London Twist: A Delilah Novella

unacceptable to take it now that the op was finished? If she was concerned about anything, it was that MI6 might have Fatima’s place under surveillance, or even bugged. Kent had told her that at some point they’d black-bagged the flat. So in her purse, along with a bottle of Montée de Tonnere she thought would be perfect for a summer evening, she had brought Boaz’s bug detector. If there was a problem inside, she’d know it.
    Fatima answered quickly, opening the door wide and stepping aside so Delilah could walk right in. Delilah glanced quickly left and right and saw no one else in the tiny flat. Fatima immediately bolted the door behind her. “Sorry,” she said quickly. “I don’t have many visitors, but when I do, the neighbors have been nosy.”
    That,
Delilah thought.
Or you’ve developed the uncomfortable—and correct—sense that you’re under a bit more scrutiny than you might really care to acknowledge.
    Fatima was barefoot, in faded jeans and a black cotton turtleneck. Her hair was down and she wore no makeup, not even any foundation over the dark circles. Fatima was presenting herself the way she lived at home, without any of the glamorous trappings or makeup or persona with which she mediated the world. Delilah liked that she would let Delilah see her this way. And she liked that Fatima seemed as jumpy as she felt.
    “It’s all right,” Delilah said. She looked around the flat again. It was a corner studio, quite plain, with a single Bokhara rug at the center, a desk and chair, a couch under one window, a small bed and nightstand under the window opposite. There was an iPod plugged into a small stereo system on the desk, Sigur Rós’s
Samskeyti
, a song Delilah loved, issuing from the speakers. The laptop was on the desk, too. Strange, to see the object of so much previous attention, now irrelevant to her. Everything was visible from where she stood, even the bathroom and a single closet, its door open. Nowhere for anyone to hide. And the bug detector lay silent in her purse.
    “I like your place,” Delilah said. “It’s cozy.”
    Fatima smiled. “You mean small.”
    They looked at each other for a long moment. Delilah thought,
The hell with it.
She stepped forward and kissed Fatima gently on the lips. “Hey,” she said.
    Fatima smiled. “I’m glad you came. I wasn’t sure you would want to, when I asked.”
    “I wanted to.”
    “Are you hungry?”
    “Not so much. I slept all afternoon and ate when I got up.”
    “Jet lag. I did the same.”
    “But… I brought some wine. If you’d like.”
    They drank the wine and talked comfortably enough, about life in Covent Garden, about when Delilah might be able to come back to London, about whether Fatima might come to Paris. Delilah had never felt this confused, not even in the early stages of her relationship with John, when they’d been circling the same target and her pretense of attraction, intended to get John to stand down, had become increasingly real. What was she doing here? She liked this woman, really liked her. Admired her. Empathized with her. And was so improbably attracted to her. But even setting aside everything else, could they have a real relationship? Delilah had never considered such a thing with a woman. And of course, the notion of everything else being set aside was insane. In all likelihood, very soon Fatima would be devastated by news about her brother. What then? Would Delilah comfort her? Use her as an asset? The thought made her feel sick and with a great effort she managed to suppress it.
    They talked about Bora Bora. It was delicious to hear Fatima’s take on what had happened, her expectations leading up to it. Yes, she had wondered whether Delilah might make a pass at her. Yes, she had found herself hoping she would, a hope she found equal parts confusing, exhilarating, and terrifying. Talking about it all, remembering the ambiguity, the nervousness, was a huge turn-on. They wound up making love on Fatima’s small bed, more slowly then before, taking their time, exploring each other’s bodies, talking, touching, laughing. Well after midnight, they fell asleep in each other’s arms.
    At some point, Delilah was awakened. She didn’t know by what—not a sound, exactly; more an absence of sound. The music, she realized. The iPod stereo on the desk—it had been playing the entire time they’d been awake, set to some sort of playlist loop. And now it had stopped.
    She glanced at the digital