Across the park, I spy a group of American soldiers taking pictures of Westminster Abbey. For a second my heart leaps. What if one of them was Paul, if we were magically reunited as we had been in Paris that day? But of course that is impossible. I look down at the ice-cream cone, suddenly disgusted by its gooey sweetness. I walk to the nearest bin to throw it away.

“You know, that’s very wasteful,” a male voice says from behind me. I freeze, wondering for a second if my fantasy has come true, if Paul really is there. But the accent is British.

Unexpectedly I am angry. It is my ice-cream cone. How dare some stranger tell me what to do? “That’s none of your…” I turn to confront the stranger. Simon, the diplomat from the ship, stands behind me. “Oh!”

“Simon Gold,” he says. He steps forward and, before I can react, takes my free hand and kisses it. “We met on the boat.”

“Of course,” I reply, caught off guard. I remember our conversation over tea, my telling him of my engagement to Paul. It seems like a million years ago.

“My office is just around the corner.” He gestures vaguely toward Whitehall. “I was just out for my daily constitutional.” I cock my head, unfamiliar with the term. “It means walk,” he explains.

“Oh.” I feel something cold and sticky running down my hand. The ice cream has begun to melt.

“And I was only trying to say that Mitchell’s homemade ice cream is too good to be wasted.” I nod, too surprised to respond. “But it looks like that cone’s had it.” He reaches out and takes the melting cone from my hand. Holding it at arm’s length so as not to drip on his light-gray suit, he tosses it in the trash bin. “Wait here.” I watch as Simon walks quickly over to the vendor where I purchased the ice-cream cone. I am glad to see him, I realize with surprise. A familiar face. A minute later, he returns with two steaming cups. “Here,” he says, handing me a napkin. I wipe my hands. “I thought maybe the ice cream had been too cold, so I took the liberty of getting us some tea.”

“Thank you.” I take one of the cups from him.

“Let’s sit for a minute.” I follow him to the bench where I had been sitting minutes ago, balancing the tea carefully so as not to spill. “I must say, I’m surprised to find you still here. I thought you’d be long on your way to America by now with your fiancé.”

I take a deep breath. “He was killed.” It is the first time I have said this aloud since the morning I learned of the crash.

Simon’s mouth opens slightly. “I’m sorry to hear that. What happened?”

“The plane crash in the Channel.” I dig my fingernails into the bench, willing myself not to cry.

He presses his lips together. “I read about that in the papers. Dreadful. All those brave soldiers lost. Again, I’m terribly sorry.”

“Thank you.” I look away. We drink our tea in silence. Across the grass, a group of children kick a football. Their shrieks of laughter ring out.

“So what are you going to do now?” he asks a few minutes later.

I take another sip of tea. “I’m still trying to figure that out. Stay in London, most likely. I don’t have any family back in Poland, or anywhere else. At least here, I have a place to stay with my friend Rose’s aunt. But I need to find a job.”

“You know, I’m still looking for an assistant.”

I remember then Simon offering me a job when we were on the ship. “Oh, my goodness, I certainly wasn’t hinting.”

“I know. But I told you on the boat that I would like for you to come work for me. My offer still stands.”

“Really?” He nods. I stare at him, surprised. I thought the offer was just talk, idle conversation. It had not occurred to me that he might have been serious. “But I haven’t any skills or office training.”

“All of that can be learned. You speak Polish, which is a huge asset in my work. And you can make out the other Slavic languages, too, I take it?”

“Yes. Czech and such. And a bit of Russian.”

He waves his hand. “We have loads of Russian translators. I’m really more interested in your Polish. We have translators for that, too, of course, but it’s so time-consuming to rely upon them for day-today matters. Having an assistant who can understand it directly would save a great deal of time.”

“I can understand German, too,” I add.

“And your English has improved a great deal. So what do you say?”

I hesitate. I had almost forgotten Simon’s offer on the ship and I wasn’t been prepared to consider it now. “I don’t know.”

“Look, Marta…” Simon leans in and lowers his voice. “The truth is you would be doing me an enormous favor. When we spoke on the ship I told you about the work we are doing to fight communism in Eastern Europe. I really can’t say any more until you’ve been hired and received a security clearance. But I can tell you that the situation has become much more serious in recent weeks.” His eyes burn with the same intensity I saw on the ship. “We desperately need good people, people like you, to help us. So you wouldn’t just be earning a living, you’d be helping Britain and your homeland. How can you pass up an offer like that?”

I bite my lip. “Can I think about it?”

A surprised look crosses Simon’s face, as if he is unaccustomed to people not immediately acquiescing to his requests. “Certainly.” He starts to hand me a business card.

“I have one already,” I say. “From the ship, remember?”

He puts the card back in his pocket. “Of course. I just didn’t want to presume that you had kept it. Call me either way and let me know what you decide. And don’t wait too long,” he adds. “I really need to fill this position.”

Then why hadn’t he filled it? I wonder, in the weeks since we last spoke. There had to be plenty of Polish immigrants in London looking for work. I stand, brushing off my skirt. “I really should be going.”

Simon rises and takes my hand. “It was good to see you again.”

I take a step backward before he can kiss my hand. “Good day.”

I walk quickly from the park, eager to get away. I am flustered by seeing Simon so unexpectedly and by his job offer. Walking up Whitehall past the imposing gray government buildings, I am flooded with doubt. Me, come to work each day, here? The idea of getting a job in London was frightening enough. I had imagined something simple, working in a store close to Delia’s house. A few weeks ago I did not even know if I could get into Britain. The notion of coming into central London and working at the Foreign Office every day seems incomprehensible. My English is not good enough. I do not have any office skills. Simon said that these things don’t matter. But in truth, my hesitation is more than that. It just feels too soon. I’m not ready to wake up from my memories of Paul, from my grieving.

Retracing my steps through Trafalgar Square, I make my way back to Piccadilly Circus and board a bus that is going toward South Kensington. I pay the driver, then sink into a seat, not bothering to climb to the upper deck. As the bus lurches forward, I think about Simon’s offer once more. A chance to help, he said. I think guiltily of Emma, left behind in Eastern Europe. What was her life like now? Working with Simon, I might be able to make a difference. A shiver runs through me and I remember like a faint dream the feeling I used to have when working for the resistance of fighting for something that mattered. Maybe losing myself in the challenge is just what I need. And it will surely pay more than a job in the shops. I will ask Delia’s opinion when I get back to the house, I decide.

I stare out the window at the shops as we make our way down Piccadilly. A few minutes later, as we reach the edge of Hyde Park, exhaustion washes over me. It must be from all of the walking after lying in bed for so many days, I think, my shoulders slumping. The driver slams hard on the breaks, bringing the bus to an abrupt halt. I raise my hand as I am thrown forward to keep from slamming into the seat in front of me. “Sorry folks,” the driver calls. “A dog ran across the road.” As I straighten, a sudden wave of nausea sweeps over me. I leap from my seat and race to the front of the bus. “I need to get off,” I say weakly to the driver.