A Discreet Affair

by Shelley Munro

  A Discreet Affair

  Shelley Munro

  Published 2011

  ISBN 978-1-59578-799-6

  Published by Liquid Silver Books, imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 10509 Sedgegrass Dr, Indianapolis, Indiana 46235. Copyright © 2011, Shelley Munro. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Liquid Silver Books

  http://LSbooks.com

  Email:

  raven@LSbooks.com

  Editor

  Lynne Anderson

  Cover Artist

  April Martinez

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  Blurb

  Summer, 1940. Britain is at war, and her brave fighter pilots attempt to keep the enemy at bay.

  The last thing Pamela Allison wants is another man, especially one like her brutal, now deceased husband. Her managing mother wants her to live with her in London, but Pamela accepts a job from her aunt, working in the family store in the village near Biggin Hill.

  Enter Michael Stedman, a Spitfire pilot based at the Biggin Hill airbase. Depressed and a little drunk after the death of his friend, he doesn’t expect to meet a beautiful woman during a night out at the local pub. He’s not looking for anything permanent since a pilot’s life is fraught with danger. All he wants is a little feminine company to take his mind off the war.

  London is under siege by the enemy. Bombs drop every night and the danger increases for everyone. Michael and Pamela’s relationship changes and they become lovers. They are happy with their secret liaison until gossip and the past intrude and threaten to destroy everything, including her good reputation.

  Dedication:

  For the men and women who have lost their lives while fighting for our freedom.

  They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;

  Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

  At the going down of the sun and in the morning

  We will remember them.

  —Laurence Binyon, 1914

  Chapter One

  Near Biggin Hill, England, September 1940

  “You’re coming to the Poacher’s Pocket with me tonight.”

  “Oh, no.” Pamela Allison laughingly shook her head at her cousin. “Thanks for asking me but I promised Aunt Susan I’d finish the darning.”

  “Pooh!” Christine wrinkled her button nose, immediately discounting the excuse with a dismissive flap of her hand. “Darning.” With a conspiratorial smile, she leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Some lovely flyboys frequent the pub. I’m acquainted with most of them.” When Pamela didn’t react, she let out a huff of exasperation. “None of the pilots bite. You’re such an old maid, a real stay-at-home. Why won’t you live a little? You’re too young to turn into a hermit.”

  Pamela hid a smile at the veiled insult. Did Christine really think calling her an old maid would make her agree to the outing? “I don’t—”

  “Pamela, you should go,” her aunt said, cutting her off in a firm voice. “It will do you good to get out with people your own age. And Christine is right, dear. You have a beautiful smile when you forget about Thomas. Every single one of the tradesmen loves you.”

  “I—”

  “No, don’t try to deny you’re popular. They’d ask you out if you gave them the slightest encouragement. Jimmy the milkman goes stupid every time he gets a glimpse of your big blue eyes.”

  “He does not!” She dipped her head to hide her discomfiture and a lock of her hair swung across one eye. Impatiently, she smoothed the curl aside and poked her needle, threaded with coarse wool, into the sock she held for darning.

  “Not all men behave like Thomas,” Christine added, both of them ganging up on her.

  Pamela blinked and carefully set the darning aside, her forearm suddenly throbbing along with the anxious thud of her heart. Even though her husband, Thomas, was dead, killed in a motoring accident eleven months ago, he still held the power to frighten her, to hurl her deep into horrid memories. A sad state of affairs and one she needed to change.

  The passage of time helped in her healing, though. Slowly, a feisty angel was appearing to replace the timid one who’d kept her company during her marriage. And right now, her angel spoke in a stern lecture. Did she want to go through life terrified of men or refusing to let one get emotionally close? Logic made her agree with Christine. And closer to home, her uncle—a gem of a man—offered a good example of the perfect husband.

  Maybe she’d been unlucky to marry a scoundrel and a bully. Honesty bade she admit the early days of her marriage had been pleasant. At the start she’d loved being married, enjoyed the intimacy of being with a man and making love.

  She shivered and rubbed her arm where Thomas broke the bone during one of his drunken rages. In truth, she missed the physical part of her marriage—the closeness with a man and the comfort of his strong arms. Although she wasn’t about to confess her feelings to her cousin on the subject of sensual nips, biting actually sounded quite good. Maybe she should go out for a change. At the very least, her acquiescence would stop Christine and her aunt from nagging her on the subject.

  “All right,” she said before her timid angel talked her into staying at home. Really, she didn’t have a choice. One glance at her aunt and cousin told of their determination to prod her nonexistent social life into action, no matter how much she protested.

  “Good,” her aunt said as the grandfather clock struck the half hour. She shut her latest copy of House and Garden and placed it on the arm of her chair. “You should get out. I’d better go and check the soup.”

  Christine smirked in victory and waited for her mother to leave the living room before speaking. “Most men aren’t like Thomas. They’re not brutal bullies. Intimacy with a man you love is wonderful. And besides, you liked making love at the start of your marriage. I distinctly remember you telling me so after your honeymoon.” She kicked off her shoes and wriggled her stocking-clad toes, her expression going soft and dreamy.

