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"But Hester was right about the body, you can't deny that."
Jean wasn't looking at Monty as she said it—she was half-turned away, focused on the stack of papers she'd picked up from the desk in hopes that one of them might contain something that would help them. Later she would tell herself that that was how she missed the subtle shift in the air, the imperceptible tilt of her world sliding off its axis.
"What?"
"Just… when she said we should have known who the body was… that's… what Colonel Bevan meant, right?" She glanced up. Monty had gone as still as a statue, leaning forward onto his elbows and staring directly at her. She waited for him to laugh, to say something witty and then agree with her, in his usual complimentary yet patronising way, and then move on. Instead, he gave a single, slow nod, his eyes never leaving hers.
"Oh, right. Well, thank you for clearing that up." His tone was unlike any Jean had ever heard him take before. It was too flat, too still—like the pristine surface of a body of water below which treacherous depths were concealed. A shiver of apprehension ran down Jean's spine.
She took a step forward, her brain struggling frantically to form the words to explain herself, but was stopped in her tracks by a look from Hester. "Alright, Jean, back to work," the older woman said, the warning clear in her tone.
"No, I… I just meant that…" She just had to explain herself—then Monty would understand. Then it would all be okay.
"No, no, it's… good, actually." Monty's eyes bore into hers as he spoke, as he delivered the blow that would shatter everything Jean had thought she'd known. "Having my job explained to me… by the girl from the typing pool."
It was almost physical, the sensation of the rug being pulled from under her feet. Her stomach lurched violently, and her legs went weak as her mind reeled with the impact of his words. He might as well have slapped her—she felt winded, bruised, too stunned to speak, to form words, to process what had just happened. It made no sense. She had worked so hard to learn what to expect from him, how to play by his rules, yet somehow she'd still managed to get it wrong. And now she knew what he'd really thought of her all along. How he really viewed her, despite his words.
But you told me I was special, she protested in her head. You told me I mattered. I don't understand. What changed?
She lifted her gaze from the floor and looked around the room—for what? For answers? For someone to come to her rescue? Whatever it was, it didn't materialise. Hester was stood stock-still behind the desk, head bowed and arms folded in front of her, with the expression of someone bracing for a blow. Charles was frozen on the spot, arms hanging by his sides as if he'd forgotten all thoughts of piloting his own body. His eyes flicked between her and Monty, his face blank with the same shock Jean was feeling. She tried desperately to catch their eyes, silently imploring either of them to say something, to speak up in her defence. Neither of them did. She was on her own.
Her cheeks began to burn with self-consciousness at that realisation, and she felt the threat of tears welling up in her eyes. She wanted to turn invisible, to disappear entirely, to curl up in a ball somewhere where no one could find her to witness her humiliation. Monty was still watching her intently, almost scrutinising her. To see her reaction, she realised. To have the satisfaction of knowing the impact his words had had on her. She couldn't give him that—couldn't allow him to make an example of her like that. She had to hold it together. But that realisation only made it harder to hold back the burning anger and embarrassment that was overwhelming her. She gritted her teeth and fixed her gaze on the floor, focusing all her attention on trying to keep her tears from spilling out. It was no good—certainly everyone could see them anyway. She felt their gazes burning into her. Stop looking at me! she wanted to scream—but doing that would mean letting Monty win. She began to shrink in on herself, feeling the world blur around her, until she no longer had any sense of where she was or what anyone else was doing.
"Monty, that's enough!"
The voice was so loud it managed to reach her from where she'd retreated deep within herself and slam her back into the room. She whipped her head around to the find the source of the yell. Charles had pulled himself up to his full height and was glaring at Monty, hands clenched into fists at his sides.
"Excuse me?" Slowly and deliberately, Monty turned his gaze from Jean to Charles, and she saw him cower involuntarily. She waited for the stammering apology, but to her shock, Charles didn't back down.
"I said that's enough! Jean is an invaluable part of this team who has contributed as much as any of us to this mission, and she deserves to be treated with respect!" His voice rose to a squeak as he spoke, and Jean couldn't help but wince out of fear for him. Watching him argue with Monty—it was like watching a mouse trying to face down a lion. And yet at the same time her chest glowed with a strange warmth. He stood up for me.
