Chapter 5
A soft bed seemed to be calling to Maggie as she was ushered into her room at the Strand House Hotel. The bellhop deposited her luggage on a rack and than proceeded to point out the key features of the modestly sized space. For the next three weeks this would be home, with its elegant décor and antiques. The furniture was Queen Anne, light and feminine, with a desk, sofa and two matching chairs upholstered in yellow silk brocade. The walls were papered in a Victorian print with yellow as the main color, and the heavy woodwork was painted a shiny white. Two large windows gave her a view of the street below, where cars were packed tightly on the road, moving in unison if they wanted to get anywhere.
Hidden discreetly in an armoire was a very modern television, directly across the room from the huge, luxurious bed where she longed to slide under the warm blankets. The crisp tailored bedspread, a perfectly pressed sheet of gold cotton, looked as if it had been starched, with the pillows fluffed up and placed at the upholstered headboard in a precise arrangement.
Everything was so perfect that Maggie almost hated to begin unpacking, as if her little odds and ends would shabbily clutter the dresser top. The thought of doing anything besides sleeping was nearly inconceivable, as Maggie’s brain told her it was nearly six in the morning, while the clock on the nightstand was definitely reading 11:28 a.m.
“Mr. Doyle sent these, Mrs. Angiolini,” the bellhop indicated a vase full of colorful flowers, a bright bouquet of yellow roses and peach jonquils among sprigs of soft baby’s breath. The flowers had been placed on the desk in such a way that the window seemed to frame them like a still life. The color of the blooms matched flawlessly with the décor of the room, as if an interior decorator had furbished the room to coordinate with that one bouquet.
“I don’t think I know a Mr. Doyle,” she replied as she handed the man a tip.
“He’s very famous here in the U.K., ma’am. One of the most popular actors with the ladies, if you get my meaning.”
“So he’s a handsome leading man? Do you mean Ciaran Doyle?” Maggie asked in all innocence. Of course she had heard of the noted actor, originally from Manchester, who had started his career as a comedian. Ciaran Doyle had a talent for serious drama, and he had been featured in several British productions. Back home, Maggie had seen him most recently in an American film in which he played the role of an Irish revolutionary during the Easter Rebellion. In London, he often appeared in West End plays, and he was seen regularly in BBC dramas that were generally not broadcast in Chicago. Women adored the devilish twinkle in his gray eyes.
“He’s playing Dr. Shannon in Grosvenor Casualty Ward tonight at eight, and my wife will sit in front of the television and I can’t talk to her until nine thirty,” he explained.
“How old is this Doyle character?” Maggie asked as she rummaged through the desk, looking for a piece of paper. She wrote a note as Tim Horton, her bellhop guide to London, filled in the details on Mr. Doyle. According to his official biography, he was about thirty-seven, never married, but always in the company of an attractive woman. He was currently working on a new film for an American movie company, the production of which was delayed due to problems with the screenwriter.
Maggie pulled out a sampling of flowers from the vase and handed them to Tim, along with the note for his wife. “Well, I,m here to fix those problems so the film can be finished. Here, Tim, I appreciate your information. Give these to your wife, from Ciaran Doyle and me, and you’ll get more than a peck on the cheek if you get my meaning.”
“Can I give her the card, ma’am, that he signed?” Tim asked sheepishly.
“Oops, I never read it, how rude of me,” Maggie smiled as she opened the envelope. “Beautiful flowers for a beautiful woman, to express my hope for a successful script. Your friend, Ciaran Doyle. That’s sweet. Here, take this too. Say, can you find me any sort of magazine or newspaper article about him before I leave for my meeting?”
Tim flew down to the lobby of the Strand House Hotel, the bundle of flowers clutched in his hand. This was a job for the concierge, to quietly tell their American guest all about Mr. Doyle. They knew him well at the hotel, because the actor often stayed overnight at Strand House, always sneaking in through the back entrance with his lover for the evening. The bellhop had seen at once that this Mrs. Angiolini looked like his type, which was an attractive and elegant woman with a set of knockers that made a man dream of sex. Without a doubt, Horton was certain that he would once again pick up a few quid from the paparazzi that hung around Strand House, waiting for a tip that a famous roué was stealing out of the hotel with a pretty woman on his arm.
