Memories of Midnight

London



Catherine spoke to Constantin Demiris at least once a week and it became a pattern. He kept sending gifts, and when she protested he assured her that they were merely small tokens of his appreciation. "Evelyn told me how well you handled the Baxter situation." Or, "I heard from Evelyn that your idea is saving us a lot of money in shipping charges."



As a matter of fact, Catherine was proud of how well she was doing. She had found half a dozen things in the office that could be improved. Her old skills had come back, and she knew that the efficiency of the office had increased a great deal because of her.



"I'm very proud of you," Constantin Demiris told her.



And Catherine felt a glow. He was such a wonderful, caring man.



It's almost time to make my move, Demiris decided. With Stavros and Chotas safely out of the way, the only person who could link him with what had happened was Catherine. The danger of that was slight but, as Napoleon Chotas had found out, Demiris was not a man to take chances. It's a pity, Demiris thought, that she has to go. She's so beautiful. But first, the villa in Rafina.



He had bought the villa. He would take Catherine there and make love to her just as Larry Douglas had made love to Noelle. After that...



From time to time, Catherine was reminded of the past. She read in the London Times the news of the deaths of Frederick Stavros and Napoleon Chotas, and the names would have meant nothing to her except for the mention that they had been the attorneys for Larry Douglas and Noelle Page.



That night she had the dream again.



One morning, Catherine saw a newspaper item that jolted her:



William Fraser, Assistant to U.S. President Harry Truman, has arrived in London to work out a new trade agreement with the British Prime Minister.



She put down the paper, feeling foolishly vulnerable. William Fraser. He had been such an important part of her life. What would have happened if I hadn't left him?



Catherine sat at her desk, smiling tremulously, staring at the item in the newspaper. William Fraser was one of the dearest men she had ever known. Just the memory of him made her feel warm and loved. And he was here in London. I have to see him, she thought. According to the newspaper, he was staying at Claridge's.



Catherine dialed the number of the hotel, and her fingers were trembling. She had a feeling that the past was about to become the present. She found herself thrilled at the thought of seeing Fraser. What will he say when he hears my voice? When he sees me again?



The operator was saying, "Good morning, Claridge's."



Catherine took a deep breath. "Mr. William Fraser, please."



"I'm sorry, Madam. Did you say Mr. or Mrs. William Fraser?"



Catherine felt as though she had been struck. What a fool I am. Why didn't I think of that? Of course he could be married by now.



"Madam..."



"I...Never mind. Thank you." She slowly replaced the receiver.



I'm too late. It's over. Costa was right. Let the past remain the past.



Loneliness can be a corrosive, eating away at the spirit. Everyone needs to share joy and glory and pain. Catherine was living in a world full of strangers, watching the happiness of other couples, hearing the echo of the laughter of lovers. But she refused to feel sorry for herself.



I'm not the only woman in the world who's alone. I'm alive! I'm alive!



There was never a shortage of things to do in London. The London cinemas were filled with American films and Catherine enjoyed going to them. She saw The Razor's Edge and Anna and the King of Siam. Gentleman's Agreement was a disturbing film, and Cary Grant was wonderful in The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer.



Catherine went to concerts at Albert Hall and attended the ballet at Sadler's Wells. She went to Stratford-upon-Avon to see Anthony Quayle in The Taming of the Shrew, and to see Sir Laurence Olivier in Richard III. But it was no fun going alone.



And then Kirk Reynolds came along.



It was in the office that a tall, attractive man walked up to Catherine and said, "I'm Kirk Reynolds. Where have you been?"



"I beg your pardon?"



"I've been waiting for you."



That was how it began.



Kirk Reynolds was an American attorney, working for Constantin Demiris on international mergers. He was in his forties, serious-minded, intelligent, and attentive.



When she discussed Kirk Reynolds with Evelyn, Catherine said, "Do you know what I like about him most? He makes me feel like a woman. I haven't felt that way in a long time."



"I don't know," Evelyn demurred. "I'd be careful if I were you. Don't rush into anything."



"I won't," Catherine promised.



Kirk Reynolds took Catherine on a legal journey through London. They went to the Old Bailey, where criminals had been tried over the centuries, and they wandered through the main hall of the law courts, past grave-looking barristers in wigs and gowns. They visited the site of Newgate Prison, built in the eighteenth century. Just in front of where the prison had been, the road widened, then unexpectedly narrowed again.



