“Just two assholes.”
“Not the two assholes. The other two.”
“No.”
Delilah would have expected something more—“Thank God they came along when they did,” something like that — and the brevity of the answer struck her as a false note. Fatima would know if she had bodyguards, and the deception Delilah sensed in her response suggested she did. And yet, while they were being accosted, she didn’t act like someone who was counting on a bodyguard. She acted like someone bluffing foolishly, reflexively, who was then genuinely frightened when the bluff got called.
They kept walking. Delilah periodically checked behind them as they moved, but this would have been normal behavior for a civilian who had just been spooked the way they had, not something likely to be read as anything else.
When they reached the streetlights and cabs and relative crowds of Paddington Station, they paused. Fatima said, “I can’t believe you pulled a knife on that guy!”
“Well, what was I supposed to do?”
“Did you really say, ‘I’ll slice you open and watch your guts spill onto the sidewalk’?”
“I’m not sure what I said. I was scared.”
“You didn’t sound scared! You sounded completely badass.”
“I didn’t feel badass, I can tell you that.”
Fatima held up a fist and made a face of exaggerated rage. “‘I’ll slice you open,’” she said, her tone faux ominous, and then she dissolved into a fit of laughter. “Oh my God, did you see the look on that asshole’s face?”
And then Delilah was laughing, too — really laughing, not just playing a role. They remained like that for a few moments, doubled over, leaning against each other, wiping tears from their eyes.
“Seriously, girl,” Fatima said, wiping her eyes, “I can’t believe the balls on you. You’re my new hero.”
Delilah was aware of a changed dynamic. It made sense. They had just shared danger, and now the catharsis of laughter once the danger had passed. And she was intrigued, and pleased, at the changes she’d detected in Fatima’s speech patterns. This was the first time the woman had permitted herself to use vulgarities, for one thing. And calling Delilah “girl” was new, too. Those two assholes outside Momtaz might have been a blessing in disguise.
“Me?” she said. “What about you? ‘Whores don’t look for cock, they look for money. Although I doubt the two of you could help with either’? That was brilliant!”
And then they were cracking up again. When the second bout had subsided, Fatima said, “Oh man, I’m completely wired. I’m never going to sleep tonight.”
“I know. Me, too.”
“Do you want to get a drink?”
“Want one? Hell, I need one.”
They laughed again. Fatima led the way to a nearby place called The Union Bar & Grill. It was a nice enough spot — a lot of wood, leather couches, windows overlooking the Grand Union Canal, the smell of coffee and pub food — but the main thing for Delilah was the alcohol. She wanted to see how much further Fatima might drop her guard, how much additional rapport she might build on top of what the incident outside of Momtaz had fortuitously initiated.
The place was crowded, but they prevailed upon a few women to move to the end of one of the couches, and were then able to squeeze in alongside each other easily enough. Delilah was glad they were sharing the couch with women. If it had been men, they never would have been left alone.
“You feel like some wine?” Delilah asked. She had nothing against cocktails, but with a cocktail it was too easy to stop after one glass. A bottle was different — it was there, it was paid for, it was a shame to waste it. And given Fatima’s current giddiness, Delilah was curious indeed to see what elements of her personality might reveal themselves after several glasses.
“Perfect. Do you want to recommend something?”
“Ah, you’re putting me on the spot because I’m French?”
Fatima laughed. “Do you get that a lot?”
“Sometimes. But I don’t mind. I love wine.”
She was thinking about a Beaujolais Cru, but was surprised to see on the menu a 2007 Emilio’s Terrace from Schlein Vineyard in Napa Valley, California. That was a rare find. She ordered them a bottle.
“Why do you carry a knife?” Fatima asked, when the waitress had departed.
“I was attacked once, in Paris.”
“I’m so sorry. Were you… hurt?”
A politely oblique way of asking and Delilah appreciated it. As usual in such matters, she wasn’t lying. She was simply rearranging the truth.
“No. I was lucky. But I decided I didn’t want to have to be lucky again. So when I go out, especially at night, I make sure to carry my little friend.”
“Can I see it?”
Delilah looked around. A few men were watching them, and Delilah made sure to avoid eye contact, lest someone mistake it as an invitation.
She eased the Hideaway out and concealed it in her palm. She wasn’t worried that Fatima would notice the unusual material. Composite knives could be had commercially, though not of this quality.
“Behind the menu,” she said. “Too many of these men are looking at you and I don’t think it’s okay to carry a knife in London.”
“At me? I think they’re looking at both of us.”
“Well, that’s probably true.”
She gripped the blade and extended it grip-side forward to Fatima. “Here, let’s see if it fits. Over your index and middle fingers. Careful, it’s very sharp. Oh yes, I think it fits quite nicely.”
Fatima made a fist, turned it toward her face, and observed it for a moment. “Wow.”
“You see? Small, but concealable, accessible, and very hard to take away. Those assholes got lucky tonight, no? That those other two men came to save them.”
Fatima laughed and gave her back the knife. She extended it edge-first, something someone experienced with blades wouldn’t do.
The waitress brought the wine. Delilah eschewed her offer to pour. She wanted just a little at first. The rest should have a chance to breathe.
“Who do you think they were, though?” she asked as she filled each glass with a small measure. “One guy with a knife, one guy with a baton… undercover cops? But then why would they have said, ‘Police no good’?”
She was deliberately playing it clueless. There was no way those men were cops. A cop might carry a baton, but he wouldn’t attack without warning like that. And she’d yet to see a cop pull a knife and hold it to someone’s throat to gain compliance. Or chase an assailant away after without bothering to arrest him.
“I don’t know who they were,” Fatima said, picking up her glass. “But I’m glad they showed up.”
For the second time, Delilah had the sense that Fatima was being untruthful about those men. She needed to think more, to process things. But that would have to wait.
They touched glasses and drank. “Wow,” Fatima said. “You’ve upheld your national honor. Even if you didn’t order something French.”
Delilah laughed. “You like it?”
“It’s delicious.”
“Yes, the 2007 harvest was a winemaker’s dream. A warm, dry spring; no heat waves during the summer months; the fruit maturing slowly and evenly. Any honest French vintner must salute this wine.”
Fatima, still obviously giddy from the aftermath of danger, finished her glass quickly. Delilah followed suit, then poured them each another. The wine was wonderfully warm in her belly, and she felt a slight, welcome fuzziness at the edges of her perception.
They settled back into the couch side by side. The sounds of laughter and conversation around them were comforting and convivial, a cocoon of warm sound that made their end of the couch feel personal, private, a refuge from the world.
“May I ask a question?” Delilah said as they sipped the wine. “Not for the interview. Just as a friend.”