With the water temperature set a bit cold, Maggie stepped into the shower to try to wake up. She hurriedly dried her hair and re-applied her make-up before throwing on some clean clothes, choosing a gray flannel skirt and a black turtleneck sweater, something rather casual but still suitable for a business meeting. Shortly after noon she phoned home to tell Joey that, so far, the trip was fine but she missed her boy very much. Kay chatted about her first day as surrogate mom, and Maggie described the antique furnishings in her very lovely room. A knock at the door interrupted their conversation.
“Sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Angiolini,” Mr. Towson seemed to bow as he spoke. “You were inquiring about Mr. Doyle.”
“If a stranger sends me flowers,” Maggie began, casting a glance at the bouquet.
“As concierge of Strand House, I make it my duty to see to all of our clients’ needs. I have selected a copy of News and Views for you that you will find very informative. And may I assure you, madam, that we respect the privacy of our guest. Your husband will never…”
“He’s dead,” Maggie cut in, her temper a bit short due to her fatigue, and she greatly disliked this man’s insinuations. “But thank you anyway.”
“I am very sorry, Mrs. Angiolini. If there is anything that you need, please do not hesitate to call on me.”
Mr. Towson bowed his way out of the room while mentally preparing himself for the circus that would soon be the rear entrance of the hotel. Striding down the long corridor, he inspected the picture frames for dust while he attempted to inspect the mind of the randy actor, who started every new love affair at Strand House. Staring at a copy of Gainsborough’s Blue Boy, the concierge asked the replica child why the hotel held such significance for Doyle. The chambermaid always received some extravagant gift when the actor checked out, making the man wildly popular below stairs. Fulfilling an urgent request to change damp, sweaty sheets in the middle of the day was deserving of a bonus, but paying the maid to keep her mouth shut was the more likely purpose of the bribe. The elevator door opened, and Towson cast a last glance at Mrs. Angiolini’s door. The circus had most definitely come to town.
With only a few minutes remaining before the car was expected, to ferry her through the streets of London to the BBC Studios, Maggie thumbed through the guidebook that Bill Goebel had given her as a departing gift. As she knew he would, he had already selected several key tourist attractions for her to visit if time permitted. A flag with a star inked on it was pasted on the page that listed the used bookshops on Charing Cross Road. Bill had quickly learned that Maggie loved old books, and she was particularly fond of history in any form. As she looked down the list, with the foreign addresses, she absent-mindedly rubbed her cheek where he had kissed her goodbye. She had attached a nickname to him on the day that she left, but she was not convinced that Mr. Better Than Nothing was an accurate description of what he meant to her, and she found herself deliberating on the point as she stared blankly at the page.
At five minutes before one, Maggie picked up her coat and briefcase and headed to the lobby to wait for her ride. Mr. Towson saw her there, with the tabloid paper he had given her, and he strolled over with a cup of coffee for his American guest, along with another magazine. “For medicinal purposes, Mrs. Angiolini. You seem a bit jet-lagged.”
“You can read my mind, can’t you?” she asked as she sipped the coffee, strong and black. “So this Ciaran Doyle can’t keep his fly zipped.”
“Mr. Hofmeier left very specific instructions that we look after you. My assistant has assured me that, as a single woman, you would need this sort of information to be properly, forewarned is how she put it.” Mr. Towson spoke graciously despite his discomfort as he handed her the news magazine, which contained a very detailed story about Doyle’s reputation as a womanizer.
Maggie had only enough time to thank Towson for his wise counsel; the car was waiting for her. As she climbed in, she experienced the sort of disorientation that came with driving on the left side of the road. Her driver said little at first, but he noticed her head swiveling from side to side as he navigated the crowded streets, and he began to point out the sights as they passed. He had to smile at his passenger, who was not too sophisticated to be thoroughly excited about her first trip to London. With so much to see, she forgot about the article that the assistant concierge had provided, and she ran out of time before she had a chance to read one word.
“They’ll call me when you’re ready to return, ma’am,” the driver explained before she could ask how she was to get back to Strand House. “You’ll find me right back here.”
