by Julia Kelly
Louise pulled her lipstick out of her purse and applied it to the bow of her lips. When she looked down, Kate was holding a tissue out. She took it and blotted.
“Ready?” Kate asked.
Not at all, but she nodded nonetheless.
They dropped their coats off and walked into the hall. Although it was only quarter past seven, the dance floor was already crowded with couples. There were a few very young men in sweaters and collared shirts, but most were in uniform, just as her mother had feared.
“Kate!” A handsome man with short blond hair who wore the dark blue service dress of the Royal Air Force gave a wave as he called out from near the pinewood bar.
“Come on,” Kate said, snatching up Louise’s hand and pulling her through the crowd.
“I’ve been waiting all night for you,” said the man with a crooked grin.
“Is that right, Tommy Poole?” Kate asked with a toss of her head.
“Of course it is.”
“Then what’s this I hear about you using your leave to take Irene Walker to tea last Tuesday?”
“Looks like she’s caught you, Poole,” said another man with a Lancashire accent who’d turned to watch their approach. “Where’s Geri, Kate?”
“Not here,” said Kate primly.
“And who’s this?” asked a third man, who had a redheaded girl named Joanne whom Louise recognized from school hanging on his arm.
“This,” said Kate, pushing Louise slightly forward, “is my cousin Louise Keene. You should all dance with her tonight if you want to make me happy.”
“Come on then, Louise Keene,” said the man who’d asked after Geri, offering her his arm. “You’ve a much better chance of making it around that dance floor without having your toes stepped on with me than Poole or Davidson.”
“We haven’t been introduced,” she said, cringing immediately at how like her mother she sounded.
“This isn’t an audience with the queen. No need for introductions,” he teased. “But since you asked, I’m Sergeant Martin Taylor.”
“A pleasure,” she said, taking his hand and feeling slightly ridiculous at the little laugh he gave before gamely shaking it. “Shouldn’t we wait until the next song?”
“We’ll just shove our way in. More’s the merrier,” he said.
She glanced at Kate, who nodded slightly, excitement shining in her clear blue eyes. A few moments in the hall and already Louise had an invitation to dance. Perhaps the night would be a lark after all. Taking a deep breath, Louise placed her hand in the crook of Martin’s elbow and let him lead her to the edge of the dance floor.
It took them a few moments to find a gap in the fox-trotting crowd large enough to squeeze in, and when they did, she could feel herself pressed uncomfortably close to him. She looked up, wondering if he’d noticed, but his gaze was fixed on a point somewhere over her shoulder. She craned her neck and spotted Kate.
“She’s lovely, isn’t she?” Louise asked.
Martin smiled sheepishly. “Your Kate has half the men at Trebelzue in love with her.”
“It was the same way in school.”
“What about you?” asked Martin, shuffling them around a couple counting cautious steps.
“Me?” asked Louise.
“Come on then, no need to be coy.”
“I’m not being coy. I’m not the type of girl who attracts that sort of attention.”
Martin laughed. “I bet you are and you don’t even know it.”
“I hardly think so. I spent most of my childhood sitting in an apple tree in the front garden with a book.”
“Well, that’s it then. Probably had all of the boys in the neighborhood walking by and wondering if you’d ever look at them.”
The idea was so ridiculous she had to laugh, her shoulders coming down from around her ears as she did.
“There we are,” he said. “No woman should look so serious when dancing with me.”
“Do you have such a high opinion of your dancing abilities?”
“The Charmer of Chorley, that’s what they call me. Fastest feet in fifty miles.”
“I’m sure they do.”
“You’re a good one, Louise Keene.”
She dipped her head in thanks. “It’s a shame then that you’re in love with my cousin.”
“Ah well, everyone’s in love with the wrong person during this war, I reckon. Maybe you’ll find one of those neighborhood boys getting up the courage to ask you to dance tonight.”
“I doubt that very much,” she said as the music ended. “Most of them are off fighting like you.”
“An airman then,” he said with a wink. “Plenty of us here.”
She blushed. “I don’t know that a uniform would suit me.”
“A uniform always suits so long as the right man’s wearing it. Come on then.” He threaded her hand through his arm and led her back to Davidson and Poole, who were watching mournfully as Kate danced with a man with officer’s stripes on his sleeve. Next to them another man stood lighting a cigarette, yet despite his proximity, he seemed to hold himself somehow apart.
“Who’s that with your friends?” she asked, watching as the man dropped his long, elegant fingers from his lips and let the cigarette smolder at his side.
“That’s Flight Lieutenant Paul Bolton. He’s a flier. A pilot, but he’s all right. Doesn’t give off too many airs like some of the officers. Lucky lad has all the girls after him.”
“Do you fly together?”
Martin shook his head. “He flies a Supermarine Spitfire. I’m on a Bristol Blenheim, a kind of bomber. I’m a gunner and wireless operator,” he said, pointing to a cloth patch on his arm embroidered with lightning bolts as proof, “and Poole’s our observer. Davidson’s ground crew. I’ll introduce you to Bolton.”
She was about to protest, but Martin surged forward, taking her with him. “Flight Lieutenant Bolton, this is Kate’s cousin, Miss Louise Keene. Dances like a dream.”
Flight Lieutenant Bolton flicked his gaze over to her. He straightened and put out his hand. “How do you do?”
He had a lovely voice, as deep and sophisticated as a film star’s, and when she took his hand, her whole body went warm.
“Do you live in Saint Mawgan, Miss Keene?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Haybourne, just down the road.”
“Then how have I never seen you at one of these before?” he said. “I’m sure I would’ve noticed you.”
