New York City – September 2013:
The woman standing near the doorway of the train was not remarkable in any way; she drew no unwanted stares from bored men, which was just the way she liked it. Aged somewhere in that vast grey area where youth gave way to middle age, she stared through the window as the train sped through the subway, her thoughts clearly elsewhere. She took the same train to Manhattan at the same time each week. From her small second floor apartment in Brooklyn, the subway spat her out on Lexington Avenue at 77th Street, just around the corner from where her employer had an office.
Gene Greczyn was not exactly her employer, but he had sufficient power over her for her to deliver her reports on time, and to not question him when he suggested a search or an in-depth analysis which had her wincing, hoping her discomfort did not show. On this day, Gene was distracted and irritable, and since Gene was a chain smoker, the air in his office was heavy with second hand smoke. The woman thought to suggest he look out for his health, but deep inside herself she didn't care; she hoped the smoking killed him, and the sooner the better. She coughed, and when he glared at her across his desk, she looked away, pretending to be gazing through the window at the sandwich shop across the street where, every Monday at the same time, she bought lunch.
Gene Greczyn flicked through the files she'd handed him, and nodded, before grabbing a fresh pile of files from inside a locked drawer. "Here's the next lot," he said, only looking into her eyes for a millisecond. Personal interaction was not part of Gene's skill set. He much preferred the phone. He'd ring her every Sunday night to check that she'd be in his office at eleven the next day. Each Sunday night the woman said yes, she'd be ready, and Gene always acknowledged her answer with a grunt. He was not an eloquent man.
"I don't know why we don't do this exchange electronically," the woman said wearily, perhaps for the twentieth time, as she pushed a lock of brown hair behind one ear.
"You know why," Gene always replied. The woman wondered whether she made the suggestion just to hear Gene's reason – a different one each week. "For all I know you could be in Florida, laying on a beach, working on a tan. You're here to work, and my job is to ensure that happens."
Two weeks ago he had suggested she could be in Canada for all he knew, enjoying the night life in Montreal. The week before that he'd worried she might be in San Francisco, lounging around in a commune in the mountains above the city. Only six weeks earlier his concern was that she might be in Alaska, training for the next Iditarod. Gene was a regular travel buff, but it was clear he hadn't travelled outside the city limits of New York since 1975. He never mentioned her home, which was where she dearly longed to be. He never mentioned London, and more than anything, she longed to know when she'd be free to return home. To mention this was to draw a heavy sigh from Gene, along with a, "when it's time for you to leave", spoken with practised weariness.
Gene Greczyn wasn't CIA, he was an agent, which meant that he did their dirty work for them. He was a go-between, a small cog in an enormous wheel, and the woman suspected that his regular bad mood had something to do with his continuing lowly status. Gene's uniform was a pair of jeans and a blue and white checked shirt. In cold weather he wore a brown leather jacket which appeared to have been purchased some time prior to 1980. His hair was dark brown, which he wore very short. The woman suspected he had it cut weekly, because it always appeared to be the same length. Either that, or he wore a wig. She'd never ventured close enough to him to find out. He stank of cigarettes and disappointment, and she was relieved each week when he dismissed her with a flick of his fingers. "Now get outta here," he'd say, sounding like the New Jersey gangster he'd rather have been, had he been born into a different place and time.
With the next week's files safely locked in her leather brief case, the woman crossed the road to the sandwich shop, called Louie's for reasons no-one had been able to tell her. At the insistence of Gabe, a young man whose smile could illuminate a room, the woman always ordered pastrami on rye, made by Gabe, but without pickles, which the woman couldn't abide. "There's a spare table outside on the sidewalk," he said, lifting his chin in the direction of a lone table for two.
The woman took her time, wondering would it be in her best interests to linger, given Gene had handed her a thick wad of files, far more than usual. Would she be better off carrying her sandwich with her, returning home via the subway? She was standing just inside the door, her eyes unfocused, unsure of what to do, when she heard the raised voice of a woman from behind her.
"What is this?" the voice said. She heard Gabe speak quietly to the other woman, but it wasn't so much what was being said as it was the accent in which the other woman had spoken. "There's enough bacon in this to kill Elvis several times over," the upset woman said, "and I can't imagine how many pigs sacrificed their lives in the process."
"Lady," she heard Gabe say in placating tones, "our sandwiches are made with the best ingredients in New York."
"I don't care if you hand raised the pig yourself, that is far too much bacon for my small frame."
"Then let me make you another."
"Are you mad? I can't possibly eat this. My cardiologist would himself have a coronary. "
Which is when the quiet Englishwoman intervened. "It's all right," she said calmly from beside the other woman's elbow. "I know somewhere you might .. prefer." The quiet woman with the brief case smiled at Gabe, nodding when he removed the offending sandwich from on top of the counter. "This is another one for the homeless," Gabe said, his smile having faded.