Almost running, Maggie raced into the building, full of the elation that came with setting off on a journey and discovering a new place. “Maggie Griffith Angiolini, I have an appointment at one-thirty,” she said to the receptionist.
Ciaran Doyle dropped his newspaper as he heard her midwestern voice, the vowels sounding hard to his British ears. Clever and determined could be the words to describe the actor, when he had called Quinlan and Associates last week and pretended to be his assistant. Very coy he had been when talking to the girl who answered the phone, as he asked if Mr. Angiolini was accompanying his wife, and would he take offense should she receive flowers from a strange man. Mr. Angiolini had passed away at the end of last year, the woman had explained, and Maggie would love to find flowers when she got to London. She was very fond of roses, the receptionist had gone on, spewing out little bits of data that Ciaran had carefully written down in a notebook.
Without ever meeting her, he already knew that she was considered quite good-looking by the men who worked at the law firm on the upper floors of the Chicago office building. She had blond hair, sort of close to her natural color but lightened every month, and very nice brown eyes that seemed to penetrate the head of the person she fixed her gaze on. Originally he was planning on a short affair, a bit of fun for Mrs. Angiolini if her husband was at home, but she was blessedly single. Doyle was growing tired of sowing wild oats, but he had not met a woman lately who was not an actress, and certainly none of his recent lovers were the sort of girl he wanted to marry. He had never asked Maggie’s age, a foolish mistake, and now he was sitting in the lobby of the BBC Studios, waiting for her to appear. One look told him that she must be close to his age, and hopefully young enough to produce a child or two.
“Mrs. Angiolini,” he offered his hand as he looked her over. A bulky coat covered her figure, but he liked her face. “Ciaran Doyle. Did the flowers arrive?”
“Oh, yes, thank you so much,” she smiled back, a slight frown indicating that he was either more handsome than anticipated, taller than expected, or she did not care for his aftershave. A hint of a flush crept across Maggie’s cheek as her brain clicked into high gear, her hand drifted up towards her neck and she cleared her throat. An expert at reading signs, he could hear her hips calling out to him, blood pulsing through veins grown dry from weeks of neglect.
“We can’t have you wandering the halls,” he went on, his gray eyes twinkling with the famous Ciaran Doyle sparkle. “This way to the lift.”
As they rode up to the sixth floor, Maggie asked him about Manchester while she blabbered about her cousin’s mother-in-law whose family emigrated from Dublin to Liverpool. In her friendly and open manner she told him all about her father’s ancestors who set sail from Cork long ago, fleeing the Great Hunger. Ciaran felt as if a warm spring breeze was gently blowing through the elevator as Maggie talked. This American woman was pleasant, with no pretensions; Ciaran could have been talking to an old acquaintance, she spoke so comfortably. Best of all, he was sure that Maggie had no idea how famous he was, or if she did, she was not concerned with his stardom. She could have been greeting the dairyman making a delivery, and Ciaran gratefully breathed in the comfortable air.
He thought of her as Sweet Maggie, from the provincial backwater of Chicago, a woman who did not realize that Ciaran Doyle’s face was so familiar that he could not easily wander the streets without attracting attention, and she certainly would not know that he had made a game of sleeping with as many women as he could. As the doors opened, he put a hand on Maggie’s back to guide her out of the elevator. For only a brief instant he caught her eye and he found an expression of saintly innocence on her face. His life’s goal had been to enjoy the pleasures of sex before he settled down with a wife. Now he had three weeks to enjoy her company; if they made a good couple he would turn it into a lifetime together. She was the sort of woman he had been looking for.
Bea Parkhurst was already in the conference room, looking as bleary-eyed as Maggie. There were several others sitting around the table, and Maggie met the script supervisor, who was a very charming young woman in the employ of the BBC. Next, she was introduced to the director of the film. Bob Hurleburt looked positively nasty, ready to fight Maggie every step of the way if only to be stubborn. Karl Hofmeier had left a few bitter enemies behind, and Bob was perhaps the most bitter. It had not helped the situation when Hofmeier kept bringing up the one film that Hurleburt had directed three years ago, the most dismal failure of his long career, using that one film to prove that the man was obviously incompetent. Bob gave a perfunctory grunt by way of a greeting, meeting all of his requirements for polite manners when facing the enemy. They sat down to wait for Trevor Harwood, who was Hurleburt’s staunchest ally in the battle.
