We held hands clear across the Atlantic. The stewardesses-healthy-looking, friendly British girls who were a pleasant change of pace from the movie queens officiating on American airlines-spotted us as newlyweds immediately, as they were supposed to. They thought my bride was a living doll, but they weren't quite sure she hadn't made a mistake in marrying an older man. However, I seemed to appreciate her, and that inclined them to forgive me my advanced years-I won't say how advanced; I'll just say that neither girl was much over twenty.
Over the ocean, we met the new day traveling westward. The night hadn't lasted more than a few hours, jet travel being what it is. At London's Heathrow Airport, the passport-and-customs bit was rudimentary. Afterwards, a man from Claridge's Hotel descended on us, stuck us in a taxi, and aimed us hotelward.
"Is that all there's to it?" my Winifred asked as we rode through the frantic, left-handed London traffic. I saw that she was genuinely surprised. I guess she'd come from places where border formalities were taken more seriously.
I said, "Unless we decide to visit behind the Iron Curtain, the only time we're likely to have any trouble is when we're getting back into the U.S. Then we can expect to be treated as hardened criminals with evil intentions- although I've heard rumors that even our savage customs watchdogs are on a courtesy kick these days." After a while, I said, "There's where we're staying, honey. Pipe the doorman in top hat and knee breeches."
Winnie played up, looking at first prettily intrigued and then a little dubious, like the naпve country bride she was supposed to be. "But isn't it terribly expensive? And and fancy? My clothes aren't really…"
"Your clothes are swell," I said. "I saved money on the plane tickets so we could blow it here. Everybody ought to stay at Claridge's once. Don't be scared, baby. Hell, they let the queen of Holland stay here all during World War II, and she isn't half as good-looking as you are."
This exchange was probably wasted on the cab driver behind his glass partition, but it warmed us up for our performance inside the hotel. In our best self-conscious-newlywed manner, we ran the gantlet of polite, formally attired reception clerks-the tailcoat industry would be in a bad way if it lost the trade of European hostelries-and were ushered into a third-floor room large enough so that, if you needed exercise, you could roll back the rug and play handball beyond the bed. After a couple of vigorous games, you could cool off in a tub large enough to swim in. The phone was supplemented by various auxiliary bell systems for summoning waiters, maids, and valets. It was quite a layout, in its quiet, old-fashioned, overstuffed way.
"Gee, it's gorgeous," said my bride, wide-eyed. "But… but can we really afford it, dear?"
I said, "What's money, honey? It isn't every day a man gets married."
I put my arm around her shoulders and gave her a loving hug while passing some British change to the bellboy, who bowed and withdrew. There had been some discussion in Washington as to whether a man, even an experienced agent, embarking on his honeymoon after a brief, breathless courtship, would be foresighted enough to provide himself with foreign currency. It had been decided that he would, if only to impress his sweet little bride with his worldly knowledge.
When the door had closed behind the boy, said sweet little bride twisted free abruptly.
"Jesus Christ!" she said. "Haven't you any sense at all?"
It was a different voice from the shy, birdlike tones she'd been using: deeper and harsher. It took me by surprise.
"What's the matter?"
She touched her upper arm tenderly. "Here every damn horse-doctor south of the Equator has been running six-inch needles into my arms and rump-both rumps-and you've got to go squeezing me like a ripe lime you're about to drop into a nice gin and tonic!" She caught the uneasy glance I threw around the room, and went on irritably: "Oh. hell, relax! Give your profession a rest, Mr. Helm. I'm just as security-conscious as you are, but if somebody knows enough about us already to have this room bugged waiting for us, our whole act's a big waste of time and you know it. So for now, in here, we can just be ourselves, whoever that is. Sometimes I kind of forget, don't you?"
I knew what she meant, of course. After pretending to be a certain number of other people, you tend to lose track of the person you really are. However, it didn't seem like the moment for a discussion of the psychological hazards of the trade.
"Sorry about your arm," I said. "I wasn't thinking, I guess."
She pulled off her hat, threw it at a chair, and shook Out her blond hair. It was rather short, very fine, and a little mussed and matted now from long confinement. She squirmed out of her little jacket and dropped it on top of the hat. She smoothed her frilly white blouse into her abbreviated blue skirt and drew a long breath.
"God, what a week!" she said. "I don't think I've spent more than a day of it below thirty thousand feet. If I have to strap myself into another airplane seat, I'll go stir-crazy."
I said, "If airplane seats give you claustrophobia, doll, you'll flip twice when you see the car we're getting. It's a real shoehorn job."
"I know," she said. "They told me. One of those lousy little sports cars. Whose bright idea was that?"
"Mine," I said. "I like them, big or little, and I'm the guy who'll be doing most of the driving. And you haven't seen the deer paths they use for roads in this country. I figured we'd better have something small, but fast and agile, just in case. Besides, it's just the kind of flashy car a sophisticated jerk named Helm would buy so he could show off his driving ability to his innocent young bride." I grinned at her. "Hi, Bridie."
She looked up at me for a moment. Then she gave me a funny, crooked little smile in return. I still knew her hardly at all, certainly not well enough to read her mind, but just then I knew in a general way what she was thinking about, because I was thinking about the same thing. I mean, we'd discussed everything from hypodermic injections to automobiles, but there was one subject that remained untouched, and it couldn't be ignored forever.
Winifred sighed, and looked down, and began to unbutton her blouse. I didn't say anything. She looked up again, rather defiantly.
"Well, we'd better get it over with, hadn't we?"
"You call it," I said.
She said, "Hell, we've got a lot of beds to inhabit in the next week or so, and orders are to make the springs creak convincingly. We'd better kind of get acquainted, if you know what I mean, before we have an audience." She walked quickly over to her suitcase, yanked it open, and tossed some fragile white lingerie my way. "Pick the one that arouses the beast in you, Mr. Helm. We can't have the maid seeing the bridal nighties all in mint condition. And for God's sake take it easy. Remember I'm tender practically all over."
chapter THREE
It wasn't the most passionate performance of my life. I found it difficult to work up a lot of enthusiasm over the idea of raping a business associate in broad daylight. Still, she was a good-looking and well-constructed kid, her responses were adequate if not spectacular, and biology is a fairly reliable source of motive power. Afterwards we lay close for a while; then she moved away and wiggled around a bit, pulling the various filmy layers of her trousseau nightie straight about her. Having got herself untangled, she sighed and lay still.
"Well," she said, "that's that."
I couldn't help laughing at her matter-of-fact tone. "I've heard more glowing testimonials."
"No doubt," she murmured, "from volunteer partners, Mr. Helm, but you can hardly expect a girl to go wild over the idea of compulsory copulation. Come to that, I didn't notice you behaving as if I were the answer to your erotic prayers."