For a second, Georgie thought of saying hello, pushing herself in front of him to test his reactions, prod at him a little. Would he be embarrassed by his avoidance of her? But she thought better of it. After they each checked out of the Bristol, she and Max would see little of each other, perhaps only crossing paths at press conferences. Or she might simply read his reports in the Telegraph from time to time. That would suit her fine.
Stepping into La Taverne restaurant alongside Rod later that evening was a delight. It felt immediately like a homecoming to Georgie, a thin cigarette haze hovering at ceiling height instead of the swirling fog of a London pub. Some of the Adlon crowd had simply upped sticks and transported themselves into a much less salubrious, but essentially relaxed, venue, clustered around a large table in the corner of one room that led into two others, all three full of diners and a steady hubbub of conversation. The smell and the theme were unmistakably Italian and yet it was a very rounded, moustached man who greeted them – only in full lederhosen could he have looked more German.
‘Hallo, Herr Faber,’ he bellowed as they eased in around the table. ‘The usual?’
‘Danke, Herr Lehmann,’ he said, ‘and the same for my friend.’ That was the choice tonight, it seemed – beer or beer. Georgie made a note to check her alcohol consumption and take it slowly.
While the Adlon was a regular haunt of the foreign press, this was clearly their daily respite – a real home from home. The owner kept back the same large table every night, certain of one or two desiring a bolthole, sometimes a whole posse of reporters late into the night – depending on their press deadlines back home – chewing over the day’s news or frustrations about Bruno Bauer and his PR fortress.
The florid red hair and sizeable moustache of Bill Porter were instantly familiar, alongside a few whose names were not yet fully registered in her memory.
‘The booze here is fine,’ Bill said in a low voice as Georgie edged into a seat beside him, ‘but the pasta is even better. I recommend it.’ As if on cue, a painfully thin woman placed a steaming bowl of spaghetti in front of him and smiled at Bill.
‘Danke.’ His bright green eyes signalled a total love of her cooking. ‘If she wasn’t already married to the owner, she’d be my dream woman,’ he whispered with pure mischief.
‘Then I promise I won’t tell your wife.’ Georgie felt relaxed, among friends and, perhaps for the first time since arriving in Berlin, truly at home.
The conversation was animated, with a great deal of caustic humour about the Nazi high command, and not merely centred on Adolf Hitler. The crowd’s descriptions of Heinrich Himmler – the bespectacled Gestapo chief – and larger-than-life Hermann Göring were puppet caricatures painted with their wit.
‘Last night I was sitting behind old Hermann at a concert and I heard one old dear say he possessed the “hind end of an elephant”,’ said the Daily Herald reporter, to peals of laughter. ‘She practically shouted it. I desperately wanted to use it in my copy – then I thought about the Gestapo knocking on my door and marching me off to the bowels of their HQ.’
‘Perhaps it’s best to keep that observation under wraps,’ Bill said, between mouthfuls of pasta. ‘We like having you around for now.’
A woman’s voice travelled across the table: ‘Just watch your back, and your own bottom, if you get anywhere within pinching distance of fat Hermann. He may be a portly old so-and-so, but he’s got very quick hands.’
It was one of the two women Georgie had noted at the far end of the table on arriving, the same two on that first day at the Adlon in their very private huddle. Now, they were part of the relaxed crowd, laughing and smoking.
‘Frida Borken,’ she said in a light German accent, extending a long, thin hand. ‘Freelance. And this is Simone Doucette – French free press.’
Georgie muttered something out of politeness but could really only gawp in wonder. They were stunning, each in their own way, the epitome of everything she had admired in her journey to being a female correspondent, oozing confidence and certainty.
Frida’s face was that of a pixie, her enormous doll-like eyes emphasised with ebony kohl and mascara, tiny bow lips stark red with lipstick. She wore a tweed, tailored jacket, a cream shirt and a bright red tie, as if she were just off to a shooting party. Topping it all off was a shocking and sharp blonde bob, cut bluntly to her jawline; a darling who’d just leapt off the fashion pages.
Simone, by comparison, presented as a pre-Raphaelite painting; long, wavy reddish hair pulled into a loose tie, pinned in some way to the top of her head and cascading like a waterfall, strands falling either side of her pale oval face, her grey irises outlined with a thick, black rim. It gave her a ghostly, ethereal quality. The spectre in her was intensified by a cloud of grey cigarette smoke and a shimmering scarf swirling around her neck.
When they both smiled broadly, however, the complete awe that Georgie felt melted a little.
‘Welcome to our little group,’ Frida said, shuffling in and causing the fluid table dynamic to shift again. Georgie moulded as part of their little cluster, more so when the two discovered she’d been part of the fashion press, pumping her for the latest gossip from Paris and London, though she had little of recent value to tell.
‘So, where are you staying?’ Frida said, picking at Bill’s leftover pasta. With her near-skeletal wrists, Georgie wondered if scraps were the only eating she ever ate.
‘The Hotel Bristol for now, though I only have two days left. I’m looking for a flat-share.’
The two women stopped and looked at each other; something passed silently between them and Frida’s eyes grew even wider. Her red bow lips spread.
‘Well, it just so happens we have a spare room in our flat,’ she said. ‘Clare Howard moved off to report from the Spanish Front yesterday. It’s fated, surely?’
The rent, fortunately, was within Georgie’s budget and she didn’t doubt it to be stylish, with Frida and Simone’s influence. And it was only a short tram ride from the centre of Berlin and the Chronicle office.
‘Then it’s a yes!’ Georgie said. ‘When can I move in?’
The glow surrounding Georgie was partly down to the beer, but also the company and her day’s exploits – she had bagged herself a contact and a flat in the space of a week. Yes, by a combination of coincidence and assistance, but it was done. Now, all she needed was a driver, and a clutch of stories to make her name. She was allowing herself a virtual hug of congratulation when the door opened and Max Spender walked in with a youngish man, the dour Manchester Guardian reporter.
There was a slight thud to her heart, perhaps nudging at her very round bubble of happiness, and she struggled to understand why. She neither understood nor matched Max’s dislike of her, but his presence then was a smudge on her otherwise perfect evening. One saving grace: the bird-like woman was absent. The two men were absorbed onto the table with Herr Lehmann bringing more chairs and beer, and Max eased swiftly into being ‘one of the boys’. She wondered how he gained such skills so quickly, and although she hated herself for it, there was a stab of envy directed at him. Why did it take her time to trust and join in the general bonhomie of the newspaper world, when everyone else managed it so effortlessly?