It’s merely crowded,” Jim said. “Johnny would never exert that much effort on your behalf.”
“We could go to the shop,” Nancy offered. The Colonel was working late, and she should get some writing done, but how often did Anglo-American troops land in French North Africa? “I have some red wine in the booksellers’ room,” she added, and the idea built some steam. “Perhaps a sleeve or two of biscuits.”
Cecil and Hellbags thought it sounded like a perfect idea, and Jim protested, but for what reason, nobody bothered to catch. “Excellent,” Lord Berners said without lifting his gaze. Even in a blackout, he tried to avoid every crack in the pavement. “A unanimous vote.”
Nancy unlocked the shop and her friends filtered in, gathering in their usual spot beside the fireplace. She scampered downstairs to fetch the wine and whatever nibbles she could scare up.
“Who should we eviscerate first?” Lord Berners asked as wine was passed around.
Nancy lit two oil lamps and sat down. “Let’s get to that later,” she said. “I want to hear about Cecil’s latest assignment. Some of us fancy ourselves writers, but his stories are the best.” The beautiful, blond-haired, thick-lashed photographer had spent last year photographing the Royal Air Force and his resultant book, Winged Squadrons, had come out a few months before, to huge accolades, and huger sales. Recently, he’d returned to London, to take portraits of the Royal Family and the Roosevelts. “Give us the news,” Nancy said. “We want to hear it all.”
“To start, Missus Roosevelt is enormous,” Cecil revealed. “She’s elephant-colored and beyond life-sized. Her eyes never focus anywhere. The woman has no repose.”
As always, Cecil adored the Queen but found the King lacking in magic. Princess Elizabeth was, in his estimation, a charming and well-raised girl.
“I’m bored of the Royal Family,” Lord Berners said. “Let’s discuss books. Has anyone read Grand Canyon? Since Eddy’s not here, we can argue its merits without him threatening an overdose.” Eddy’s cousin, Vita Sackville-West, had just published her first novel in eight years—a dystopian story set in an Arizona resort hotel. “Where is the boy, anyhow?” Berners asked.
“
He ate something that didn’t agree with him,” Jim said. “So he’s prescribed himself a week of sitting beneath an ultraviolet lamp.”
“Back to Grand Canyon,” Lord Berners said. He looked at Nancy. “Wasn’t it a Book Society recommendation?”
She nodded. “I’d never recommend it to customers, though. We’re a stitch too in the middle of things to comfortably picture a world in which Germany has defeated us.”
“It’s meant to be a cautionary tale,” Jim said. “As in, don’t sign peace with a Germany that hasn’t been brought to its knees. Don’t try to find common ground.”
“Either way, I’ve had my fill of worst-case scenarios,” Nancy said.
“Ohhhh!” Hellbags crowed, stretching, and reaching around Cecil. “The latest Angela Thirkell! Nancy, you little monster! You told me you were out!” She gazed upon the novel with the sort of moony reverence customarily reserved for her Americans. “The woman puts out something new every year. I admire her so much!”
“Angela calls it the ‘new wine in an old bottle’ trick,” Nancy said.
“I like wine any manner in which I can get it,” Hellbags said with a snicker. “And this varietal works for me. I’m swiping this copy. You can put it on my account.”
“Nancy, you seem irritated,” Jim said. “Do you take issue with Angela Thirkell?”
“No!” she snapped. “Not at all. In fact, we have a number of things in common. Recently, she told the Observer how peaceful it is with no husbands around, and I heartily agree. Of course, that’s the trick to putting out a book every twelve months.”
“Hasn’t it been a while since you’ve heard from Peter?” Lord Berners said, and Nancy shot him a look.
“Over a year,” Helen clarified. When she noticed Nancy’s glare had shifted to her, she shrugged and bit into a biscuit.
“I don’t care for Thirkell’s style,” Nancy said.
“Yes. Excellent,” Lord Berners said. “This is precisely the cattiness I was hoping for.”
“Just because Evelyn’s not here doesn’t mean you should make it seem like he is,” Nancy said. “As I was saying, though I don’t care for Angela’s work, we have the same publisher. The more Hamish Hamilton makes, the more he can pay for my books, and thus I wish her all the luck that’s ever existed on this earth.”
Not that Hamish had agreed to buy anything, and he wasn’t altogether sold on the idea of a memoir. When Nancy told him about it last week, he suggested she return to fiction, using Angela Thirkell as a model.
“Why, because we’re both women?” Nancy had seethed. “You sound like my father.”
“You share a similar sensibility,” Hamish explained. “A satirical exuberance, and a comedy-of-manners style.”
“Are you aware that Thirkell considers her books so lowbrow she tells friends and family not to read them?” Nancy said.
“At least someone’s buying them” was Hamish’s uncharitable response. Nancy figured he’d change his mind, once the book was finished.
“You had a meeting with Hamish Hamilton?” Lord Berners said. “Is something new in the works? I hope so. This war is going to end—”
“Is it?” Jim chirped.
“You have to strike while the iron’s hot.”
“Yes, what are you writing, Nancy?” Cecil said. “When will we see another of your brilliant books on these shelves?”
“Don’t ask,” said Jim.
Nancy thwacked him in the leg with the back of her hand. “I am working on an autobiography,” she said. “And it’s coming along nicely, thank you for asking.”
“It’s coming along?” Jim furrowed his brow. “How? It seems you spend all your free time working, or bedding that Frog.”
“You let me worry about my own schedule.”
“Evelyn told me the few pages he’s read are not up to snuff,” Jim said.
