“Jean!” Solange said scornfully. “That British girl. British girls are like prostitutes. They’re almost as bad as Americans! She’ll have men running in and out every hour of the day. She’ll ruin your reputation!”
Dominique gave her mother a sardonic look. “I’ll take that chance.”
“You’ll take any chance! That’s your trouble!”
One week later, Dominique threw open the glass doors of her new apartment in Ismailia and stepped onto the balcony. She took a long, satisfied breath, then moved to the banister, shivering deliciously as the breeze from Lake Timsah ruffled her linen dress.
Looking down at the tree-shaded street below, she decided that Ismailia deserved its reputation as the prettiest—and cleanest—city in Egypt. It was not a resort on a scale with Alexandria or the French Riviera, but its charming little hotels and picturesque avenues were more approachable.
Dominique leaned on the railing between two vivid flower boxes and dreamily gazed at “her” street. Tiny boutiques, their doors thrown open to the sunshine, beckoned passersby with local crafts and baked goods. Outdoor cafés decorated the street corners.
Dominique turned her head at the sound of a horse’s hooves. Jingling down the road was a quaint, brass-trimmed open carriage, a line of cars patiently crawling behind it. Dominique grinned at the sight. In Cairo or Alexandria, there would have been shouts, curses, a ceaseless wail of horns. The carriage halted in front of the red striped awning of the café opposite. A man and woman in British military uniforms hopped out to cries of welcome from a group at a sidewalk table. It was just past teatime and the café’s little white tables were filled to capacity. There were groups of women and groups of men and many couples, all in Western dress. Their conversation mixed with the lively clatter of dishes as waiters bustled through the crowd. The scene was so inviting that Dominique had an urge to hurry downstairs and join in. She could leave a note telling her roommates to meet her there when they came home from work. Then they’d go out to dinner to celebrate their first evening together. And stay out as late as they liked! Dominique was struck by the heady realization that she no longer had to account to her mother, nor even to poor Nanny, who worried so much. Her life was beginning!
“You’re very fast,” said the British sergeant who had given Dominique the typing examination. “They could use you in the typing pool, but…” He narrowed his eyes and studied her. Normally, he’d try to make time with a girl this attractive, but this one was too rich for his blood—didn’t take a genius to see that. Look at that dress: one of those plain navy numbers that screamed money. Kind of hinted at the hourglass shape underneath, but didn’t cling enough to let you know for sure. He’d like to see her without it. She’d be a handful, even though she was just a tiny thing.
The sergeant shifted his attention to her face. Oh, yeah, she was a firecracker, all right! Lips a little too full, nose a little too long—but the combination was pow! And then there were her eyes. Reached out and grabbed you, those eyes did. Told you there was spice behind that rich-girl finish. Smarts, too. What color were they, anyway? The same as that stone in his mother’s good ring. Topaz, that was it. Dominique Avallon’s eyes were like topaz. And they tilted up at the corners in a way that made her look exotic. Or mysterious. Or something else that got him going. Stood out against that auburn hair like flames. Of course, he didn’t go for redheads as a rule. They usually had freckles—not his cup of tea. But this one had skin like golden honey.
Girl’s too special for the typing pool, the sergeant decided. She’s the kind the top brass like.
“Group Captain Hampton’s secretary just got married,” he told Dominique. A group captain was the equivalent of a full colonel in the U.S. military—an exceedingly high rank. “He needs a new girl. I’ll send you over to him.” He sighed inwardly. Hated to see her go. A looker like this broke up the monotony of his day.
Fifteen minutes later, Dominique paused in front of the open door of Group Captain Stephen Hampton’s office. She peeked inside as she tapped the glass panel that comprised the upper half of his door.
Hampton was bent over his desk, sun-streaked hair the only visible feature. At the sound of knocking, his head shot up, revealing an aristocratic face deeply tanned from years in the tropics. Serious gray eyes brightened as they landed on Dominique.
“Good morning, sir. I’m Dominique Avallon. I believe Sergeant Williams phoned?”
Hampton’s features at once settled into an expression of businesslike civility. He stood up and came from behind the massive oak desk to hold out a chair for Dominique. “Ah, yes, Miss Avallon,” he greeted her in his upper-class British accent, “I hope you didn’t have any trouble finding me.”
Dominique sat down as she murmured, “None, thank you.”
He was so unexpectedly young! He couldn’t possibly be more than thirty-five. Dominique watched him return to his place and sit down. Despite his youth, he had a commanding presence. Dominique had the impression that he was one of those rare individuals who never raised their voices nor addressed others impolitely. Probably he never had to. His orders would be followed, whether or not he was in uniform.
Dominique continued to study Hampton as he read her paperwork, his brow furrowed in concentration. She was usually outgoing and would have tried to engage the officer in small talk, but there was about him a cool reserve that held her at arm’s length. It was hard to imagine Group Captain Hampton ever being flirtatious, despite the split second of interest she had detected in his first glance.
“Your scores for typing and grammar are excellent,” he said, not taking his eyes from the paper.
“Thank you,” Dominique replied. She watched his face as he scanned the rest of her application. She could discern nothing from his expression.
Finally, he raised his eyes. Dominique saw them linger on the gold watch dangling from her wrist, then travel to the saucy Paris creation she wore on her head. He looked back down at her file.
“It says here that you speak Italian, French, English, and Arabic. I assume you read and write English fluently, since you graduated from the American College. Do you read and write Arabic and Italian as well?”
She shook her head. “Italian, yes, but only a little Arabic.” Europeans living in Egypt were rarely fluent in Arabic. They attended mostly French schools, learned English or Italian as a second language, and used Arabic mainly with the household help.