She blushed. “Kate brought me because her usual friend couldn’t come.”
He leaned over and put out his half-finished cigarette in a tin ashtray on a high-topped table. “In that case, I’ll have to thank Kate’s absent friend. Would you care to dance?”
This time there was no hesitation as she nodded and took his proffered hand. She glanced back and caught Martin’s eye. Another wink. Another blush.
The small band on a makeshift stage at the far end of the room began to play “All I Remember Is You,” and Flight Lieutenant Bolton wrapped his arms around her.
“I like your dress very much,” he said, pulling her so close that she could’ve rested her head on his chest if she’d dared.
“Thank you,” she said, sending a kind thought Kate’s way.
“You look cheery as a summer’s day.”
“That’s hardly fitting for February,” she said.
“I’ve had enough of grays. A red dress on a pretty girl is just the thing.” Her feet missed a step, but if he noticed, he was polite enough not to mention it. “Tell me about living in Haybourne.”
She licked her dry lips and started hesitantly. “There isn’t much to tell. I live in the same house I was born in. I work at the same shop I’ve worked at since I was sixteen.”
“What do you do there?” he asked.
“Everything. Restock the shelves, help customers, do the accounts.”
“You’ve a head for numbers then,” he said.
“I suppose I do,” she said.
“Why?”
He pulled her a fraction of an inch closer. “I lose my head around smart girls.”
“Flight Lieutenant Bolton—”
“Please call me Paul if you’re going to scold me.” His smile warmed his eyes in a way she hadn’t seen when he was around his fellow airmen, as though dancing was somehow thawing a frozen core.
“I was going to tell you that teasing a girl isn’t very nice,” she said.
He smiled. “It isn’t teasing if it’s true.”
“You’re a terrible flirt,” she said.
“I’m not terrible, surely.”
“Terrible,” she said firmly, while struggling to keep a grin from bursting out over her features.
“Then I won’t flirt with you, Miss Keene. Not if you don’t want me to.”
She chewed on her lower lip, hardly trusting herself enough not to blurt out how very much she wanted him to continue flirting with her. It was far and away the most thrilling thing that had happened to her in ages.
“What would you do if you weren’t working in a shop in Haybourne?” he asked, the conversation veering back to respectable small talk.
She sighed. The little spark of something between them that had flared bright for a moment seemed to have died out.
“Haybourne is my life.”
“Doesn’t every girl in every small village have secret dreams of leaving?” he asked.
She looked up sharply. “You can tease me all you like, but there’s no need to be cruel. I’m not a silly girl.”
“No. I expect you’re far too practical to have silly dreams.” She started to pull back, but he dipped his head a little to draw his lips closer to her ear. “I promise I’m not teasing. I’ve never wanted to know the answer to a question more seriously in my life.”
The softness of his words, achingly intimate over the music and the stomping sound of the dancers’ feet, wrapped around her even as she pressed her lips tight to keep back the urge to answer. She was acutely aware of the heat of their hands clasped together. Of the faint growth of dark whiskers coming in on his chin. Of the sensation that swooped through her stomach when he spun her, almost as though she were falling.
And then the music stopped and the shuffle on the dance floor became less ordered. Couples broke apart and streamed around them as the musicians flipped pages on their crooked stands.
“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.”
“She has many opinions.”
“Do you always do what she says?” he asked.
Setting her jaw, she stuck her hand out. A flicker of something crossed Paul’s face when he handed her the glass. She raised it, wondering for a bri
ef moment if her lips would touch where his had been, and drank. More than a sip. Less than a gulp. A perfectly respectable amount of a drink that respectable young women didn’t drink.
She handed him the glass back and licked her lips, the bite of bitterness and a touch of caramel lingering on her tongue.
“First ale, then what? Life outside of Haybourne?”
“You’re teasing me again.” She wrapped her arms around her waist, wishing she’d thought to pull on a cardigan over her dress.
“I’m not.” But he grinned when he said it.
She pushed off the wall. “I’m going back inside.”
His hand shot out to stop her. “Louise, wait.”
She looked down at where his fingers had fallen, gently pressing her forearm. “What is it?”
“I couldn’t let you go without asking something,” he murmured. He gave her arm a little tug, and she took a step forward, her body moving of its own accord.
She swallowed down the rising mix of anticipation and fear and lust that surged up in her. This was the closest she’d been to a man since she’d let Gary kiss her behind a hedge just to see what it would feel like. It hadn’t felt much like anything, as it turned out.
“What do you want to ask me, Flight Lieutenant Bolton?”
Rather than answer, he dipped his head and kissed her. And oh, now she understood what her first kiss had been missing. Paul’s lips were soft but full, playing over hers as though he had all the time in the world, just for her. His free hand slipped into her hair, combing through her waves and twining them around his fingers. She gripped the lapels of his uniform, trying with all her might to hold on to this moment so tightly that it might never slip away.
He pulled back, his lips lingering on hers until at last they were no longer one.
She stood there, breath coming fast, eyes cast down. Anyone could’ve come upon them and seen. Then it would be her and not Geri everyone was gossiping about. But in the back of her mind, a tiny voice whispered, Good.
She had no obligations to anyone, had made no promises, no matter what her mother might hope. She wasn’t Gary’s wife or fiancée or girlfriend. She was nineteen and trapped in a tiny village on the edge of a country at war, target enough to know what bombs sounded like when they fell but removed from any hope of doing anything about it. Her life felt insignificant, and Flight Lieutenant Paul Bolton was quite possibly the most thrilling man she’d ever met.