Deliver Us From Evil

70

REGGIE LOVED Trafalgar Square. For her it seemed to define all things British in one sparkling geographic footprint. One had Lord Nelson on his forty-six-meter-high granite column, the savior of the British Empire honored for all time for his heroic death at the Battle of Trafalgar. And even if every school-aged child no longer knew exactly who Nelson was or what he’d done, his statue still stood as a memorial to the indomitability of the British people.

And yet there were also the great beastly pigeons. Though Nelson had been scrubbed clean several years ago and the city had taken steps to rid the area of the cooing winged creatures, the birds were simply an unstoppable force, such that the poor admiral was routinely covered in pigeon shit. Down below every make, model, and manner of human being walked, sat, danced, cried, ate, drank, performed, snapped pictures, read, flirted with their neighbor, and occasionally had sex late at night. This all went on while colorful cabs covered in advertisements and red elongated bendy-buses sped by with the intensity necessary to survive in one of the world’s great metropolises. It was the perfect blend of the staid historical and the radical new and Reggie took it all in, forgetting for the moment that she was going to meet a man who could possibly destroy her.

Although it seemed a bit absurd considering all she had to think about, Reggie had been most nervous about what to wear. She had washed all her clothes and selected a pale green dress of simple design that tapered at the waist, showed off her tan, and stopped several inches above her knees. Its front was scooped but not too much. She had pulled out and then discarded the one push-up bra she owned, selecting a more modest one instead. She had decided against wearing a sweater over the dress because the weather in London had not matched that in Leavesden, which was often the case. The skies had cleared, the temperature had cracked seventy, which was cause for celebration across the city, and the slight breeze from the south was even more warming. Her heels were high, taking her to within eight inches of the man with whom she would shortly be having dinner. She had packed her hair up high, letting a few strands drizzle down her long neck. Chunky aquamarine earrings and a matching necklace she’d purchased years ago in Thailand completed the ensemble.

As she walked down the side street where he had arranged to meet her, Reggie surreptitiously checked her makeup in the side mirror of a parked motorbike while pretending to admire the machine. With his height he would be easy to spot even with all the people around. Yet the street also had many places of hidden observation. He was probably watching her right now, in fact.

She thought for a moment and then just decided what the hell. She pirouetted in a tight circle, one heel spike firmly planted against the pavement, while slowly waving in all directions like a beauty queen on display. This action made her briefly forget her troubles on a rare gorgeous summer’s eve in the city she adored above all others.

The touch on her shoulder made her jump. She stopped spinning and faced him. Her first observation was that he’d also dressed carefully for the evening, in pressed gray slacks with a sharp crease, white polo shirt, and a navy blazer. His short hair had the shine of shampoo and he was freshly shaved. His scent reminded her of the luxurious beach in Thailand where she’d bought the necklace and earrings from a pale-skinned man carrying a shabby briefcase full of trinkets and wearing a Speedo. Shaw’s smell was balmy, sand, ocean, the sway of exotic trees; it settled just firmly enough in her nostrils to make her feel a bit unsteady on her feet.

“You look great,” he said.

“No more seasickness. I promise.” She tapped the ground with her spike heels. “Firmly on terra firma.”

Shaw glanced around before returning his gaze to her. Reggie could sense in that one motion that he had assessed all potential threats and filed them away in some neat data bank in his mind.

“You like seafood?” he said.

“That’s actually my absolute favorite.”

“I know a place in Mayfair.”

“Sounds brilliant.”

He looked hesitant for a moment and then held out his arm. She quickly slipped her hand through it before he could reconsider the offer. His hesitation had made Reggie inwardly smile. Uncertainty humanized a person so wonderfully, she thought. Reggie slightly increased the pressure on his arm to show him he’d made the right decision.

“It’s not too far from here,” he said. “It’s a nice night, we can walk.” He glanced down at her shoes. “Can you manage in those things? We can cab it if you want.”

“I can walk over in these heels. I just might not be able to walk back.”

“I can always carry you.”

They walked down Haymarket Street, cut through Piccadilly Circus, and over to Mayfair.

“It’s only a few more blocks,” said Shaw as they ambled slowly along. “Just off Grosvenor.”

“I’m good.”

He glanced down at her. “You do seem good.”

She interpreted his remark as she glanced around at other couples doing exactly what they were doing. “It’s just nice to pretend to be normal. I guess that seems weird.”

“No it doesn’t. In our professions those moments are few and far between.”

The restaurant was set midblock, and had a green awning out front partially obscuring a pair of formidable mahogany doors. Inside, the ceilings were high, the wood dark, the booths leather-backed, the linens starched, and the napkins poofed up in cut crystal water glasses. Topping chest-high wood cabinets were iced platters of lobster tails, shrimp, black-shelled mussels, and spidery crab legs arranged in concentric circles. Shaw had made a reservation and a curvy young Indian woman in a black dress tight enough to reveal her choice of thong underwear led them to their table. It was situated in the back diagonally across from the entrance.

Shaw took the seat opposite the mahogany doors.

This had not been lost on Reggie. “Firing lines sufficiently established?” she asked impishly.

“They’ll do. Unless that platter of steamed squid fouls the shot.”

“Why do I think you’re not joking?”

He picked up his menu.

She did the same. “Any recommendations?”

“Pretty much anything that has a fin, gills, and/or a shell is a safe bet to be classified as an aphrodisiac.”

She dropped the menu. “Then why don’t you pick for me?”

Shaw’s gaze topped his menu. “Indecisive?”

“Actually, cautious enough to defer to another’s enhanced expertise.”

“There’s a lot that can be interpreted from that remark,” he said candidly.

“There is. But for now, let’s limit it to the food.”

He put his menu aside. “Then we’ll double down on the Primavera Frutti di Mare.”

They ordered their food and a white wine to go with it. The waiter drew out the cork and poured the small taster portion, which Shaw approved with a sip and a nod. The waiter filled their glasses, set a basket of bread and a bottle of olive oil between them, placed the wine in a chiller sleeve, and left them alone.

Shaw held up his glass and Reggie dinked it with hers.

“Is the pretending to be normal period almost over?” she said resignedly.

“Almost, but not quite.”

“I love London,” Reggie said, looking around.

“There’s a lot to love,” agreed Shaw.

“Can I ask you a question?” she said.

He remained silent but stared at her expectantly.

“You mentioned back in the cemetery at Harrowsfield that you stare at graves too. What did you mean by that?”

“Not graves, grave, singular.”

“Whose?”

“It’s in Germany, an hour’s ride outside of Frankfurt, a small village.”

“That’s where, but whose grave do you look at there?”

“A woman’s.” The strain on Shaw’s face was perceptible.

“I take it you two were close?”

“Close enough.”

“Can you tell me her name?”

“Anna. And now I think the pretending to be normal period is over.”