London Twist: A Delilah Novella

and galleries illuminated in equal measure by setting sun and silent streetlamps. She passed a few pedestrians, mostly well-dressed couples probably on their way to or from dinner in one of the neighborhood’s chic restaurants, their footfalls getting louder on the flagstone sidewalks as they approached, then fading away behind her. London was such a beautiful city in fine weather. A shame they didn’t get more of it, but she supposed it made it more special when they did.
    She paused in front of an illuminated elliptical granite fountain, two leafy old trees rising from within it, and scanned the area. From here, she could easily see the impressive Georgian façade of the hotel, two liveried doormen flanking the entrance. She observed nothing out of the ordinary, but this meeting was scheduled, of course, so there wouldn’t have been any need to set up surveillance outside. Not that she was expecting trouble—it was more that she didn’t know what to expect at all.
    One of the men held the door and welcomed her as she went inside, his colleague’s gaze dropping for the merest unprofessional instant to her ass as she passed. The interior was gorgeous—like an old British manor house, with a magnificent winding mahogany staircase as its centerpiece—without being the least bit stuffy. She freshened up in the restroom, familiarized herself with the location of emergency exits, and made her way into the bar.
    It was only about half full—the hour was still early—but between the conversation and laughter, and the Billie Holiday playing from a hidden stereo system, it felt quite lively. There were dark paneled walls, softly lit by three tasteful chandeliers; a high, intricately carved ceiling; plush, eclectically colored chairs and cushions distributed haphazardly throughout; and a classic mirrored bar staffed by two men in ties and vests mixing cocktails with low-key assurance. She thought she caught the scent of vetiver. The atmosphere was lovely—elegant, effortless, and expensive. All of which brought an immediate pang of sadness and guilt. It was the kind of place John would have loved, and to which she would have loved to introduce him.
    A good-looking man was sitting alone in the far corner, his back to the wall and with a full view of the entrance. About forty, she thought, though she was ten meters away and the light was subdued, with short dark hair and a face that would have been aristocratic but for a certain roughness of the jaw. He was wearing a charcoal chalk-striped flannel suit that looked like it was made for him—literally and figuratively. He held a martini glass casually in one hand and was gazing off at nothing in particular. She’d rarely seen someone look so at home in a high-end bar and couldn’t deny his ease and confidence were attractive. Between the tactical seat and the air of authority, she was reasonably sure this was her contact. She was glad—she’d been half expecting something more along the lines of the Director and the two deputies.
    She walked over to his table, demurring with a gesture when one of the staff offered to seat her. He watched her approach, his eyebrows lifting slightly as she got nearer. She noted a copy of
Granta
on his table, which she’d been told to look for.
    “Pardon me,” Delilah said when she had reached him. “Is there an outlet near you? I need to recharge my mobile.”
    This was her half of the bona fides she’d been instructed to exchange. The man smiled and said in a posh British accent, “I’m not certain, but you’re welcome to have a look if you like.”
    She was flustered—she’d been so sure, but it hadn’t been the correct response. She shook it off and said, “Thank you, I think I have a little power left, but I’ll come back if I’m wrong.”
    She started to turn away. The man chuckled and said, “Only joking. Is it an iPhone? I could use a charge myself.”
    That was the prearranged response. She turned back and looked at him, mildly annoyed that he would turn an exchange of bona fides into a prank, and at his evident amusement at having done so.
    “Won’t you sit down?” he said, gesturing to the chair next to him. “And can I buy you a drink?”
    She looked at him for a moment longer, then eased herself into the plush chair next to him. “I can buy my own drink.”
    His eyes positively twinkled with good humor. “I didn’t mean to suggest you couldn’t. Just trying to be hospitable.”
    “Of course you