He was kind enough not to press her, but she knew she hadn’t hidden anything from him. Which would make her a terrible spy.
He waited while she drank deeply, as if the Scotch were water. Her head was already spinning so much the Scotch did little more than burn her throat.
‘Would you like to meet someone who can tell you more?’ Wylde asked.
Could she give up flying for this? How could she not? We can’t lose this bloody war, Wylde had said. What kind of person would it make her if she refused to give the kind of help that was most needed?
The heat from the Scotch was suddenly doused by ice-cold fear and she felt that same terrifying immobility suffuse her just like it had when the Messerschmitt had shot at her. No breath. No pulse of blood. Nothing beyond her eyes riveted to Wylde’s face. And one thought: there were a hundred ways to die in an aeroplane in the sky. But there were a million ways to die as a spy in Nazi-occupied France.
But Nicholas flew there all the time. He didn’t sit like a mute and self-centred idiot thinking only of himself. Her heart just about burst right then with how much she loved him.
She managed one long, deep inhalation. What of all the people who had died since 1939, all the people who were yet to die with every day the war went on? ‘Do you think I can do it?’ she asked Wylde.
He didn’t hesitate. ‘Yes. And part of me wants you to do it because if you’re as good an agent as you are a pilot, I have no doubt we’ll win. But I also know that if I let you go, I might never see you again. And I would,’ his lips pursed as if the words hurt to say, ‘regret that very much.’
Skye felt her hand reach out to take his. He squeezed it, holding on, and her own mouth skewed to the side, everything inside her hurting too. ‘I think I have to,’ she said.
He nodded. ‘I think you do too.’ He let go of her hand and stood up. ‘I’ll take you to meet Vera Atkins. You’d report to her if you choose to work with SOE.’
Skye’s limbs unfolded and she managed to stand, despite the quantity of Scotch she’d consumed, the new history she’d learned, and the new future that threatened like a distant thundercloud, and walk in a relatively straight line behind Wylde.
He was about to tap on a door along the corridor when it opened and Nicholas and Margaux walked out.
Skye stared at them.
Margaux smiled.
Nicholas stopped still. His eyes, dark blue with sudden fury, blazed at Skye. She flinched.
‘No,’ he said, face hard.
Wylde stared at Skye, and then at Nicholas.
‘No,’ Nicholas said again. ‘No.’
Seeing Skye again, so close he could reach out and touch her, almost had him staggering backwards at the realisation that everything he felt for her had only intensified over the months of absence, and also fighting every instinct in his body that wanted to draw her in and kiss her like he’d never before kissed anybody. Even breathing was difficult; the shock of being just two feet away from her like flying into a fire rainbow – dazzling.
Then it hit him: a bodyblow against his heart. She was at SOE headquarters. Which meant only one thing. They wanted to recruit her.
‘No,’ he said. Because then it might be Skye shot dead on a field in France right before his eyes, and he would have to climb back into his plane and leave her body there. He would never be able to do that.
‘No,’ he said again. It came out even more forcefully and he saw Skye step away. He had never punched anything in his life, but right now he wanted to punch the wall.
Then he caught sight of Margaux’s face and he knew. She had brought them all to this place.
He hadn’t understood why he’d needed to come with her to SOE headquarters today. He never went there; his dealings were all through the RAF. But Margaux had said it was to do with their cover story so he’d driven them both down from Tempsford. But Vera Atkins hadn’t seemed to know why they were there and Margaux had apologised and said something about having the wrong day and he had been about to ask her what the hell was going on when she’d opened the door and there was Skye.
‘You can’t,’ he managed to say. Take my hand. Let’s go. Anywhere. Together. And he saw his hand actually reaching out to take Skye’s, before he caught himself and recoiled, just as he’d shied away the night at the Embassy when Margaux had told him to dance with Skye.
Skye’s face twisted into an expression he’d never seen on her and never wanted to see again: hard and hostile, as if he’d stolen all of her joy. He stood silently watching as every one of her feelings for him erupted into loathing, one more beautiful thing ruined by war.