"Oh, thank God," the complaining woman said, her English accent ringing through the interior of Louie's, "someone who speaks my language."
The quiet woman drew the other woman aside, leaving room for customers who were calling out their orders. The quiet woman noted that the other Englishwoman was older than she was – perhaps in her mid to late fifties – but very well dressed, her makeup applied with care, her dark blond hair, pulled back from her face in a chignon. "Perhaps if we ..." said the quiet woman, glancing to the pavement just outside the door. The older woman understood, following her outside, where it was equally as noisy, with taxis ruling the street, fighting for supremacy with vans and trucks, motor cyclists and cyclists. For as far as she could see, Lexington Avenue was flanked by brownstones.
"I thought London was noisy, but this takes the cake," said the smart woman.
The quiet woman smiled, but all she said was, "follow me – I know a place I'm sure you'll like." To her surprise, the older Englishwoman followed without question or complaint.
The quiet woman led her companion down a narrow street off Lexington. "You're not about to mug me, are you?" the older woman said, a trace of nervous laughter in her voice.
"You're safe here," said the quiet woman, "and you'll be safe with me. In two years I've not once been mugged."
"Two years," the smart woman exclaimed. "You must be a saint."
Drawing level with a red brick building, a weather-worn painted sign advertising Lipton Tea emblazoned along the brickwork, they turned down a narrow lane, which opened into a large conservatory, a glass encased room filled with light. The sign above the doorway read, The English Conservatory.
"Oh, how wonderful," the older woman exclaimed, "I think I've stumbled upon a little slice of home. I'd never have known this was here."
Inside the glass enclosure were tables covered with white tablecloths made of linen, with upholstered, high backed chairs. Perhaps half the tables were occupied, and people drank from china cups with saucers. "It's a little over-priced. I hope you don't mind."
"Oh, tosh," said the older woman. "The very least I can do is to buy you tea and scones." Wrinkling her nose, she pointed to the sandwich which the quiet woman held in her hand. "That," she added, "you can take home with you. You do live in this godforsaken place, don't you?"
"I do."
Finding herself in her natural habitat, the older woman led them to a table for two, standing aside while she allowed the younger woman to choose her seat. Dotted around the perimeter were potted palms. "We could almost be in the Dorchester," she said, smiling at her companion, who had only ever been inside the Dorchester once in her life, and that had been when she was a child, and she'd been accompanied by her parents.
Suddenly remembering her manners, the quiet woman held out her hand and said shyly, "My name is Alison," she said, "Alison Craig."
"Pleased to meet you, Alison. My name is Jane. Jane Middleton. I am so pleased to have been rescued by a decent human being."
A waitress in black skirt and white shirt hovered nearby, and Alison sat back in her chair while her companion ordered a pot of English Breakfast for two, with scones, jam and cream. "I hope you're not on some diet or other," Jane said, once the waitress had left with their order. "I'm sure that scones are better for you than that thing you bought at the sandwich shop."
Alison smiled, opening her briefcase to slide the sandwich into the front pocket, along with her wallet and some pens. Her mobile phone occupied a slim pocket all of its own. She was rather curious about why this woman had visited Louie's for lunch, when her tastes were clearly more bland, more English, but she was happy to live without knowing the reason.
"So tell me how you, a polite Englishwoman, came to be living in this corner of hell."
Alison smiled. She was unused to small talk, and only engaged in it when she had to, and this seemed to be one of those times. She knew nothing about Jane Middleton, other than she was English, and clearly minted. She was also conscious that the woman may have been a plant, so she had to mind what she said. "I'm working here. I'm on a two year contract, which is almost up. I'm hoping I can return to London next month."
"Surely you can do what you like once your contract is up. You can kick up your heels and enjoy a holiday. What is it you do?"
Ah, the question which required the most creative, but believable answer. She had found that the truth worked best. "I'm a translator. I'm an expert in Arabic and also several of the Chinese dialects."
"My goodness. You must be clever."
"Not really," Alison replied in her quiet way. "I'm just good with languages. I always have been." And not terribly good with people, but she'd not say that aloud. People had always wanted more from her than she had to give, and of course, translating was not her only skill which was being milked by the CIA, but translating satisfied most people, being something understood by most. Were she to begin yammering on about analysing information from the Middle East and China, then this woman would most likely be suspicious of her. She had found that a modest approach worked best. "And what is it you do, Jane?"
Jane threw her head back and laughed, and although her laugh was somewhat controlled, it was surprisingly loud, causing other customers to glance their way. "I'm a lady of leisure," she replied after a time. "I haven't had to work since I moved in with my second husband."