“That’s where the editing comes in,” Nancy said, and Cecil nodded to show he was on her side.
“Once again,” Hellbags said, “I’d like to remind everyone that Evelyn Waugh is not the final authority on anything, other than how to be a lousy drunk.”
“Too true,” Nancy said with a sigh. “Evelyn aside—”
“The best place for him to be,” Helen said.
“The plan is thirty thousand words by Christmas,” Nancy said.
She wasn’t anywhere close, but thirty thousand felt doable, like a meaningful but not insurmountable bar. Nancy had sent some chapters to Weston Manor, but Lea was no more receptive to her efforts than Evelyn had been.
“What is it you want from the girl?” Danette had asked. “Approval? Assistance? More grist for the mill?”
Nancy didn’t know, other than there was something about Lea. Maybe it was her odd silence, her secretive nature, or the fact she seemed to act in direct opposition to common sense. Whichever the case, Nancy had a notion that there was a larger story to be told, and Lea held a key part of it. Plus, the book was about the Battle of London, and the trauma inflicted upon those who stayed. Nancy could speak to her own experiences, but Lea was the only displaced person with whom she still had contact.
“Whenever it comes out,” Cecil said, and sipped his wine, “I’ll be the first in line to read it. This wine is superb!” He held up his glass, trying to catch the small flecks of light. “You must’ve gotten it from a Frenchman. They’re the only ones who have anything decent these days. I wouldn’t have taken Captain Roy for a cultured type.”
“Wrong Frog,” Lord Berners said.
“Haven’t you heard?” Hellbags said, rubbing her hands together fiendishly. “Our girl Nancy is head over heels with a Free French colonel!”
“Oh, please!” Nancy batted the air. “It’s not as serious as all that!”
Nancy couldn’t yet claim to love Gaston Palewski, but their relationship was more than a fling. Eight weeks had passed since they met at the Allies’ Club, eight weeks minus one day since he came for supper, and stayed the night, and almost every night since. The Colonel’s official residence was at Eaton Terrace, in a house owned by a friend of Nancy’s, but mostly he slept at Blomfield Road.
They’d developed the kind of routine that felt almost like a relationship. Each evening, Gaston went from his office at Carlton Gardens directly to Nancy’s house, always arriving via taxi, and announcing himself by humming a Kurt Weill tune as he sauntered down the road. In the mornings, he rose at seven o’clock, returned to Eaton Terrace to change, and rang Nancy one last time before work. During the workday, he often buzzed down to the shop and, every once in a while, Nancy joined him for lunch at the Connaught. The nights the Colonel stayed late at the office, he’d ring Nancy three or four times, just to hear her voice.
“Allô—allô. Were you asleep?”
“Yes, of course. What’s the time?”
“About two. Shall I come ’round and see you, my little silkworm?” He called Nancy this because of her low stamina and perpetually cold hands and feet.
“I’m not sure,” she’d demur. “It’s so very late.”
“I must hear another story. La famille Mitford fait ma joie!”
Their conversations felt endless. The Colonel spoke closely, personally, using words that seemed designed for her. He asked a million questions and, when Nancy told him her tales, he laughed to tears. “I can’t get enough of you, my Non-cee,” he’d say.
“As usual, Hellbags has embellished the situation,” Nancy said, even as she understood she was morphing into the giddiest, most lovestruck little beast. “Suffice to say, the Colonel and I have enjoyed a rousing two months.”
“I still don’t understand what’s so great about him,” Jim said. “Is it because he’s aces in bed?”
“If you bothered to speak with him for more than five minutes, you’d know that the Colonel is terribly educated,” Nancy said. “And he used to drop
bombs for the French Air Force. We gals like a man who’s lived a little.”
“Hear, hear,” Hellbags said.
“Any woman would find him superior to a soft-bottomed Brit,” Nancy added. “Some bore who’s to a manor born.”
“Weren’t you born on a manor?” asked Lord Berners.
“It’s not the same thing. I’m a woman, and we were poor.”
Jim rotated toward Cecil. “The Colonel is Gaston Palewski,” he said. “The legendary lothario. De Gaulle’s very spotty right-hand man.”
“Yes, of course!” Cecil said, and Nancy was grateful he did not pull any particular face. “I spent some time with Palewski in Africa, at the...let’s see... Grand Hotel in Khartoum, I believe.”
“Where he was absolutely destroying the ladies, no doubt,” said Jim.
“I don’t know about that—” Cecil tried.
“Oh, yes, you do,” Jim scoffed. “Gaston Palewski can’t see a pretty girl without wanting to take her to bed. He’s usually successful, much to the irritation of his coworkers and friends.”
“I wouldn’t worry about the women working for us in Sudan,” Cecil said, and his gaze darted toward Nancy. “They are famous for their high incompetence and low quality of looks.”
“That’s exactly what the Colonel described.”
“I’m sure he manages,” Lord Berners chortled. “I heard a great story about him once. Apparently, years ago, Palewski offered to drive a woman home from a party, but she refused, claiming she was too exhausted to get into his car. This is the extent to which his reputation precedes him.”
“His reputation doesn’t bother me,” Nancy said, and this was mostly true. “It all stems from his deep appreciation of women. He finds us more interesting, intelligent, and multifaceted than men, and therefore prefers our company. Plus, the Colonel has an inherently affectionate nature. As a child, his older brother teased him about his constant need for cuddling.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Jim said.
“All right, everyone, your time’s up on the Colonel,” Hellbags said. “It’s somebody else’s turn to get dragged through the mud.”
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