‘I can,’ she said, and she stalked into Vera’s office and shut the door.
Twenty-Nine
On the train back to Southampton the following day, Skye thought about two things. That she now had an uncle. Someone to perhaps spend Christmas with. To talk about her mother with.
Her mother. She was the other person Skye thought of. She imagined the life Vanessa Penrose had led: a life of secrets and danger and excitement and, obviously, love. Then, once the war ended and her services were no longer required, she had moved to Cornwall with two daughters and a broken heart, which must have been one of the most difficult things of all.
And now here was Skye, nursing a similarly broken heart, but she had only herself to care for, not two small and needy children who craved love and attention. And the man she loved was still, for now, alive.
It was only as she cycled back to Hamble that she thought of Margaux emerging from a room in a building that obviously housed intelligence workers. If Skye’s suspicions were correct, Margaux had recommended her to SOE. For them to have taken her recommendation seriously, it meant that Margaux wasn’t working for the Women’s Auxiliary Airforce, but for SOE.
None of it changed the fact that Margaux was engaged to Nicholas, who had spoken to Skye at SOE headquarters with so much anger, as if he hated her. Perhaps telling him she loved him – giving him that burden – had been unfair of her. He certainly, at best, seemed to resent her for it.
She cycled faster, along the pathways of frail England and away from the remembrance of Nicholas’s annoyance. She arrived at the cottage in Hamble to find she’d forgotten about the dance being held that night at the country home of the Tangmere station commander who wanted to celebrate Easter 1944 and the fact that they’d all made it this far. A time of sacrifice and then resurrection; even Skye could see the symbolism.
The dance was being held a week early because, after next week, everyone had had their leave cancelled and they all knew it meant that the rumoured invasion was soon to sweep them up in its deadly wake. That everything until now had been a rehearsal, and this was the finale: an extravaganza of blood and battle and broken bodies.
It was also why SOE needed more agents. The next few weeks in the lead-up to the invasion, and the months thereafter, would be the most crucial time for bolstering Resistance networks, and for sabotage. Skye had two days’ leave before joining that fight. No more flights for the ATA, but a training course, which she’d been told she mightn’t pass. If her superiors’ reports were favourable, then she would become someone else, a Frenchwoman, and take her place in a plane like the ones Nicholas flew, heading off to fight the Germans.
I never wanted to be Vanessa Penrose in the way that you did. Strangely, her sister’s words floated into Skye’s consciousness and she stood and held them in her mind as she propped her bicycle against the wall of the cottage. Was that why she was doing this? Was her whole life some kind of duplicate of her mother’s: a history repeating on and on, leading only to death and heartbreak?
Skye shook her head. She thought of Amy Johnson dying while ferrying planes, Honor too. She thought of every other ATA woman who had lost her life, all of them her fellows. This had been going on for four and a half years. It had to end. No, this was one thing she wasn’t doing for or because of Vanessa. But for so many others instead.
Skye felt a tear on her cheek
and then another. She brushed them away and composed her face into an expression Rose would expect to see. A little bit of anticipation about the dance, a little bit of excitement. No fear, no sadness. A mask she would wear from now on as her life became a lie that she lived.
‘I’ve been looking forward to this all month!’ Rose cried, erupting out of the cottage.
Skye turned to her with a grin behind which she hid what she knew about Rose’s fiancé – that he flew spies into France like Nicholas did. She hid also the prayer she offered up right then: that Richie would survive, and that Rose would always be this happy.
Rose, unknowing, continued her enthusing. ‘We’re allowed to wear civvies!’ she whooped. ‘Pauline said I could make a detour this morning to Mummy’s so I gathered up a few dancing dresses for us. They’re prewar but I think they’ll do.’
‘Show me what you have,’ Skye said.
Rose’s dresses were lovely. Skye coveted one in particular; a Vionnet she discovered with a gasp when she saw the label. It was a shade of pinkish-red she couldn’t quite describe – magenta possibly, or fuchsia, or perhaps just the deepest pink of a sunset sky. Two pieces of fabric wrapped up over her bust to form a softly draped neckline, and then tied at her back, and the bias-cut skirt caressed her hips before falling with a little swirl – but not too much – to her ankles.