"That's odd," Catherine said. "I wonder why they built the road like that?"



"To accommodate the crowds. This is where they used to hold public executions."



Catherine shuddered. It hit too close to home.



One evening, Kirk Reynolds took Catherine to East India Dock Road, along the piers.



"Not too long ago, this was a place where policemen walked in pairs," Reynolds said. "It was the hangout for criminals."



The area was dark and forbidding, and it still looked dangerous to Catherine.



They had dinner at the Prospect of Whitby, one of England's oldest pubs, seated on a balcony built over the Thames, watching the barges move down the river past the big ships that were on their way to sea.



Catherine loved the unusual names of London pubs. Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese and the Falstaff and the Goat in Boots. On another night they went to a colorful old public house in City Road called the Eagle.



"I'll bet you used to sing about this place when you were a child," Kirk said.



Catherine stared at him. "Sing about it? I've never even heard of this place."



"Yes, you have. The Eagle is where an old nursery rhyme comes from."



"What nursery rhyme?"



"Years ago, City Road used to be the heart of the tailoring trade, and toward the end of the week, the tailors would find themselves short of money, and they'd put their pressing iron - or weasel - into pawn until payday. So someone wrote a nursery rhyme about it:



"Up and down the city road



In and out the Eagle



That's the way the money goes



Pop goes the weasel."



Catherine laughed, "How in the world did you know that?"



"Lawyers are supposed to know everything. But there's one thing I don't know. Do you ski?"



"I'm afraid not. Why...?"



He was suddenly serious. "I'm going up to St. Moritz. They have wonderful ski instructors there. Will you come with me, Catherine?"



The question caught her completely off guard.



Kirk was waiting for an answer.



"I...I don't know, Kirk."



"Will you think about it?"



"Yes." Her body was trembling. She was remembering how exciting it had been to make love with Larry, and she wondered whether she could ever feel anything like that again. "I'll think about it."



Catherine decided to introduce Kirk to Wim.



They picked Wim up at his flat and took him to The Ivy for dinner. During the entire evening, Wim never once looked directly at Kirk Reynolds. He seemed completely withdrawn. Kirk looked askance at Catherine. She mouthed, Talk to him. Kirk nodded and turned to Wim.



"Do you like London, Wim?"



"It's all right."



"Do you have a favorite city?"



"No."



"Do you enjoy your job?"



"It's all right."



Kirk looked at Catherine, shook his head, and shrugged.



Catherine mouthed: Please.



Kirk sighed, and turned back to Wim. "I'm playing golf Sunday, Wim. Do you play?"



Wim said, "In golf the iron-headed clubs are a driving iron midiron mid mashie mashie iron mashie spade mashie mashie niblick niblick shorter niblick and putter. Wooden-headed clubs are the driver brassie spoon and baffy."



Kirk Reynolds blinked. "You must be pretty good."



"He's never played," Catherine explained. "Wim just...knows things. He can do anything with mathematics."



Kirk Reynolds had had enough. He had hoped to spend an evening alone with Catherine, and she had brought along this nuisance.



Kirk forced a smile. "Really?" He turned to Wim and asked innocently, "Do you happen to know the fifty-ninth power of two?"



Wim sat there in silence for thirty seconds studying the tablecloth, and, as Kirk was about to speak, Wim said, "576, 460, 752, 303, 423, 488."



"Jesus!" Kirk said. "Is that for real?"



"Yeah," Wim snarled. "That's for real."



Catherine turned to Wim. "Wim, can you extract the sixth root of..." She picked a number at random. "24,137,585?"



They both watched Wim as he sat there, his face expressionless. Twenty-five seconds later he said, "Seventeen; the remainder is sixteen."



"I can't believe this," Kirk exclaimed.



"Believe it," Catherine told him.



Kirk looked at Wim. "How did you do that?"



Wim shrugged.



Catherine said, "Wim can multiply two four-digit numbers in thirty seconds, and memorize fifty phone numbers in five minutes. Once he's learned them, he never forgets them."



Kirk Reynolds was looking at Wim Vandeen in astonishment. "My office could certainly use someone like you," he said.



"I've got a job," Wim snapped.



When Kirk Reynolds dropped Catherine off at the end of the evening, he said, "You won't forget about St. Moritz, will you?"



"No. I won't forget." Why can't I just say yes?



Constantin Demiris phoned late that night. Catherine was tempted to tell him about Kirk Reynolds, but at the last moment she decided not to.