Maggie slipped off her coat, and Bob felt that he was going to lose the war. She had a decent figure for a woman over thirty, but the proportions were Italian, not Irish. He was nearly horrified to discover that the American editor was built like those Italian sex goddesses of his youth, voluptuous females with curves, and not at all like the other women who sat around the table. Most men had one particular female body part that they were obsessed with. Bob could look at legs for hours, Ciaran was partial to the nape of the neck, but Trevor was a breast man. Hurleburt knew from experience that the ceiling could fall down and Trevor would never notice, not with his eyes fixed on the two mounds of flesh that filled out the black sweater. One could count on Trevor to be thoroughly absorbed in determining if Maggie’s breasts were real, padded, or silicone.
Bea’s friends, her gaggle of hens in truth, were meeting Maggie and welcoming her to their clutch. There would be no need for her to ever eat alone for the next three weeks, because the ladies were already filling her evenings with pub crawls and fine dining, London style. All the girls were so involved in their plans that they did not notice the grand entrance of Trevor Harwood. Bob buttonholed him at once, hoping to fortify the actor’s will before he became hopelessly distracted. Ciaran and the other actors were conferring when Trevor finally announced his presence, and the much dreaded meeting was begun.
“Are we still waiting for Hofmeier’s hatchet lady?” Trevor said loudly, grinning at his clever remark.
A woman’s hand extended toward him, and he looked at the strange face that glared at him. “Maggie Griffith Angiolini, Quinlan and Associates. Do sit down, it will be easier to extract your foot from your mouth.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply,” he spluttered, but Maggie’s Irish was up.
“You meant every word, Mr. Harwood. Let’s move on, I’m tired and I’m cranky,” Maggie said coldly.
He looked exactly like she thought that he would, with brown hair and brown eyes, and a smile that reminded her of a devilish imp, with a promise of mischief behind the grin. As he stood next to Ciaran, she saw that the two men were about the same height, but Ciaran gave the impression of being more powerfully built, very strong and dangerously masculine. Trevor was best described as being an average, everyday kind of gentleman, and the sort of man who blended in with the crowd. His opening line was brilliantly dumb, making him quite human and somehow vulnerable.
Lunch appeared, served by assistants who appeared as quietly as ghosts. Between bites of cold sliced beef and steamed vegetables, the little groups of men and women at the table talked among themselves, saving business for discussion on a full stomach. Trevor kept looking over at Maggie, to see if she was glaring daggers at him, and he noticed that she never touched the meat.
“Good God, another animal lover,” he snorted, poking his head towards Maggie.
“Perhaps she doesn’t eat meat,” Bob said, his voice indicating a slightly obscene double entendre.
“Look at the muscles in her cheeks,” Ciaran said with deep admiration. “Firm, well-toned. She’ll be nibbling an authentic banger before the week is out. Bit of toad in the hole for the little lady.”
One end of the table erupted into laughter as the men carried on their deeply intellectual discussion of oral sex. Trevor looked up, looked too long actually, and Maggie felt his eyes on her. She returned his gaze, and Trevor had to look away, as if he was embarrassed at being caught. Bob had asked him about Maggie’s figure, if Trevor the resident expert thought that she was all natural or artificially crafted, and Trevor was trying very hard to make his determination by look alone. Ciaran was boasting that he would find out for himself, with his hands rather than his eyes, and he had already sent the lady flowers so there was a decided advantage for him to be the first to uncover her secrets.
After a while, Trevor was only half-listening to the manly gossip. He was thinking about Allison, his beloved wife, a victim of breast cancer two years ago. She fought it off for a while, determined to conquer the disease that was gradually spreading its deadly fingers through her body. Allison was always trying to be cheerful for her husband, even ribbing him good-naturedly about his fascination with tits. She was practically flat chested, and he would often comment on the irony of his love of such a washboard as Allison.