‘It’s too bright though, isn’t it?’ Skye said, wanting Rose to disagree but also worried that showing up at a party in a colour so blazing might be offensive when grief and mourning were the ordinary way of things.
‘If anyone’s earned the right to wear a dress like that, you have,’ Rose said. ‘Enjoy it. Who knows how much longer we’ll all be smiling for? Besides, with your dark hair, you’re the only person it would suit. It never looked any good on me.’
So Skye did wear it, curling her hair and putting on only a touch of make-up because the dress didn’t need any embellishment.
Then she and Rose hoisted their finery onto their bicycles and rode to the train station, and were grateful to find two cars organised by the station commander to collect everyone in Chichester.
At the house, tulips and hyacinths – in defiance of war, like Skye’s dress – stood proudly in the garden beds and buds thrust their stubborn heads out from rosebushes. The last candle flame of sun was waiting to be extinguished by night as Rose and Skye stepped inside, where lights shone and music played and everyone laughed and was merry, and Skye tried her hardest to be as well.
Until Liberty wound her arm drunkenly around her sister’s neck. ‘Guess what I just heard?’
Skye sighed and removed the glass from her sister’s hand. ‘I don’t want to have to clean you up tonight,’ she said.
Liberty snatched the glass back and, eyes on Skye, took a large sip. ‘Guess what I just heard?’ she repeated.
‘What?’ Skye said, thankful for an approaching pilot who looked as if he would ask her to dance and save her from her sister’s gossip.
‘Margaux and Nicholas are no longer engaged,’ Liberty said triumphantly.
Skye shook her head at the pilot, who veered off, disappointed. ‘Pardon?’ she said.
‘Nicholas is free to do what he likes. He and Margaux had a huge row this afternoon. Then Margaux strolled into the mess like she hadn’t a care in the world and announced to all the men that she was now available for dates. Within ten minutes she was sitting on someone’s knee!’
‘That’s not true,’ Skye said. She’d seen Margaux and Nicholas yesterday morning and they were very much together.
‘It is,’ Liberty said, suddenly insistent and serious and focused on Skye as if the drunkenness were only an act and she was, in fact, extraordinarily sober and knew just what she was doing.
Isn’t this better than being with O’Farrell, Skye remembered Liberty saying that night at the hotel when they were lying in bed and Skye had thought her sister was drunk and babbling. Why, of all the men in the RAF had Liberty been so intent on O’Farrell if indeed she thought Skye was better off without him? Then, like a finger snap, the moment was gone and Liberty was back to her scandalmongering.
‘It looks as if the Ice Queen has definitely come here to have a good time,’ Liberty said, nodding towards the dance floor.
Skye followed Liberty’s gaze. Margaux, wearing a spectacularly revealing backless dress in cobalt blue, was leading O’Farrell out to dance, the closeness of her body to his suggesting that dancing alone wasn’t her intention.
Liberty thrust her glass at Skye. ‘Here.’ Then she strode off in the direction of the dance floor and Skye didn’t know if she was planning to separate O’Farrell and Margaux, or if she was going to lure another pilot into her arms to show O’Farrell that she too could flirt with the best of them.
Suddenly, Skye couldn’t bear to watch whatever was about to happen between Liberty, O’Farrell and Margaux. She also didn’t want to know if Nicholas was at the party, didn’t want to brace herself in expectation of more hurt. So she crept outside, where a waning moon shone, silvering the house, spotlighting the gardens, defeating England’s attempts at blackout.
Skye picked her way across the lawn, past the hopeful flowers, far away from the house. But she couldn’t be alone even there. She’d no sooner kicked off her shoes and dug her toes into the velvety lawn when she heard a voice she didn’t want to hear say her name. Go away, she tried to whisper. Her whole body contracted – even her skin, even her breath – as if she were made of glass.
If Nicholas spoke again, the sound of his voice against her heart would make it splinter. If she said nothing, perhaps he wouldn’t either. Perhaps he would leave.