Monty laughed, a sharp, grating sound devoid of amusement. "Right. I see. I see what's happening here." He stood up from behind the desk and sauntered towards them, jabbing a finger in their direction. "You two have teamed up against me. It all makes so much sense. Not only does my boss think I'm incapable of doing my own fucking job, now even my subordinates don't have faith in me anymore."
"Monty, it's not like that," Charles pleaded, all the fight going out of him at Monty's accusations. "Of course we have faith in you. Jean's just trying to make sure we do this properly…"
"Who's side are you on, Charlie?" Monty flung his arms wide, gesturing to the room at large. Jean flinched, and Hester bowed her head even further, seemingly trying to disappear altogether.
"I'm on…" Charles gave a helpless sigh and held his arms out to Monty, pleading. "I'm on your side. We're all on your side. Which is why I can't let you do this."
Monty's face hardened. Jean's stomach sank through the floor.
"And what makes you think I need you to let me do anything?" Monty said, drawing the words out slowly and deliberately. "Have you forgotten that I was the one who made all this happen? You were nothing before I took notice of you, Charlie. If it weren't for me you'd still be cowering outside of Bevan's office like a frightened little boy trying desperately to make people think he's big enough to sit with the grown-ups."
Charles recoiled as if he'd been physically burned, and Jean felt a wave of fury unlike any she'd ever experienced before wash over her. There was no one in the world Charles looked up to more than Monty, no one whose opinion mattered to him more. Monty couldn't have not known that, not with how close the two of them had become over the course of the mission. There was a senseless cruelty to his lashing out like that that shook the very foundations of her world.
Charles's eyes had gone misty, and his face was contorted with hurt and confusion. "You don't… you don't mean that…" He took a step forward, beseeching. "Monty, please… don't do this."
For a moment something flashed in Monty's eyes, something like remorse, mixed with genuine hurt, and Jean felt a glimmer of hope that he might back down. That the threat of Charles turning against him might be enough to make him swallow his pride and try to fix what he'd broken. But then it was gone. The mask that was all most people would ever see of Ewen Montagu was back in place, as if there had never been anything else there in the first place.
"You've chosen your side, Charlie. I hope it works out for you. Just don't come crying to me when you realise you're in over your heads." He turned away from them, snatching his briefcase from the desk, and marched towards the basement stairs.
"Where are you going?" Charles said.
Monty paused, one hand on the railing. "To ask Bevan to reassign me to a different project, since you've made it clear you don't want me on this one anymore." Then he climbed the stairs, swung open the door to the basement, and was gone.
For a moment there was nothing but heavy, suffocating silence. Then the basement door slammed shut, and with it the tension in the room shattered.
"Oh God." Charles pressed a hand to his mouth like he was about to be sick and collapsed against the desk. Jean felt her own legs go wobbly as all the adrenaline went out of her. There was a sick feeling in her stomach, like hundreds of bugs writhing around inside her. Her chest felt tight. She felt her legs begin to crumple as she sank towards the floor, but was powerless to catch herself. Then, suddenly, there were arms around her, holding her up. Hester, who had been motionless the entire time, had suddenly snapped into motion, crossing the room towards her and catching her before she could overbalance.
"What just happened?" Jean asked, her stomach sinking as she replayed the confrontation in her mind. How had it fallen apart so quickly?
"He… he…" Charles's chest was rising and falling rapidly, his eyes huge, one hand clawing at the knot of his tie—all clear signs he was spiralling into panic. "He can't do this. I should go after him, I should…"
"Mister Cholmondeley." It was Hester, her voice calm and composed. "While I understand your distress, I suggest you take a moment to calm yourself down before you do anything rash. You as well, Miss Leslie." She released Jean's shoulders, watching closely to see if she started to fall again. Jean felt herself sway, but managed to keep her feet under her.
Charles, however, was still hyperventilating, his body pressed heavily into the side of the desk, gaze flitting around the room as if ready to flee at a moment's notice—whether towards Monty or away from them all, Jean didn't know.
