Tales of the City 04 - Babycakes

laughed, extending his hand. “I’m Simon Bardill.”
She gave him a businesslike handshake. “I’m Mary Ann Singleton.” Her first real assessment of the Englishman made her realize how much he looked like Brian. He had the same chestnut curls, the same expressive eyes (though brown, not hazel), the same little tuft of fur sprouting beneath the hollow at the base of his neck.
True, his face was somewhat more angular—more foxlike than bearlike—but even a disinterested observer would notice the resemblance. There was an age difference, of course, since this man appeared to be in his late twenties.
He sensed her distraction immediately. “Uh … I haven’t lost you, have I?”
She smiled apologetically. “For a moment, maybe. You look a lot like … somebody I know.” To say “my husband” would have sounded far too intimate. Even so, the remark still came off like a pickup line, so she added hastily: “You must be from around here.”
“Nope,” he replied. “From there.” He pointed a long, elegant finger at the departing ship.
She sensed that he enjoyed the mystery he was weaving. “You … uh … you’re taking leave or something?”
He shook the ice in his glass. “Of my senses, perhaps.” He peered out the rain-varnished windows of the saloon, fixing his gaze on the royal yacht, now a diminishing smudge of dark blue on the gray canvas of the bay. “There’s a distinct possibility of that.”
She blinked at him. “O.K. Now you’ve lost me.”
Again, he rattled his ice. “It’s simple, really. I jumped ship.”
Her mind raced frantically toward an undesignated deadline. Had she stumbled across the only real story in this whole media circus?
“You know the expression?” he asked.
“Yes … of course. You’re a crew member or what?”
“Oh, no no no. An officer. ” He signaled the bartender by raising his empty glass. “May I?” he asked Mary Ann, nodding toward her glass.
“Oh … I’m fine.” Was it too late to catch up with her crew? “Look, I’m sorry to be so thick about this, but … you were supposed to be sailing on the Britannia and … you just decided not to?”
“Precisely.”
“You … defected?”
He laughed heartily. “From Mrs. Thatcher to Mr. Reagan?” He thought for a moment, stroking his well-defined jaw. “You’re on the right track, mind you. I suppose one could say that I have defected. Yes … yes …”
He seemed to reflect on the concept, as if intrigued by it, until the bartender arrived with his drink. Hoisting it in her direction, he said: “To the new Simon Bardill and the lovely lady who shares his dark secret.”
She lifted her empty glass. “I’m honored … what is it? Lieutenant Bardili?”
“Very clever. You even pronounced lieutenant correctly.”
She bowed demurely, feeling curiously regal in his presence. “But you’re not supposed to take ice in your drink, are you?”
His brow furrowed. “When were you last in England?”
“Never, I’m afraid.”
“There’s no need to be afraid.” He smiled. “We keep ice on the bar now. They keep ice on the bar now.”
“I see.”
“A great deal has changed. A great deal.” He gazed at the bay again, as if to assure himself that the last trace of England had vanished. It had.
“And to think,” he said, turning back to her again, “I was going to be the last of the Snotty Yachties.”
She smiled, eager to show him she recognized the nickname for the Britannia’s crew. “Aren’t they going to miss you?”
“Oh … terribly, I’d imagine. I’m a likable fellow, don’t you think?”
“I meant professionally. What’s going to happen when you don’t show up at … wherever you’re supposed to show up?”
“I’m a radio officer,” he answered, “and it’s already happened … whatever it is. I expect they’ve found another twit with breeding to take my place. Have you ever seen the city from Point Bonita?”
She missed a beat, noticeably, before she managed to reply: “Many times.”
“Isn’t it marvelous?” He intoned it so earnestly that she realized he had not been issuing an invitation but asking a simple question.
“Beautiful,” she replied.
“You should never let people see San Francisco from Point Bonita if they’re seeing it for the first time.” He took a sudden swig of his Scotch, setting the glass down with deliberate grandeur. “They could very well run amok.”
She smiled skeptically at this too-cute explanation. “So you did it for the