“Dr. Fosgrove can do reconstructive surgery after chemotherapy and radiation,” Allison had assured him as she was preparing herself for a double mastectomy. “I’ll have him make me a couple of big knockers, better than the original model.”
Everything had seemed so positive back then, and he went along with her jokes. After the treatments, she planned to have one more operation to recreate her figure, to restore her body to that of a woman. Trevor and Allison both had hope, and Allison was so sure that she would recover. Once, shortly after the surgery, he found her looking at the adverts in the Sunday Mirror. “After I get new ones, darling, I’m going to wear this,” and she was pointing to a Lejaby push-up bra, sexy as only the French could invent. But she never was well enough for the reconstruction. The rounds of chemotherapy left her violently ill, and Trevor could remember so clearly how he would gently sponge her face after she had been vomiting for hours. Her beautiful auburn hair had fallen out in handfuls and clumps, to lie dead on the bathroom floor.
Later there was radiation, then more tests and a glimmer of hope. Their daughter Callista graduated from Cambridge and Allison was there, wearing a wig to cover her bald head. Will began his own studies at the university a few months later, and Allison was just strong enough to help her son move into his flat. Her hair had begun to grow back by then, sparse and short, shot through with gray. Then came more tests and more waiting, but the disease had snaked its way into her brain and nothing seemed to stop it.
“Is that acceptable, Trevor?” Bob was almost shouting, and Harwood started at the sound. The meeting had been going on for some time, but his mind was somewhere else.
“Sorry?” he asked, dazed. Maggie was looking at him again; he saw her smiling at him with a funny look. It was something familiar, but he could not place it.
“To add a shot of a baby’s rattle perched on the parlor sofa. The camera will pan in, we dub in the sound of a bomb hitting nearby, then a bit of plaster dust before a fade out,” Bob explained.
“I was told that you objected to the woman going back into the house because there was no reason for it,” Maggie said. “Mr. Hurleburt can very subtly show that she returned for her child’s favorite toy.”
She was pleasant now and not at all short-tempered. Trevor was noticing her hair, which made her face look just as cute as a button. It was a ridiculous phrase that had come to his mind, simply because she was a mature woman. He was greatly relieved to see that she was not holding a grudge against him for his crude comment, and he carried on with his quest to alter the script.
“No, it’s too ridiculous. Really, Mrs. Angiolini, no woman would run back into a building, with bombs falling all around her, to retrieve a rattle,” Trevor said testily. He was determined to have his own way.
“I would,” she replied, cold as stone. There was that look again, something in the way that her eyes flashed. He liked her eyes, with their soft light brown gaze that seemed to bore into his skull and read his thoughts.
“Your children must be spoiled brats,” he murmured, but she heard him.
“My son is spoiled, Mr. Harwood, and I happily spoiled my husband too. I am sorry if you can’t understand the concept of a selfless act,” she retorted, losing control of her emotions in a jet-lagged, over-tired tone of voice.
“Before my wife died, I was blessed by her advice on my scripts,” he put in. He said it on purpose, to retaliate for the body blow that Maggie had landed. Karl Hofmeier’s gnarly fist, applied to Trevor’s British nose, would have been less painful than this woman’s shot to his gut. “The loss of my wife has been devastating to me, and I am very sorry that you are not satisfied by my analysis. I wish that she were here to review this script with me, but then how could you possibly appreciate the loss of a wife?”
That blow hit the mark, as Maggie’s hard look melted into one of sympathy. He had the upper hand now, and with a firm strength he kept his features from sliding into a smile. From the corner of his eye he could see that Ciaran was looking a bit shocked, and Bea was glaring at him. Perhaps he had struck back with too much force, but Hofmeier had started this particular fight. If Maggie came along to finish it, she had best expect to be bloodied.
“Lose a wife?” she replied, enunciating the last word with a slight drop of venom. “No, Mr. Harwood, I could never appreciate the loss of a wife.”
“You may not be aware of my vast experience on the stage and in front of the camera,” Trevor continued. He was feeling all-powerful now; she was against the ropes and he would go in for the knockout. “I am considered to be a very skilled actor, Mrs. Angiolini, but even with my talent I cannot hope to bring a breath of realism to some of these scenes.”
