A Spy by Nature - Charles Cumming [60]
I am casually dressed, in the American style: camel-coloured chinos, a blue button-down shirt, old suede loafers. Some thought has gone into this, some notion of what Katharine would like me to be. I want to give an impression of straightforwardness. I want to remind her of home.
But it’s Fortner I see first, about fifty metres further down the street. He is dressed in an old, baggy linen suit, wearing a white shirt, blue deckshoes and no tie. At first I am disappointed to see him: there was a possibility that he might have been in Washington and I had hoped that Katharine would be waiting for me alone. But it was inevitable that Fortner would make it: there’s simply too much at stake for him to stay away.
Katharine is beside him, more tanned than I remember, making gentle bobbing turns on her toes and heels with her hands gently clasped behind her back. She is wearing a plain white T-shirt with loose charcoal trousers and light canvas shoes. The pair of them look as if they have just stepped off a ketch in St Lucia. They see me now and Katharine waves enthusiastically, starting to walk in my direction. Fortner lumbers just behind her, his creased pale suit stirring in the breeze.
‘Sorry. Am I late?’
‘Not at all,’ she says. ‘We only just got here ourselves.’
She kisses me. Moisturizer.
‘Good to see ya, Milius,’ says Fortner, giving me a butch, pumping handshake and a wry old smile. But he looks tired underneath the joviality, far-off and jet-lagged. Perhaps he came here direct from Heathrow.
‘I like your suit,’ I tell him, though I don’t.
‘Had it for years. Made in Hong Kong by a guy named Fat.’
‘Did you come from work?’ Katharine asks.
‘Yeah. It doesn’t take long to get here by Tube.’
‘You came on the subway?’
‘Yeah.’
We start walking towards the Ritz.
‘So it was great that you could make it tonight.’
‘I was glad you rang.’
‘Saul not with you?’
‘He couldn’t come in the end. Sends his apologies. Had to go off at the last minute to shoot an advert.’
I never asked Saul to come along. I don’t know where he is, or what he’s up to.
‘That’s too bad. Maybe next time.’
Katharine moves some loose hairs out of her face.
‘I forget, honey,’ she says. ‘What’s this neighbourhood called? How do you pronounce it?’
‘Piccally Diccally,’ Fortner replies, giving me a discreet wink.
‘Come on. No it’s not. It’s Piccali… Oh, I can never pronounce it. What is it Alec?’
‘Piccadilly.’
‘That’s it.’
‘Do you know why it’s called that?’ I ask, tempering my voice so as not to sound like too much of a smart arse.
‘No, why?’
‘A “dilly” in old-fashioned English was a prostitute. A hooker.’
‘Really?’
‘And so you came here to literally “pick a dilly”.’
‘No way!’
Katharine sounds genuinely amazed by this.
‘That’s pretty interestin’,’ Fortner adds, though there is nothing in his reaction to suggest that he thinks it is. ‘Too bad Saul couldn’t come. Hope you won’t be bored.’
‘Not at all. I’m happy it being just the three of us.’
‘You gotta girlfriend, Milius?’
I don’t mind it too much that Fortner has decided to call me that. It suggests a kind of intimacy, a preparedness for risk.
‘Not at the moment. Too busy. I used to have one but we broke up.’
This is quietly registered by both of them, another fact about me. We continue along the street, the silence lengthening.
‘So where are we heading?’ I ask, trying to break it, trying to stop any sense that we might have nothing to say to one another. I must keep talking to them. I must earn their trust.
‘Yes,’ says Fortner, loudly clapping his hands. It is as if I have woken him up from a nap. ‘Good question. Kathy and I have been going to this place for years. We thought we’d show it to you. It’s a small Italian restaurant that’s been owned by the same Florentine family for decades. Maitre d’ goes by the name of Tucci.’
‘Sounds great.’
Katharine’s attention has been distracted. There are hampers, golf bags and elegant skirts on display in the windows of Fortnum & Mason and