Hester crossed the room to him and put a hand on his arm. "Charles," she said, her voice softening. "Take some deep breaths. It's okay, you're safe here. Just focus on my breathing." Shakily, Charles obeyed, and after several minutes the panicked look left his eyes and his breathing returned to normal.
Hester stepped back, facing the two of them. "I'm sorry you both had to experience that. And I'm sorry I did not intervene to protect you. You both showed incredible bravery to stand up for your beliefs like that."
The compliment, which normally would have made Jean glow, fell flat against the numbness inside her. "Hester, what are we going to do?" she said weakly. "Monty can't quit the team. We need him."
"I shouldn't worry too much about that, Miss Leslie. I am almost certain Montagu was bluffing about asking Colonel Bevan to reassign him. Most likely he is merely sulking somewhere waiting for the two of you to come grovelling."
"Then… then I should go talk to him." Charles peeled himself away from the desk, stepping forward purposefully. "Maybe I can fix this."
Hester pursed her lips. "I will talk to Montagu. For now I think the best thing the two of you can do is give him space. And keep an ear out for any news regarding the briefcase. We mustn't lose sight of the mission."
Charles looked up at Hester and then back down at his shoes several times, before finally nodding and collapsing into one of the empty chairs, the fight going out of him. Hester cast a final, inscrutable glance between the two of them, before heading for the stairs. All Jean wanted was to lie down where she stood and curl into a ball, but she made herself walk over to Charles and take a seat next to him. Made herself sit, head bowed, looking down at her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
Silence stretched between them. There were countless things Jean wanted to say, and yet she felt too raw to speak. It was as if she'd been scraped out like a grapefruit, left hollow and stinging, and anything she could have said would only make those wounds hurt worse. And then, ever so quietly, she heard the sound of sniffling coming from beside her.
Charles was crying. Or perhaps holding back tears, as she had failed to do. Jean chewed on her thumbnail and glanced over at her fellow pariah. He was sat very still, hunched over, his hands in his lap. His eyes were puffy and red. He reminded her painfully of the old Charles—the man he had been, before Mincemeat, before Monty had come along and changed both of their lives. The ache in Jean’s chest intensified as she realised exactly what Charles had done—what he’d sacrificed—for her. Things had always been different for him. Monty had his place and, though she hadn't truly known it until today, she had hers. But Charles—he had been somewhere between them the whole time, balanced precariously on that line between leader and outcast, hero and reject. Mincemeat had been his way over that line, his way into the world of powerful men that Jean could only dream of being part of. And instead he’d given it all up to place himself firmly on her side, at who knew what personal cost?
Jean’s whole body started to shake as the weight of guilt settled on her shoulders, and tears threatened her once again.
“Charles, I…” she began, her voice unsteady. “You didn’t have to do that for me. I’m sorry.” It was a weak, self-pitying apology, and she knew it.
Charles turned to her, all the hurt and betrayal he felt laid bare in his eyes. And yet his gaze was steady as it met hers. “Yes, I did,” he said. “It wasn’t fair of him to treat you like that.”
Jean bit her lip to keep it from trembling. “I just mean that… Mincemeat was your chance, and… and I know how much it meant to you. And now he’s just taken it away from you because of me.”
“Jean, you’re my friend. I couldn’t just stand by and let him say those things to you. What happened after that… it wasn’t your fault.” Charles’s eyes flickered away from her, and she saw him blink rapidly before he met her gaze again. “And besides, Mincemeat isn’t just mine anymore. It belongs to all of us now.”
Fresh tears tracked their way down Jean’s still-wet cheeks, and without thinking she reached out and clasped Charles’s hands in hers, anchoring them together. Charles clung back, and for a moment Jean almost felt safe, the two of them holding onto each other for dear life.
“Thank you, for standing up for me,” she said. “I think you’re the first man who’s ever done that without some kind of agenda.”
“I don’t know what happens now,” Charles said, his voice sounding very small. Jean squeezed his hand tightly.
“We’ll be okay, Charles,” she said, though it couldn’t have felt further from the truth. “We have each other. We’re in this together.”
She didn't know if it would be enough—if the two of them could really take on the whole world and hope to win. But at least it was better than being alone.