“It’s good to see you, Devon.”
She meant it, too. They hadn’t known each other well but she’d been impressed by him, and—style upgrade and facial hair apart—he was the same man; black skin still unlined, eyes still clear. It occurred to her that this was the first time she’d seen him since Emma’s funeral, and they hadn’t spoken then beyond brief condolences. The death of a common friend could be a barrier as much as a bridge, the more so when guilt was involved. Slough House was the reason Emma wasn’t around any more. Slough House was the book of Louisa’s dead. Inside its pages love and friendship were buried, alongside others who had mattered less to her, but who were no less gone.
Because there was wine on the table already, and Devon was pouring her a glass as she sat, she made her opening remarks to it. “I miss Emma. I didn’t know her well, though we were getting there. But I respected her and I liked her and I wish she were still around. I know you were close. I’m sorry you lost your friend.”
He said, “She said something similar about you. That you were getting to know each other, I mean. Not the stuff about respecting or liking you.”
“Thanks.”
“Yeah, Emma didn’t go in for that. But if she hadn’t liked you, you’d have known about it.” He raised his glass. “Absences.”
She tapped it with hers. “Emma.”
They drank, and Louisa said, “You left the Park on your own two legs, I heard.”
“I walked before they made me run,” he said. “When Emma quit, the writing was on the wall. They weren’t going to promote her BFF to take her place, and I didn’t want to work under whoever that turned out to be. Also, I was ready for a change. It turns out I bore quite easily.”
I’m made of sterner stuff, thought Louisa. “And your new line?”
“Personal protection services.”
“That sounds . . .”
Tact draped itself in an ellipsis.
He said, “Don’t be afraid to use the phrase ‘well dodgy.’”
“Well dodgy.”
“I can see how you’d think that. But it’s not all babysitting rich bastards. Much of the time, we’re analysts. You know, offering advice on how to manage home life when you’re in a public position. Kids’ schooling, family holidays and so on.”
“To rich bastards.”
“Well, yes, I was trying to skate that past you. Obviously rich bastards, or they’d neither need nor afford the service. Though in fact we also do some, well, not exactly pro bono, but we give reduced rates to deserving causes. As for the rest, bastards or not, none of them are scumbags. I’m sure you appreciate the distinction.”
“No guns, drugs or rabble-rousers.”
“We vet our client list. Anyone likely to end up in the Hague or the Old Bailey, we nix. Nepo-brats are an occupational hazard, as are former politicos living with death threats. But no one I’ve worked with has seen the inside of a cell.”
“That’s noble. It’s like you’re the Lone Ranger or something.”
“It’s pragmatism. Anyone with a chance of winding up behind bars is less likely to pay their bill. But not only that. If Emma—I mean, she’d have skinned me alive.”
That much was true.
“But I won’t pretend it’s a charity. It’s a well-paying gig. Ever flown in a private jet?”
“I’ve driven in a private car. And ridden on a private bike. But no, never.”
“It’s an experience.” Being in the presence of someone else’s wealth didn’t strike Louisa as the kind of experience she wanted, but Devon was clearly on a mission to impress. “And the pay’s good, like I said. And also, I’m going to cut to the chase, every so often you get to beat the crap out of a lowlife.”
“Seriously?”
“Well, no, but you get to act as if you might. And I mentioned the pay, didn’t I?”
“Often enough that tonight is on you. What’s up, Devon? I’m glad you’ve found a soft landing, but—”
“We’re recruiting.”
“Ah.”
“And your name came up.”
Which gave her something to think about while the waiter appeared and took their order. She opted for the fish; Devon for the mushroom risotto. They had enough wine for the moment, though the waiter did his best to remedy that by refilling their glasses uninvited. When he’d gone again, she picked up where they’d left off. “Came up? How did that happen?”
Welles dipped his head modestly.
“Well, thanks. I guess. But I’m not sure it’s for me.”
“Can’t know until you try. You’d be a shoo-in—there’s marksmanship as well as fitness, and you’re savvy enough to ace the paperwork. All of which is to say, it’s a serious business. We don’t just hoover up Service and forces dropouts. And I’d like to have you on my team.”
“Your team?”
“Did I skip that bit? Yeah, my team. You’d get to call me guv, or possibly sir. There’d be a certain amount of forelock tugging, some small acts of abasement. You know the drill.”
“That’s a big selling point. But seriously—”
“Want to know how much I earn?”
“Not really.”
“Low six figures. Plus a car and other perks. Want to know how much my crew earn?”
“Not really.”
“High five figures. They don’t get cars though, the sad fuckers. How much are you on, Louisa?” She added ten. He shook his head. “I was on more than that at the Park, and one of the reasons I left was finding it hard to get by. And that was before the economy tanked.”
“I have a modest lifestyle.”
“Time you could afford better. And Louisa—Slough House? Seriously? You’ve been there too long, for all the wrong reasons. You’re never going back to the Park, because they’ll never let you, and more fool them. Why spend the rest of your life paying for one mistake you made years ago? Walk away now and make some money. Close the book on Slough House. It’s a shithole, you know it is. How is Lamb, anyway?”
“You really care?”
“Nope. Round the Park, they called him Prospero, you know that?”
“Because . . . ?”
“He breaks his staff.”
“No they didn’t.”
“Yeah, okay. Would’ve been good, though. And he is a dinosaur.”
“If you mean he’s a thick-skinned bastard it’ll probably take a meteor to kill, then I’d have to agree.”
Their food arrived, in portions small enough that Louisa hoped the bill was a stinker. So maybe this was the life she was missing: being overcharged for undersized meals, while the waitstaff filled your glass before you were ready . . . And not spending the rest of the week living out of tins. A high five figure would dull the pain all right.
There were other pains, though. When Emma died, she’d been wearing Louisa’s coat, and Louisa had never quite rid herself of the notion that the two facts were connected.
For the rest of the evening, they spoke of other things, Welles apparently satisfied that he’d planted the seed. He admired her sunflower brooch. She teased him about the suit, and he told her how much it cost. He was living in Peckham, he told her; a duplex. Next year’s holiday: Machu Picchu. That they weren’t in fact talking of other things landed slowly, so maybe she wasn’t cut out for intelligence work after all. But she was enjoying his company, and he ordered a second bottle.
Later, when they were parting, he said, “Don’t think about it too long, Louisa. For your sake, not mine. Stay where you are much longer, you’ll lose the will to leave. No pun intended.”
“I appreciate the offer. Thank you.”
But don’t pass judgement on my life.
It was the last thing she needed, she thought, waiting for her Uber. But only because not a day went by that she didn’t do that for herself.