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“You have a visitor.” The voice is emphatic, with an undertone of impatience.
A visitor? Then I realize what’s happened. My mouth snaps shut, and I rub my eyes.
“Dr. Taylor? Are you there?”
“Uhhh, yes. Sorry. What time is it?”
“Fifteen hundred hours.”
“What? Sorry. I…”
“Fifteen hundred hours.” Fingers tap against keys. “Three p.m. for you.”
Maybe it’s my imagination, but condescension drips from those few words along with the subtext “stupid American.” Right. Military time. We’re staying at the RAF Club. Of course, they would use military time.
“I was asleep and I’m…”
He interrupts smoothly. “Not to worry, Dr. Taylor. Dr. Hillary Jones is here.”
Tea with Hillary. I’ve been so looking forward to seeing her after all these years.
“Tell her I’ll be down in ten minutes.” I pause, wondering if it’s enough time. Yeah. I can do this. “Thanks so much and sorry for the confusion.”
Eight minutes later, breathless, I run into the lobby. Hillary leans on the counter, chatting with the desk clerk, who is grinning. Hillary’s patter is unsurpassed.
Her matching black skirt, top, and asymmetrically zippered jacket in fleece are perfect for the cool April weather and showcase her interest in the latest fashions. Blue eyes twinkle behind the white-framed glasses. Her caramel-colored hair is in a sleek chignon adorned by her signature silver hair clips, crown-shaped, and covered with pavé diamonds. An oval enamel blue badge, framed in white, with an image of Tower Bridge at the top, is on a chain around her neck.
Hillary and I studied history together at Somerville College and became good friends. She was my only friend, really, after my Oxford boyfriend, Kev, left me. The only confidant I had outside my Chicago buddies, Michelle and Paul. And we weren’t making a lot of expensive, long-distance phone calls in those days. These days she’s a London Blue Badge guide.
“Hills.”
“Cress. Darling.” Her posh Kent accent carries across the acres of space.
“It’s been far too long,” we both cry.
“Snap.” She laughs and rushes over to give me a hug and air kisses.
Far too long, indeed. The last time had been in Chicago five years ago, where I played tour guide.
She smirks and checks out the smart navy pantsuit Max made me buy before we left Chicago. “Not bad. Who’s choosing your clothes these days?”
“Max is a clotheshorse. And he loves to shop for me as much as he enjoys buying stuff for himself.”
“Miraculous. This is your sexy MI6 agent? I can’t wait to meet him.”
“Retired, Hills. And don’t expect James Bond.”
“Pity. I was hoping he was Sean Connery in his prime.”
I choke. “Well, heisa Scot.”
She fingers her badge, her forehead furrowed. “We have a reservation at Brown’s. I imagine you’re up for a slap-up spread.”
I love having afternoon tea and I squeak, excited. “I’ve never been, but I’ve heard their teas are wonderful. Didn’t Queen Victoria have tea there?”
She nods. “They have Victoria sponge in her honor. Lots of famous guests like both Presidents Roosevelt. Alexander Graham Bell was at Brown’s, making the first phone call. Cecil Rhodes was a frequent visitor.”
I frown. Rhodes is not one of my favorite historical figures. Even though it would have been much more prestigious, I’m glad I didn’t have a Rhodes scholarship. The Rotary was fine.