  “Christine.” Pamela didn’t even try to hide her shock. “Have you…?”

  “Yes, and maybe you should give men and a physical relationship another chance.” Christine’s chin lifted with a trace of defiance. “Oh, I’m not suggesting you should go with any man but if you find one you like and enjoy his company, why not? There’s a war on and everything is different. Life’s too short to waste t-time.” Her voice hitched and she swallowed, the sheen of tears filling her eyes. “You’ll like Owen. He’s wonderful. I … I love him, and I couldn’t bear it if he died and we hadn’t made love.”

  “But what if you fall pregnant?” Pamela glanced nervously at the door, only relaxing when the clatter of a saucepan lid and the scent of vegetable soup drifting from the kitchen indicated her aunt’s focus remained on dinner. She turned back to her cousin, picking up her darning again. Surely, Christine knew the risks? If women had children out of wedlock, people shunned them, called them curb crawlers or slags. Whores. “If you love your beau, why don’t you get married?”

  “Owen won’t. Not when … he doesn’t want to leave me a widow.” She paused to steady herself, bit her bottom lip and took a deep breath before continuing, “We’re careful. We use a sheath. Besides, the war can’t go on forever. We’ll marry when the war is over.”

  Pamela’s brows shot toward her hairli
ne. “A sheath?”

  “A condom,” Christine said, her melancholy pushed aside for now, her stiff upper lip in evidence again. Winston Churchill couldn’t have done the expression better. He’d show proud approval of her attitude.

  “I know what a sheath is,” Pamela said, trying to wrap her mind around Christine’s confession. Her cousin’s cheeks held the stain of pink, but the tilt of her chin indicated she’d argue her point given the chance. She obviously didn’t have a single reservation about giving herself to this man … this pilot.

  Without warning, envy curled through Pamela, her fingers digging into the nubby wool of the sock in her hands. Yes, she’d been unlucky with Thomas, but there had been good times before unfounded jealousy warped his thinking and imploded their entire relationship. “Are you meeting him tonight?”

  “Owen. Yes. He has a friend—”

  “No! Tell me you haven’t. You haven’t made a date on my behalf?”

  “No.” She shook her head, and Pamela relaxed once she sensed her cousin told the truth. “But he does have lots of cute friends. I’ve met most of them while working at the airbase. It will be a fun night. You might even find a man you’d like to marry.”

  “I don’t think so.” Her voice held tartness and the same uncompromising attitude Thomas used to show. Yes, she missed sex, but she wasn’t about to let a man rule her life again in order to sate her physical needs. She was happy working in the shop for her aunt and living in the village. Her move from London to the village was the start of a new chapter in her life, a fresh beginning and a change of direction for the future.

  Even now, she still counted her blessings. Christine had contacted her after Thomas’s death. She’d wanted to join the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force but her parents needed her to work in the family shop. Would Pamela consider taking her place and working at the store? If Pamela agreed, Christine’s mother would let her move into the cottage they owned on the outskirts of the village. Pamela had said yes and hadn’t regretted her move for a moment since. When Christine didn’t room at the airbase, she stayed with her, although they spent a lot of time at the family home too.

  Pamela checked the doorway in case her aunt decided to return. The smart tap of a spoon against a pot signaled an all clear. “Where do you and Owen go to … spend time together?”

  Christine wrinkled her nose. “That’s part of why I came clean. I wondered if he could come back to the cottage with me some nights.”

  Pamela stared at her cousin. “The neighbors will gossip if they see a man at the cottage. Old Mrs. Pearson is a terrible tattletale.” Someone had to deal with practicalities because it was obvious Christine fancied herself in love. Pamela wasn’t sure she believed in love. Lust maybe. There certainly hadn’t been much love in her marriage, although she’d taken too long to recognize the fact. Once she’d believed in the fickle emotion. Not anymore. There was no such thing.

  “Not if we’re discreet.” Christine’s glance held both challenge and a plea for Pamela to grant her this favor.

  “We’ll see,” she said, knowing she’d give in eventually. She understood what it was like to experience the dizzy heights of lust, even if she never wanted to commit to a man again.

  * * * *

  They switched off the light and exited her cottage via the kitchen. For a few seconds, Pamela paused to allow her eyes to adjust to the inky blackness outdoors. Finally she followed Christine, navigating with care. After skirting the Anderson bomb shelter and the vegetable gardens to the right of the house, they walked gingerly down the dark path to let themselves out the gate onto the main road. The Poacher’s Pocket pub was at the other end of the village, not far from her aunt and uncle’s house.

  At this time of night on a weekend, before the outbreak of war, the village would bustle with life. People and cars would crowd the green. Music spilled from the community hall and dancers filled the floor, twirling and dipping to the big band songs. Darts matches at the pub. Dinner dates at the small restaurant—now closed. Concerts at the bandstand. Locals filling the green with light and laughter. Right now, the village center seemed like a town for ghosts with the two of them the only ones walking along the gloomy road. On the parallel road to the one they walked, the rumble of a vehicle engine sounded, the slow progress indicating a cautious driver. The number of accidents had increased since the commencement of blackout with the baker’s son dying in a head-on crash at the village intersection only last month. Thomas’s accident had occurred during the first week of the blackout and most people took extreme care if they ventured out at night.