“I know that you are extremely talented, Mr. Harwood,” she replied, and he found himself fidgeting in his seat as he detected the familiar facial expression again.
“Can we jump ahead to the next scene,” he said. He was beginning to fall back as he tried to remember where he had seen that look before. “My character is supposed to dig through the rubble, with his bare hands, and uncover his fiancée’s hand, now holding this rattle. I find that a bit silly, rather trite actually.”
“Real life is often trite if one chooses to pick it apart and analyze every crumb,” Maggie answered, still strong in her desire for a victory.
Trevor’s mouth was beginning to gape as he remembered who else had given him that glance. Now he knew what it was; Maggie was mocking him with her eyes while her mind was guffawing, in rolling on the floor laughing hysterics. Only Allison had ever before slapped him into sensibility with her laughing eyes and now Maggie was doing it. Deflate the ego, you pompous buffoon, her eyes told him. Allison had reined him in just like that, when he started to slide out of control. A slack-jawed stare said that Harwood’s fire was spluttering, he was buckling, and the scene was going to stay, far-fetched or corny though it might be.
“I am sorry about Mrs. Harwood,” Maggie said, sincere in her expression. “If you would allow me to put in my thoughts, as a woman.”
Trevor was suddenly turned into the dutiful pupil who was listening with rapt attention. Mrs. Angiolini was not a hatchet lady, as far as he was concerned, she was a kind woman who cared enough about the great actor to gently remind him that he was merely a man and not a god. Like his late wife, only her eyes spoke in a silent rebuke, without words that others could hear. Maggie gave him one look to tell him he was behaving very badly and it was time to stop. In his mind, she became Allison, but an American version with gorgeous tits that he desperately wanted to hold in his hands. Still, he could see that she was not Allison; rather she was someone he could love as he had loved his late wife.
Bob closed his script with a disgusted sound of defeat, folding his hands on top of the cover as he waited for the meeting to end. There was no way that Trevor could begin to explain what had just happened, or tell his colleagues why he had so abruptly come around. As Ciaran leaned back in his chair, smiling with admiration for the lovely Maggie, Trevor braced himself. She was about to go in for the kill, to drive the final nail into the coffin that contained the remains of his resistance, and he would meekly submit.
“I should have asked you, Mrs. Angiolini, for the same kind of advice I once had from my wife,” Trevor said, meekly asking for her forgiveness. “I must sound like a fool running on like I did.”
“This will be an action film, to appeal to a male audience. It needs these elements, I think, to make it a little more of a ‘chick flick’. Bring the same level of intensity that you exhibited in Chateau Thierry and you’ll probably win that Emmy, instead of going home disappointed again.” Maggie was smiling like an angel, even though she had just kicked Trevor after he was down.
Ciaran found himself laughing at his own stupidity. Maggie knew who they were, and she had probably seen most of the movies or television shows that they had starred in. What was different about her was the fact that she did not make a fuss or gush like a star-struck schoolgirl. Instead, she came into the conference room as a professional businesswoman, with the poise of a confident individual who knew her material. If Ciaran were tallying the points that he most admired about Maggie, he would have awarded her another score. “Come clean, now, Mrs. Angiolini, and confess. Which other faces do you know here?” he challenged her.
“Oh, gosh, a test and my mind not fully alert. Let’s see, Sara Larimer in Obsession, Ken Simpson in that series about the police detective, and the chauffeur in Backstairs Affair,” and Maggie began to go around the conference table, pointing to each of the five actors and rattling off some of their most recent work. She diplomatically skipped over the scandal, never mentioning the messy divorce of Ken Simpson and Sara Larimer. “It is due to the wonders of satellite transmission and all those marvelous BBC imports. And perhaps some day, ladies and gentlemen, you will even be good enough for the Brandenburg Theatre in Chicago.”
