The Light Over London(13)

“Our song’s over,” the pilot said with a rueful smile. He offered her his arm and led her back to their little group. She kept her head lowered, unable to meet his eyes yet. The dance had somehow left her raw and exposed, as though every fundamental part of her had been taken apart, rearranged, and put back together again.

“Two dances in and I already feel like I’m standing on a sand dune in the Sahara,” said Kate, fanning her face with her hand as they approached.

“Would you like something to drink?” Flight Lieutenant Bolton asked.

Louise shook her head, but Kate smiled brightly. “A squash for me, please.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him bow his head, the old-fashioned gesture making Kate giggle, and then he was gone.

“Doesn’t he look just like Clark Gable?” Kate asked.

Louise watched his broad back weave through the crowd until she lost him as the floor filled up again. “Maybe in a certain light. If you squinted.”

“He’s very handsome, and he seems to like you,” said Kate, wiggling her thin-plucked eyebrows.

“He was only being kind.”

Kate put her hands on her hips and lifted her chin. “Martin, what sort of girl does Flight Lieutenant Bolton usually dance with?”

A smile cracked over the gunner’s face. “He doesn’t dance. Not usually.”

“See,” said Kate, turning back to her with a raised brow. “You’re special.”

Now that the men were watching her, everything was too close. The music was too loud, the room too hot, the attention too intent.

“I need to step outside for a moment,” she said.

Kate took a step forward. “Louise?”

She waved off her cousin’s concern. “Just a little fresh air. I’ll be back in two ticks.”

The entrance was all the way on the other side of the room, but having helped a friend’s mother set up a jumble sale here three years ago, she knew there was a back door. Louise darted between men holding pints and girls sipping delicate glasses of sherry, ducking her head in case someone from Haybourne recognized and waylaid her. Any other time she might not have minded, but not tonight.

She hit the handle of the heavy metal door with the full force of her body and it swung open, leading her to her refuge. The door clattered closed behind her as Louise sucked in deep breaths of cold, damp air. We’ll be lucky if we’re not caught in a rainstorm riding home, she thought as she leaned against the white plaster wall, relishing the cold that seeped in through the thin fabric of her borrowed dress.

Although the music bled out through the cracks around the door, the night was peaceful. She tilted her head back, looking up at the stars. When she was a child, she’d loved going into the back garden with Da as he pointed out the constellations to her. She still thought them beautiful, but they were the same ones she’d been gazing at her entire life.

Her breathing had slowed to a normal pace, and she closed her eyes a moment. Inside, Paul would be talking to other women, sophisticated ones with long red nails and hair in proper sets who didn’t have to borrow a nice dress. Worldly, sharp, and wise women who knew what to say to a man. How to idly flirt. How not to place so much hope on one short dance and a few scraps of conversation.

The squeak of unoiled hinges snapped her eyes open, and she let her head roll to one side so she could see who her fellow escapee was. He looked to his left, his face shadowed, but she knew in an instant. Paul.

Her foot scraped against the concrete, her instinct to shrink away into the dark and hide. He must have heard her, for he turned, his face illuminated now, and smiled.

“There you are,” he said.

He had a lit cigarette in one hand and held a pint of ale in the other. No squash.

“Did Kate send you?” she asked.

“Kate’s dancing with someone.”

Then why are you here?

As though reading her mind, Paul said, “Your cousin’s good for a laugh and nice enough, but she already has enough men chasing after her. She doesn’t need me.”

They stood in silence for a moment, him sipping his ale and her shifting from foot to foot. Finally, desperate to smash the awkwardness, she asked, “Why did you join the RAF?”

“My uncle was a second lieutenant in the Royal Flying Corps during the Great War. He was killed while training. Never saw action.” He flicked his cigarette away. “It broke my mother’s heart when her brother died.”

Louise watched the cigarette’s burning orange tip slowly fade against the cold pavement.

“My uncle was killed in the war too,” she said.

He shook his head. “Too many families with too many sad tales. You must think me horribly rude, not asking again if you’d like a drink.”

She looked up. “I don’t mind.”

“Let me find you something. Or you can steal sips of mine.”

He lifted his glass toward her, but she shook her head. “My mother says ladies don’t drink ale.”

He leaned across the gap and nudged her shoulder with his. “Then we won’t tell your mother, will we? Go on, Louise Keene. Be just a little daring.”

“That won’t work, you know. My mother claims there’s never been a more stubborn girl than me,” she said.

“Your mother says quite a lot of things.”