Radio Girls Read Online Free Page A

makes me happier than walking around London. History’s lived here. So much began here, so many stories. This is still the center of the universe, and there are still . . . conventions here. I came here hoping to do my bit for Britain, and leaving was so stupid, so cowardly. I made it back and I’ve got to stay. I’ve just got to. This is home. I hope,” she tapered off—her blush was making her face hurt.
    But it was true. She needed this job, needed this room with the desk, the swivel chair, the bird-festooned teacup and saucer. She even needed the terrifying Miss Shields. And the hidden Mr. Reith. If theBBC’s brazen raw newness chafed against her passion for the starch and certainty of tradition and opulence, it also enchanted her with its brightness and bustle. She couldn’t be turned away. She just couldn’t.
    â€œVery nice, I’m sure, Miss Musgrave,” Miss Shields said dryly. “Thank you so much for coming in.” Miss Shields pressed a button by the door and held out her hand. “You will receive a letter in due course telling you of our decision. Rusty shall show you out.”
    Rusty popped up like a groundhog and hovered as Maisie shook Miss Shields’s hand and thanked her with what she hoped wasn’t an excess of sincerity. She tagged after Rusty, feeling her heart oozing through the holes in her shoes. The most important thing was to get outside before the tears came.
    â€œHey, New York!”
    Just as she reached reception, Maisie was stunned to be accosted by Mr. Underwood of the school tie and baggy trousers, pattering down the stairs after her. Still grinning. Still freckled. Eyes still blue—inviting enough that she wanted to learn to swim. Had she ever been smiled at by a man this handsome?
    â€œHave you been to a speakeasy, then? What’s it like? Is Broadway really so bright at night it’s like day? Gosh, I’d rather like to spend just a week there. Must be jolly great fun—not that our London isn’t the best place on earth, of course, and we can get drinks legally, but maybe it’s more fun when you can’t? I’d give a lot to see the Cotton Club. Or do they let white people in?”
    It was like being blown through with machine-gun artillery. The fellow’s interview skills were more daunting than Miss Shields’s, and the questions more impossible to answer. But he was looking at her with interest, which was more than Miss Shields had done and remarkable from a man. Grateful to him for distracting her from her misery, Maisie gave him the one answer she could manage.
    â€œWell, ‘Broadway’ itself is a street, but you mean the theater district. It’s . . . rather . . . well, glorious, really. All those theaters,one after the other, marquees all lit up. I daresay you could read there, though I suppose you wouldn’t want to.”
    To her dismay, he looked disappointed.
    â€œYou don’t talk like an American, not like some of the others who’ve been here, or in the stories.”
    â€œOh. Well, I . . .” She was eager to explain herself using as many choice bits of American slang as she could muster, but those eyes and freckles made syllables hard to come by.
    â€œOi, Underwood!” someone shouted from the top of the steps. “What the devil are you doing, having another tea break? Get yourself back here before the man takes your head off and uses it for a football.”
    â€œSuppose I ought to dash, then,” her interrogator remarked, unruffled. “You’ll be back, will you? I do want to hear more!”
    â€œEr . . . I—I don’t think so,” she mumbled, but he was scaling the stairs two at a time. “Thanks anyway,” she said to his back as it disappeared.
    She glanced at the receptionist, wondering if she should be marked as leaving. The receptionist was simultaneously directing a man