With a wink at Ciaran, Maggie got up to leave with Pamela Marbright, the head of costumes for this production. The remark about the Chicago theatre troupe was a parting reminder to Doyle that Chicago had a lively theatre scene; the dramas that came out of the award-winning Brandenburg were routinely sold out when they played in Covent Garden’s theatres. Any actor with a soul knew of Brandenburg’s reputation worldwide, and half of the people at the table had begged to be introduced to Chicagoan Jim Paretsky when he appeared in Selling Sauganash Glen last year. Trevor’s dream was to be given a role, no matter how insignificant the part, to have the chance to give life to one of the powerful characters that populated the stage in that Chicago playhouse. Maggie Griffith Angiolini had set them all in their place with her clever comment, and with it she earned everyone’s respect.
“What’s wrong with you, Harwood?” Bob asked, very peeved to have lost out on his quest to eliminate the one scene that he really detested.
“She was absolutely right about giving the women something to sob over. We’d lose over half the audience if this were only another war picture,” Trevor explained.
“Well, my changes sailed through without a word of argument,” Ciaran put in, very proud of his flower-bedecked groundwork. “And now, if you will excuse me, I have a dinner date to arrange.”
“That’s the fastest he’s ever worked,” Ken whistled. Ciaran had seduced Ken’s ex-wife about three years ago, before the divorce, but it had taken Doyle a full month of flirting before he finally got her in bed.
“Mrs. A. will probably be equally swift,” Bob noted, “or am I the only one who noticed that her wedding ring must have just come off within the past twenty-four hours?”
Bea was walking out the door with the script supervisor as Trevor was leaving. She gave him a frosty glare, something that threw the actor off balance. He had known Bea since they first started out, fresh out of university. They had been close friends since those days, when Bea married Trevor’s best friend and Trevor married Allison. “You were certainly Mr. Sensitive this afternoon,” Bea hissed as she hurried away.
“What was that for?” Trevor asked his male companions. They could only shrug their shoulders, for who knew what women were thinking sometimes. At this point, he did not care about Maggie’s husband, and he was giving some serious consideration to breaking up Mrs. Angiolini’s home. It made no sense for Bea to be upset with him; after all, if Maggie were indeed planning on cheating on her husband, it would not be his fault if she left the man.
Bea’s girls, with Maggie now included, set off for an Italian restaurant in Trafalgar Square, so quickly that Ciaran never had a chance to make a date. Maggie’s driver dropped them off in front of Nelson’s column, so that Maggie could gawk at the monument to Great Britain’s greatest naval hero, and then dip her fingers in the cold water of the magnificent fountains. A life spent in London had made the ladies blind to the sights and sounds that thrilled their guest, and they found themselves discovering their home town through the eyes of a tourist, someone who lived all her life in a city that rebuilt itself in 1871. In keeping with the theme of discovery, the group of six women stopped at an authentic British pub for the benefit of Maggie. That set the tone for the evening, and by the time she was deposited at Strand House at two in the morning, Mrs. Angiolini was pleasantly intoxicated.
The night clerk handed Maggie her room key with a smile, along with a message from Mr. Doyle. “Did you read this?” Maggie asked, gasping from shock. “I think he wants to sleep with me. Should I let him?”
Linda had worked the front desk at Strand House for the past year, straight out of school and very young. She had seen Ciaran Doyle many times, and if he would ever once ask her to share his bed, she would be out of her clothes and prone in two seconds. Not certain if it was appropriate to answer such a question, Linda decided that Mrs. Angiolini was probably inquiring because she was a little drunk and not very lucid.
“Oh, I’d have it off with him, ma’am,” Linda blurted out. Mrs. Angiolini was so forthcoming that the clerk fell into the same confidential tone. “He can do it all night, or say they say.”
“What about Trevor Harwood?” Maggie went on, a miner digging out nuggets of golden gossip. “I met him too, and I think he’s got the cutest ass and the prettiest eyes.”
“He’s too old for my taste, ma’am,” Linda said. “Fifty at least. Both good looking, in different ways.”
Maggie giggled a trifle too loudly. “Maybe I should do them both. Oh, separately of course.”
With that, Maggie said goodnight, laughing to herself as she read Ciaran’s sweet request.
“Why do we both sleep alone,” he had left as his message, “when we can dream of the world together.”
