37 
“my word you do look queer”
I waited in the lobby of the Ritz. Bertie hadn’t given me a time and I didn’t know where I was supposed to collect him. He usually arrived on the afternoon Blue Train from London, but he could have come via Liverpool or Amsterdam or even Jersey in order to shake off Fox’s watcher. He could have even flown, like some message from the future. I didn’t know how to contact him either, so I bought a bundle of magazines from a news kiosk and settled in to wait. I was still wearing the clothes I wore to the warehouse and they smelt, I smelt, of cigarettes and mold and wet concrete. I wanted a proper wash in Bertie’s room, I wanted a proper cuddle and a soft warm bed. When all this was over, I thought, I might actually need to spend some of Fox’s money on making my studio a little cozier or I wouldn’t survive the winter.
French gossip magazines were much too polite; I missed the breathless rumor of Fleet Street. I had to settle for looking at the pictures and wishing I had a detective novel to pass the time. The concierge looked over at me frequently and I had to check that my stockings weren’t laddered or my makeup smudged, or anything else that might make it look like I was in the lobby fishing for business. Eventually he came over.
“Mademoiselle.”
“It could be madame.”
“Not without a ring, not in this lobby.”
I smiled at his perfect poker face.
“Please, can I fetch you some refreshment?”
“My friend hasn’t called, has he? They told me Mr. Browne hasn’t yet arrived.”
He shook his head. “You are English. I will fetch you my grandmother’s favorite, English tea with brandy.”
“Sounds like a waste of brandy.”
He bowed slightly. “Please trust me, mademoiselle.”
Maybe Bertie wasn’t coming today, maybe I had misunderstood him. The lobby was hushed and plush, unsmiling staff in pristine red uniforms, all standing to attention for people who expected their staff to appear and disappear as though they could read minds. It made me fidgety. The concierge reappeared almost silently, holding a tray with one enormous cup on it.
“I took the liberty of pouring, mademoiselle. My grandmother insisted on a very particular recipe.”
“For tea? Intriguing.” I took a sip. He was right; the warm tea, the soothing milk, the reviving sugar, and the pep of brandy were just what I needed.
“You’re a marvel. What’s your name?”
“Jean-Marie.” He nodded a bow and allowed a smile to brighten his face before he went back to the desk. He could watch me openly now and I smiled back at him in his dark suit and neat hair, calmed by the tea, calmed by being taken care of without a single comment on my weight, my smoking habit, or my broken fingernails.
I had just taken the final sip when Bertie almost fell into the lobby. I ran to him and he almost collapsed. He was shaking and grubby, with scratches on his cheeks and hands.
“Bertie darling, what on earth happened?”
“Oh, Kiki…”
“Monsieur.” Jean-Marie appeared at our side. “Please come this way.” He ushered us immediately to the lift, then down a carpeted hall to a room in the corner, next to the staff stairs. I suspected that he had quickly changed Bertie’s room when he saw him, as the room was not only very private but huge.
“Merci, merci…” Bertie muttered.
“Your first aid kit please, Jean-Marie.”
“Shall I fetch a doctor?”
“No need, I was a nurse in the war. A bottle of Scottish whisky is the only doctor we require. And his assistant, Gauloises Bleu.”
“Of course, mademoiselle.”
“Call me Kiki.” I smiled. “I have a feeling we might be talking to each other quite a bit in the next twenty-four hours.”
Jean-Marie gave me the number of his private telephone before he disappeared back downstairs for the necessaries. Bertie stripped to his underwear and I tended to his scratches and bruises, poured him whisky, and lit his cigarette. I tucked him up in bed and sat by his feet, the ashtray between us, as I waited for the whisky to take effect. The room was warm and the reflected light from the creamy walls had already given Bertie a better color, even if it hadn’t improved his wild, bewildered stare.
“You look like you’ve been chased through a hedge by a pack of dogs. What did you do, run here from London?”
“If by running you mean sailing and railing, and from London you mean via Rotterdam and Loos with a final sprint from Gare du Nord, then yes, I did run here.”
“You actually ran!”
“I haven’t moved so fast since the war. I’d forgotten what it was like to run with a pack, or in this case, an ostrich-skin suitcase. It’s rather thrilling.”
“I didn’t realize ostrich skin had such a revitalizing effect.”
He gave a shaky laugh.
“Were you chased by your watcher?”
“He smoked Sobranies, but other than that I couldn’t tell. Which was disconcerting, as I’m usually excellent at remembering elegant young men.”
“But he chased you?”
Bertie nodded and exhaled.
“Come on, Bertie, give it up. The whole kit and kaboodle.”
“Yes, ma’am!” he said in a bad American accent with a mock salute. “So, as you know, I stopped sleeping on my boat—I didn’t fancy meeting any strangers on the dark water—and took up temporary residence above Monty’s bar. I forget its real name… but Monty has had a soft spot for me since I gave the bar a good review in print and… in person, shall we say.”