But he crossed the lawn and stood far closer to her than she wanted. ‘I’m not …’ he began, then broke off, swore under his breath and started again. ‘I’m not engaged to Margaux.’
‘But you were happy to let her spy for our country,’ Skye said, testing.
‘That’s not—’ He stopped and she knew that her guess about Margaux had been right.
She rounded on him, her voice dangerously quiet. ‘Do I really seem that inept to you? Margaux is cool and elegant and self-controlled enough to spy, but I’m young and foolish and would make a mess of it with my devil-may-care attitude. How about you try thinking of me as something other than a child?’
‘Believe me, I do that far too often.’
It was his peculiar smile that did it. It made her shout as if he were someone she loathed.
‘I’m so tired of all the riddles! Why the hell is it all right for Margaux to do what she does, but not me?’
He shouted back, his voice even more vehement than hers. ‘Because I fucking love you, Skye.’
I love you, Skye. I love you, Skye. I love you. She shook her head. Stared at him, her mouth a well-rounded ‘O’ of shock.
‘What?’ she managed at last.
‘Without the obscenity this time.’ He gave a wry smile, his tone gentle now. ‘I said I love you. I’m not engaged to Margaux. I never was. I’ve never even kissed her, except on the cheek. It was part of her cover.’ He shook his head as if trying to comprehend something. ‘I was sworn to never say anything. But this morning, after I saw you at Portman Square, Wylde told me that, given you’d most likely guessed Margaux wasn’t working with the WAAF, I could tell you that much and he wouldn’t court-martial me. And that since they’d had more female agents start, they weren’t using cover stories like mine and Margaux’s any more. So we could end the pretence.’
Skye’s forehead creased into a frown as she did her best to piece together his words. He’d never been engaged to Margaux. Never kissed her. Had appeared to say that he loved Skye.
He spoke again, when it became apparent that she could not. ‘From the moment you jumped out of the Spitfire at Tempsford, I have loved you more than you can possibly know. I know you hate me now because you think I keep acting like I have a right to tell you what to do, but it’s just that every time I so much as contemplate you doing something da
ngerous and maybe … dying,’ she heard his voice crack, ‘I go a little crazy. I can’t bear the thought of losing you again. I can’t bear it,’ he repeated, his eyes on her and his hand moving towards her now as if all he wanted was to touch her.
She reduced the distance between them to nothing.
‘Will you dance with me?’ she said. ‘Properly. The way I’ve always wanted to dance with you.’
Then she was in his arms and he wasn’t holding her away from his body but as closely as he could, both his hands on the small of her back, both of her arms entwined around his neck. Their cheeks touched as they danced, her barefoot and in a beautiful dress, him in a tuxedo, and every dance from the time she was ten and he was eleven enfolded itself into that one moment, unravelling the friendship they’d forged and built and treasured into something more beautiful and dangerous than a storm over a Cornish sea.
At last he moved his mouth down to hers.
It wasn’t the way you were supposed to kiss somebody for the first time, tentatively, a shy unfurling of lip against lip. Instead it was her mouth pressed hard against his, his opening to drink her in, his tongue brushing hers, furious, almost as if they were fighting. And they were, in a way, fighting to not lie down on the grass right there and take off each other’s clothes and allow their skin to be as close as their mouths.
Her hands moved down Nicholas’s neck to his back, sliding under his jacket so she could feel him all the better with only his shirt in the way, feel every exquisite muscle. His mouth slipped from hers, running along her jawline and then down her neck, making her whole body ache. She couldn’t breathe and could hardly speak but she managed to gasp out his name, indistinctly.
‘What?’ His voice was a mere whisper as he took his lips away from her neck.
That action alone almost made her cry out – that he shouldn’t stop kissing her – but anyone might come out of the house and see them beneath the moonlight.
He looked at her, eyes telling her unmistakably what he wanted, his hands on her back ungovernable now, dropping down to the curve of her hips, drawing her in, and her breath caught as she felt every inch of him speak of the hunger that she felt too.
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