Blame It on the Bossa Nova by James Brodie Page A

then?”
    “You’re about to realize Alex, just how cushy your job is..... They have parties, not like Earls Court. In country houses - House parties. The things that happen, well...,” he paused searching painfully for descriptive inspiration, “...well, they make that party you went to look like South Coulsdon on a calm night. If you’re in with Bryant he’ll take you to them. All you have to do is get Pascale in.”
    “And she gets to meet the politicians, newspaper barons.... and the generals and admirals.”
    “Perhaps,” said Toby.
    “Why d’you have to do this through me? I wouldn’t have thought it was all that hard for someone like Pascale to move in on a set like that.”
    “You’d be surprised. It’s not the Hammersmith Palais. You don’t pay three and six on the door... No, it’s better this way. You’re persona grata. Through you there’s a reason. No need for the chance encounter, spilling the contents of her handbag outside the Athenaeum – ‘I’m so sorry Miss, let me help you pick them up.’ That sort of thing went out with the Great War. Today they’d probably tread on her hand.”
    “And what makes you think Pascale can carry this off? She doesn’t come across as the good-time girl to me.”
    “You don’t know her.” This was true. And it was true and ridiculous as I recognised the sensation in myself that told me I was already jealous at the thought of Pascale making up to other men, military or otherwise. I resented having the image pushed in front of my senses. I became truculent.
    “So, alright. I get her in.” I took credit in advance of delivery. “... So what then? They all lie back like babies and give up their state secrets because a pretty girl says yes?”
    “Simple isn’t it?” said Toby.
    “Simple and unbelievable.”
    “Fortunately Alex, man is a very predictable animal. He’s been doing all sorts of stupid things to make girls say yes, and keep saying yes, for centuries. And I think it extremely unlikely that he’s going to change his ways now.” We’d reached the summit of the incline we had been labouring up since leaving the car park. Ahead of us the dusty track wound down through the ferns to a horseride, then continued on the other side. We looked at each other then sat on the bench that commanded the view.
    “And what is this information you want to obtain? And who for?” He thought for a moment. For him it must have been terrible, that moment in time when you know you’ve got to make a decision there and then, a decision which all the previous hours or days, or even weeks agonising has left unresolved.
    “Pascale says I shouldn’t tell you ... To be candid, she doesn’t have a very high opinion of you.”
    “Really?” I said in a neutral tone.
    “But I think .... Well I think we’ve got to tell you. Because, well we’re paying you and if you know what side your bread’s buttered you won’t drop that side on the carpet .... And also you can be more efficient if you know.” He paused again as if expecting me to put the contrary view. But I never have favoured the dialectic approach to problem solving. He tried approaching it from another angle.
    “This Cuba business .... It’s going to get big. It’s going to turn into a crisis.”
    “It’s a crisis already isn’t it?”
    “This is nothing. Believe me, things are moving now. In a month’s time, maybe less, everyone will be shitting themselves - And with good reason.... I’m not telling you any secrets. You’ll find out soon enough.... That’s why it’s so important that certain people have got the complete picture. And the complete picture is made up of lots of tiny pieces.”
    “You’re spying for the Russians then?” I said in a harsh, crude voice.
    “Not so loud,” he whispered. “Never say that again.”
    We were suddenly disturbed by a group of sparrows, the football hooligans of the bird world, kicking up a tremendous din in a bush five yards from where we were