  “Christine, don’t walk in the middle of the road. It’s not safe.”

  “I know, but it’s better than twisting our ankles in one of the potholes at the edge of the road.”

  Some of the ruts were deep enough to house fish, so she could hardly disagree. She steered a conservative course and listened carefully for traffic. “Thanks for helping me get ready. I’m out of practice.”

  “It was my pleasure. You look beautiful. Owen’s friends will love you.”

  Earlier, Christine had helped her to restrain her curly brown hair into a smooth roll, lending several of her precious hair grips to secure the style safely. She’d applied powder to her face in an attempt to conceal her hated freckles. A touch of bright red lipstick completed her makeup—the perfect remedy to put one in a good mood, according to Christine. A dab of lavender perfume behind each ear and between her breasts completed her preparations for the evening.

  Right now, agitated butterflies fluttered in the pit of her stomach at the idea of making small talk with people she didn’t know. What if she befriended the wrong person again? She’d made mistakes with Thomas and compounded them by agreeing to marry him. Her past record wasn’t good, so obviously she lacked sound judgment.

  The buzz of planes sounded overhead, the distinctive sound of Spitfires returning to the airbase reassuring and comforting. Last Thursday they’d witnessed two engaged in a dogfight with the Me 109s of the enemy not far from the village. A spurt of remembered terror pierced her at the memory of two planes colliding and crashing in a fiery heap. She offered a quick prayer for all the boys to return from the sortie tonight safe and unharmed. How did Christine bear the strain, knowing Owen put himself in such danger?

  The thud of their shoes on the road was the only audible noise once the rumble of the planes receded. Christine took custody of the torch and flicked the light off and on, aiming the beam at the ground in compliance with blackout regulations. They walked through the middle of the village, skirting the green. Not a single light peeked through windows of the homes they passed or between cracks in curtains. The local wardens didn’t stand for infringements of the blackout rules and enforced the regulations with great efficiency. They’d fined Mrs. Heath, one of her aunt’s neighbors, last week, much to her chagrin, because her blackout curtains let light through the small gap where the fabric didn’t quite meet.

  “Are you sure Owen will be there?”

  “His squadron always hits the pub on a Friday night after a sortie.”

  Pamela nodded before she remembered Christine would have trouble seeing in the dark. “Oh.” The chances of a pilot living through the war … they weren’t good. Did Christine worry about her man? Of course she did. Everyone worried about the men and women who fought on the front line. Everyone, no matter their identity, had family or friends fighting in the war.

  “They tend to stick together. They’re more like family than friends because they rely on each other whenever they go on a sortie.”

  They maintained their silence for a while, neither willing to voice the truth—so many good men had lost their lives already.

  Christine opened the front door to the pub and they darted inside, quickly closing it behind them. The light in the foyer was brighter, good enough to distinguish posters on the walls entreating the public to grow their own vegetables, save coal, and invest in war bonds. The click of Christine’s heels signaled her p
rogress across the flagstone floor to the double doors that opened into one of the large rooms inside. When she opened the doors subdued light spilled out along with laughter and chatter and the clink of glasses and bottles. A cloud of cigarette smoke hung in the air. A radio was playing on the bar, the haunting strains of Somewhere over the Rainbow combining with the animated chatter.

  “There he is,” Christine said, bounding through the doorway and into the gaiety, embracing it with a wide smile on her face.

  Pamela followed more slowly, her blue and white floral dress and navy summer coat out of place when most of the occupants wore their uniforms, a mixture of Air Force blue with a smattering of Army green and uniforms from the home guard and fire wardens. Even Christine wore her WAAF uniform.

  A burst of extra loud laughter came from a group of men in slate blue uniforms who clustered around a table in the corner of the room.

  “There’s Owen,” Christine said over her shoulder, and she put on a burst of extra speed, weaving in and out of the people to get to him.

  Pamela trailed after her cousin, another spike of nerves assailing her. She was here for a drink and nothing more. She didn’t have to do anything but act friendly and listen. Smiling always helped too. The night would pass quickly and she’d return to her cozy existence as a respectable widow who worked in the village store.

  “Hello, pretty lady. Can I buy you a drink?”

  Startled from her anxiety, she glanced upward. The looming shape in front of her was dark. Large. She flinched; a sharp pang of fear hit. “Thomas?” she croaked, the intimidating figure throwing her directly into the past.

  The man shifted his weight and came into focus when he turned to the light. Her rapid heartbeat returned to normal when she realized her mistake. Weakly, she offered a smile while she clandestinely wiped her damp palms on her coat.

  “Who, me? No, I’m not Thomas, but I can be, if that’s what you want.” One green eye closed in a cheeky wink and he dragged on his cigarette. He blew the smoke out and waited for her reaction.