“I’m familiar with your reviewing technique.”
“You’ve had so many reviews, I’m arguably your biggest fan.”
“Arguable.” That raised a smile from him; the whisky was working.
“Anyway, my watcher—is that what you called him?—he must have been following me, as he found me at Monty’s straight away.”
“It wasn’t your lover, was it?”
“Roger? No, too short. But ‘not Roger’ is my only conclusion as to his identity, and I’ve had a lot of time to conclude that over the past two days in transit.” He gazed out the window at the black night sky. I caressed his cheek and brought him back from his reflections.
“After I chatted to you from the bar, I convinced Himself to send me to Paris for a few days, to be your photographer and, frankly, to have a bit of a holiday. I did my best to shake my Savile Row shadow—jumping aboard the train at the last minute, changing my destination at Dover for Rotterdam, hopping off the train suddenly at Loos—which I thought was all rather ingenious until I saw him behind me again and again. I couldn’t figure it out until I realized there were two of them. They were so similar I think they must have been twins.”
“But why are they chasing you? Watching, I understand. Chasing across borders, I do not.”
“Fetch my bag.” He pointed to his neat little suitcase at the door. It was so light that it seemed to have nothing in it.
“Look at this.” He passed me an envelope, a bit tattered at the edges. I gasped.
“Yes indeed.” He looked smug as he smoked his cigarette. He deserved to. I held in my hands a photo of Fox and his doppelgänger, both young men, both in German military uniform. They stood on some kind of parade ground, judging by the number of braids, belts, buckles, and shiny buttons they had on their persons. Bertie leant forward and pointed to the man who wasn’t Fox.
“Do you think that might be Cassius, Fox’s brother?”
“Where did you get this, Bertie?”
“I followed Roger to his office—ah yes, I told you that. The Hello Girl I took out was unbelievably friendly. She told me an awful sob story about her fiancé who’d survived the war only to take his own life… of course I sympathized, how could I not? I led her around to talking about her work, her boss, I said it was for a story, and she showed me some of his personal effects.”
“How?”
“We went back to the office. It didn’t seem to occur to her that it was unusual to research ‘unsung heroes of the war’ at nine o’clock on a Wednesday night. I had to take notes about her service too, and her fiancé… but it was worth it, as she said I could take the photo with me.”
“How did she come by it?”
“She said a man who looked just like Dr. Fox had been in only the week before and had left some things behind, including this photo. The man didn’t say who he was.”
“To have gone to military academy, even if only for a while, as well as medical school… that’d make Fox older than I thought. It’d make him almost the same age as my mother.”
“He can’t have known your mother, Kiki.”
“No…” But I was never sure of anything with Fox. “So, Fox knows this photo is missing?”
“Why else am I being chased across borders, as you say, unless my Hello Girl said more than hello to her boss and he knows I have this photo?”
“What about Roger?… No, even if he raised the alarm about you, Fox wouldn’t bother to chase you, he’d just wait for you to appear by my side and then…”
“And then?”
“One of Fox’s agents showed me his interrogation techniques. He looks to the Middle Ages for inspiration.”
Bertie gulped his whisky. “Don’t tell me.”
“No, it’s best if I don’t. Any news about a possible wife and son?”
“The Hello Girl—I should use her name, Jane—Jane didn’t mention anything. But if you didn’t see them during the war, then I say they don’t exist. Perhaps they’re his brother’s wife and son. Or perhaps they’re dead.” Bertie tapped the photo. “But you can use this, can’t you? I haven’t sprinted through Paris chased by twin thugs for nothing, have I?”
I stared at the photograph. Fox looked so young, younger than me now, his face smooth, his hair already showing his trademark silver. There was something about him that looked so vulnerable—he was standing too straight, perhaps, or the way his eyebrows tended slightly up in the middle like he was confused or upset. Or perhaps it was the man next to him, clearly a bit older, a bit bigger, and a lot more confident. That anyone could be more confident than the Fox I knew was incredible.
“I didn’t want to say or write anything about it as it seemed too likely to be stolen or intercepted or some such.”
“It’s amazing. You’re amazing, Bertie.”
Bertie’s smile was almost boyish. “Also, look… that looks like Eddy in the back corner, doesn’t it? I mean it can’t actually be Edward Hausmann, he’s too young, but a brother maybe? A cousin?”
I peered at the face, a little blurry, but with an uncanny resemblance to a certain Edward Hausmann.
“If it is, Bertie, then that would explain why Fox has put up with him for so long, and why he hasn’t arrested Eddy already.”
“Oh, you think maybe Eddy has dirt on him too?”
“German traitor dirt.”
“He needs to show that Eddy is an even bigger traitor before he makes his move…” Bertie flopped back on the pillows. “Oh, Kiki, why do I sleep with such unsuitable men?”
“Because you love danger.”