"Second husband?"
"Second of three."
"Goodness, I haven't even managed one marriage."
"I find that hard to believe, Alison. You're very pretty, but I suspect that you don't believe it. You must have loved someone sometime … surely. I can't believe you haven't been asked."
Oh, God. Why had she felt the need to rescue this woman? "I .. yes, I've been asked."
"I sense a juicy story there somewhere." Jane was leaning forward, her eyes glowing. While Alison quite liked this odd woman, she also knew she must be wary and forever circumspect. Both having been English born was not an adequate basis for friendship. The words, `trust no-one' were never more true than at that moment.
"It's a story, yes, but not so much juicy as sad. I once lived with a man who wanted to marry me, and I kept procrastinating over my decision, and then he died."
"So we've both lost someone," Jane murmured distractedly. "My second husband died suddenly after only eighteen months of marriage."
"I'm sorry .. about that."
"And then I met Tony, but … was it only the one man who wanted to marry you? Surely there were oodles of men trying to break down your door."
Alison stifled a smile. This woman was something; she could talk about the death of husband #2 in the same breath as creating an impossible word picture of Alison's flat being besieged by suitors. "There was .. someone else who asked, but I turned him down."
"And wished you hadn't."
"Pardon me?"
"You wished you hadn't .. turned down the second man. I can read that particular detail in your face. I'm good at that – reading faces. My husband says I'm psychic, but there's no psychic ability required; just a particular way of watching and listening."
Alison quickly broke eye contact, and then their tea and scones were served, and so she breathed easily once more. "Why do women, when we get together, always gravitate towards talking about men?"
"Because we're so much stronger and wiser than they are, but despite that imbalance, we've been conditioned to believe we need them."
Alison had been adding milk and sugar to her tea, and so pretended to not have heard Jane's words, but she'd heard them all right. It was clear to Alison that the other woman had saddled herself with three rather ordinary men. Either that, or she simply had questionable taste in men. Had she told herself she needed men? Alison didn't think so. It's just that one man in particular had managed to burrow under her skin, and two years after having last seen him, he was still there.
"I rather like New York," she said at last, having broken one scone in halves and piled on the jam and clotted cream.
"Now you've changed the subject," Jane retorted.
"I don't know what to say. Having never been married, I've always believed that perhaps marriage just wasn't for me."
"Well .. all I can say is I admire your independence. I wish I felt able to look after myself as well as you do."
But I don't always look after myself well, Alison thought, and there are days when I don't want to … especially since leaving England. She had nothing to say to Jane about that. Perceptions could be so deceiving.
While they ate their scones, conversation took a back seat, as Jane commented on the jam – strawberry conserve, imported from England – and the scones – exactly like her own mother's recipe. "Were she not already dead, I'd swear they had her in the kitchen, rustling up another batch."
Alison had finished her scone, and was hoping there would be a long enough lull in conversation for her to be able to make her excuses and leave without offending this rather kind woman. Alison suspected Jane Middleton was deeply lonely, and having met another English person, and one who was prepared to speak with her, as well as listen, Jane was not about to allow her to leave without a full discussion about marriage and husbands, a subject not terribly close to Alison's heart. While Jane was picking at the last half of her scone there was a long period during which neither woman spoke, and Alison was about to announce her intention to leave when her companion began all over again, and what she revealed left Alison breathless … twice.
"My last two husbands were in business. Well .. Tony still is. He's three years younger than I am, so not yet ready for retirement. And -"
"Tony .. you mean, you're married to Anthony Middleton."
"Yes, I am. Why?"
"Sir Anthony Middleton?"
"It's just a title. I don't even know for sure what he did to get it, but it certainly opens some doors."
"I .. you never said."
"Well, Alison, to me he's just Tony, a rather sweet man who forgets things like birthdays and anniversaries because his head is filled with rather large numbers."
"He's in line for a Tory party nomination."
"Not if I have my way. Who in their right mind would want to be married to a politician?" Then, if Alison had not been perplexed enough, her next statement had her head spinning. "Two of my three husbands are Knights of the Realm. Can you believe that? Why is it about toffs that I find attractive?"
"Two? Who is the other one?"
"It's hardly likely you'd know him, and he was only knighted a few years back, long after we divorced. His name is Harry Pearce." Alison stared across the table at Jane, almost unable to breathe. "See? I told you you wouldn't have heard of him. He worked for Mi5. The man was a spy."
A/N: Now that you know for sure the identity of Jane Middleton, I need to say that this story is not in any way a follow-on from the earlier stories I wrote featuring Jane. While there may be similarities between the two characters, I have toned down this Jane just a teensy bit.
