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“I’m from Vermont, you’re from Volgograd. You went to Virginia, I went to Vegas. That’s a lot of V’s.” I was toying with him because I had learned that George Mason had programs that made it a feeder for the CIA.
“Ah, but there are no V’s in Diana Spencer or GEI.”
“True,” I agreed. “Anyway, I’m not Bryan Cranston or Hal Holbrook.”
“Now why would you say that?”
“Fine, I’ll be gracious. Thank you.”
“So, a drink—once you’ve changed?”
It was tempting. Head to one of the BP’s pubs or take the man straight to my suite. But the idea of Betsy and Marisa, and Artie and Erika—two pairs, unrelated but somehow not—had me agitated. I’d popped my preshow Adderall, which wasn’t helping now that the show was over, and I wasn’t sure there was enough Valium and cannabis in my goody bag to dial it all the way back.
“I’m thinking about it,” I said.
“Okay.” A ripple of anxiety crossed his face.
“The problem is, I’m tired,” I lied. “I don’t know if I have enough juice for my social battery tonight.”
“I understand.”
“But I want to see you again. There’s just a lot going on in my head right now.”
“Is that really the truth?”
I nodded. “That’s really the truth. Even Diana impersonators in Las Vegas sometimes have—”
“Again, stop demeaning what you do.”
“Thank you.”
“I return to New York tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” I murmured, repeating the word.
“Your sister still lives in Vermont, right? You must get back east sometimes.”
“On occasion,” I said, which hadn’t been true since Betsy had killed our mother. The funeral had been the last time. I hadn’t even returned to see my childhood home one final time before Betsy sold it. And now that my sister was moving here, who knew if I’d ever set foot in the Green Mountains again?
“Add New York City to your next trip. You can stay with me.”
“The visits are short,” I admitted ruefully. “And I don’t get there often.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “So, this is it?”
I didn’t mean to push him away; I didn’t want to push him away. I had pushed away so many people in my life. It’s what I did, more times than not. Even John Aldred, when he was ending it, remarked how he wasn’t sure he’d ever gotten to know the woman behind the princess. “No. I invited you backstage because I wanted to tell you in person that I hope it isn’t. I had fun last night. And whether we had a drink now or not doesn’t change the fact that I want to see you again.”
“Do you want to talk about whatever that chatter is behind your very pretty eyes?”
Chatter. It was a word used by the royals, but it was also used by intelligence geeks. I had learned that from the senator. One night, he was telling me decidedly nonclassified stories about the history he’d seen in his tenure in Washington, and how often the intel would begin with the word chatter. There’s a lot of chatter right now in Syria. Or There was so much chatter before the bombing. Something about Yevgeny’s use of it felt like a sign, and so I went with it. I went to him. Magnate? Spy? I couldn’t have cared less. I put my arms around his neck and pulled him into me, kissing him.
When we pulled apart, he asked, “Is that a goodbye kiss? Should I hear Petula Clark in my head?”
“Not at all,” I said. “I’m getting a second wind. But, just in case, let’s have that drink in my suite. We’ll look at our calendars and make a date to see each other again. And—I’m going on the record—I’m going to kick you out and send you back to your hotel before falling asleep. Deal?”
He smiled, and I could see that it was with genuine relief. “Deal,” he said, and this time he kissed me.
* * *