“No, that’s why I sleep with you.”
“No, you sleep with me because you love me.”
His skin was still cold and covered with goose bumps, despite the warm blanket, the warm room, and all the whisky. I slipped off my coat, dress, and stockings, and slipped down next to him, smoothing the goose bumps from every inch of skin, giving him multiple reasons to make his flight from London just a memory. His appreciation was vocal and lasted for hours, until we were once again in our most comfortable spot, smoking naked in each other’s arms. I blew a plume of smoke above us, the blue cloud not coming anywhere near the peach and gold light fittings on the high ceiling.
“I’m sorry, Bertie, that this little taste of the spying life has scared you so much. There’s going to be much more.”
“I’m sure I’ll get used to it. We got used to the war, didn’t we?”
“It seems we can get used to anything.”
“Not quite anything. I’m absolutely famished.”
“That’s a call to action. What do you think they’ll serve us—lobster? I really just want a cheese sandwich.”
“Yes! Let’s be awful Brits and insist on sandwiches for dinner.” He kept his hand on me as I made the call to room service.
“I tell you another thing I could get used to: your friend Tom.”
“Oh, Tom-Tom…” I sighed involuntarily.
“Yes, he’s like that, isn’t he? I think I can call him my friend too, now, especially after the welcome hug he gave me when we met for a drink, oh, last week I think it was. The way he acted, you’d never know we’d met only last year. He misses you.”
“He misses life.”
“He said he was hoping for a permanent European posting, that all this traveling to and from London was too much. He garbled some nonsense about wanting to support you in your grief—really, I’ve never met anyone as comfortable with discomfort as you—but when I prodded him on this, he gave that deliciously sheepish smile he has and admitted, ‘I don’t have many friends here and no family. Button’s the best I’ve got. I want to see her more than once a year.’ ”
“So, he really is missing me, then.”
“Are you surprised?”
I couldn’t reply. Sweet missives and whispers were one thing, confirmation of Tom’s need was another. I sank into the soft white bedding.
“Speaking of your grief, Kiki, do you know who your mother’s mysterious man is yet?”
“Would it surprise you to hear that there are several contenders? It surprised me. I just wish I had her final diary. Then at least I would know everything she had committed to paper. I would know more precisely what I don’t know.”
I knew there must be the traffic noises from the square but they didn’t reach our hushed room. Bertie stroked the skin on my belly, but he didn’t see my belly button, or the sharp jut of my hip bones, or the fingerprint bruises he had left.
“I saw Teddy’s mother again, our annual afternoon tea, when Mrs. Greene comes to London to refresh her wardrobe and see to her charities.” The only person who suffered more than Bertie from Edward Greene’s death was his mother. “She had been going through his boyhood room, finally, and handed me some of his schoolboy diaries. She’d read them, they made her happy… but they’re awful. The schoolboy poetry he wrote…”
“Is schoolboy poetry?”
“In the classical mode, all heroic gestures and jingoistic martyrs. He also wrote about his crushes on this daughter and that daughter of the local grandees. Apart from the vaguely eroticized descriptions of soldiers, there is nothing to suggest that our love was anything but an anomaly. Was it only due to the war? If he had survived, would he have left me in Soho to become a red-faced squire with a horsey wife and six kids? I suspect that he would. I suspect I have been tending a flame for a man who didn’t really exist.”
“He existed, Bertie.”
“But only for that moment.”
“But what a moment.”
“Yes… I suppose I should be happy that I knew some happiness. But what now? What next?”
“Existentially: God only knows, and perhaps, not even Him. Literally: some proper sleep, as tomorrow you’re coming with me to photograph Princes Phillip von Hessen and Carl Eduard, cousins of the English princes and my lovely lover, Prince Theo Romanov.”
“My God, Kiki! This is gold. Remind me to force Himself to double your salary.”
“A dress budget would be nice. I’m practically in rags!”
“Rags fit for royalty.”
“Well, needs must.”
When I woke the next morning, Bertie was still curled up in the sheets. He didn’t move when I got out of bed, or when I used his bathroom, or even when I called his name to tell him I was leaving. The last few days had clearly come down on top of him with a crump.
I was freshly showered—the Ritz bathrooms were almost as good as Harry’s—but my clothes still stank of yesterday’s adventures. I thought about this in the taxi on the way home. Paris’s pale walls were like a layer cake, a maze, a puzzle. I hoped Bertie’s pursuers were lost in them, were wandering like tourists dazed on sweetness, were not immediately at the embassy speaking to our boss and about to descend on the Ritz.
The Seine sighed in her bed as the traffic ran over bridges. I had the photo of Fox tucked into my coat. This photo was a hand grenade. I wasn’t sure how I could use it, but I would use it, and soon. The more I thought about it, the more I was sure Fox could release Tom from the charges of treason. The more I thought about it, the more I was sure Fox had created those charges himself.