“Hmmm.” Hampton’s reaction was noncommittal. With Hampton’s eyes focused on the papers on his desk, Dominique was free to look around his office. It was large, of course, as befitted a group captain. On a credenza behind him were perhaps a dozen photographs. There was one of Hampton standing in front of an airplane.
He must be a war hero, Dominique speculated. That was why he had attained high rank at such a young age. She looked at the left pocket of his uniform. It bore many decorations, but she didn’t know the meaning of most of them. Still, an unfamiliar feeling of awe crept over her.
She turned her attention back to the photographs. There was one of a woman and two children. The woman was young—a classic English beauty. Dominique looked at Hampton’s ring finger. He wore no wedding band. But there were many married men who chose not to. Dominique went back to studying the photos. The largest was of Winston Churchill and it bore an inscription, but Dominique was too far away to read it. The rest of the photographs appeared to have been taken in England, perhaps at Hampton’s home. It was a large Tudor-style estate in the country—smaller than the manor of the Avallons’ cotton plantation outside Cairo, but impressive nonetheless. In one of the photographs, Hampton held the bridle of a horse. The two children from the first picture sat on the horse’s back. There was a pond surrounded by irises in the background. In another photograph, a middle-aged couple sat on the terrace of the house.
Hampton looked up, then at the picture. “My parents,” he said somberly. “They were killed in the war. Their home in London was destroyed by a German bo
mb.” Despite his economy of speech, Dominique could sense in Hampton a profound sadness at their loss.
Her heart warmed with real sympathy. “I’m so sorry. It must have been a terrible blow to lose them both at once.” She thought of her own father, dead when she was only nine. Dominique still missed him.
She blinked and shifted her gaze to another family photo. “Your wife and children?” she asked in a subdued voice. “They’re lovely.”
Hampton turned to face the credenza. He picked up the photo of the two children on horseback. “Lily and James,” he said fondly, “eight and ten.”
“You must miss them terribly.”
He sighed. “I do. But they’re away at school now. I usually manage to get leave when they’re on holiday.”
Dominique thought they seemed young to be at boarding school, but the English insisted on sending their children away at early ages. On the other hand, she wondered if her own childhood had been any better. True, she had remained at home with Solange, but Nanny had actually raised her. Solange had seemingly had a thousand more interesting things to do with her time. Dominique wondered if Hampton’s wife was the same way. He hadn’t mentioned her even once.
“Have your children been to Egypt yet?” Dominique asked. She didn’t want to come right out and ask about his wife. Not a second time.
“Last year. They were fascinated, but quite put out that I couldn’t spend more time with them. Unfortunately, our governments were in the midst of negotiating the Anglo-Egyptian Treaty.” Egypt had been a British protectorate since the turn of the century, but the treaty provided for the gradual evacuation of British troops from the country. Egyptian president Gamal Abdel Nasser wanted the evacuation to be immediate rather than gradual; the British wanted a longer transition. However, both sides had agreed that the British would be granted permission to use their Ismailia base on the Suez Canal in times of war.
“Not our governments. I hold a French passport,” Dominique reminded him.
“Yes, of course.” Hampton looked back down at the last page of her file. “You’ve a strong French accent, but it appears that your English is quite perfect.”
Dominique’s eyes met his steadily. “I hope the accent is not a problem?”
Hampton looked disconcerted. “Certainly not! Charming, in fact,” he said hastily.
She tilted her chin up and nodded approvingly, as though she couldn’t possibly have conceived of a different answer. British and American men often commented on the allure of her accent, and she had dated her fair share of both nationalities.
Hampton cleared his throat and pointed at the papers in front of him. “I see your home is in Garden City. Lovely place. Why do you want to work here?”
Dominique dimpled mischievously, her irrepressible frankness rising to the surface even in a job interview. “To escape my mother!”
Hampton laughed at the unexpectedly honest answer, and Dominique laughed with him. He was handsome when he relaxed, she noted. And he seemed nice, despite the constraint of his demeanor. She liked him, she decided.
Hampton leaned forward in his seat and rested his elbows on his desk. For the first time, he concentrated his gaze on Dominique. “How does your mother feel about your working here?”
She met his eyes with a defiant expression. “She is not particularly pleased.”
Hampton raised his eyebrows. He didn’t need any trouble with the European community. The British already had their hands full with Egyptian unrest.
Dominique sensed his misgivings, but offered no further explanation. She knew she was well qualified for the job and was certain he would give her a chance. And, if he didn’t, it wasn’t a serious matter. She could always go back home, dreary though the prospect was.
Hampton looked back down at her application and studied it for a moment. “Avallon… Avallon…” he murmured. Then his head snapped up, a light of recognition in his eyes. “Avallon—as in Avallon Cotton?” he asked.
“Yes, of course. I thought you knew.” Dominique was a little surprised. Her surname was usually recognized at once by Europeans in Egypt.
Hampton, as flustered as his British self-possession would allow, automatically stood in a gesture of respect. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t at once recognize…”
Dominique remained seated. She looked up at him, amused. “It doesn’t matter. It has nothing to do with my qualifications for the job.”
“Quite”—Hampton faltered, as though thrown off balance by her carefree attitude—“but surely you understand that it may be a bit awkward to have you as a subordinate.”
Dominique’s eyes danced. “And surely there are members of the British aristocracy who work under you.”
Hampton smiled with her, then nodded in acknowledgment and sat down again. “You’re an able debater, Miss Avallon, and you make a good point. On the other hand, you are a civilian, not a junior officer. I’m not sure it would work—” He cut himself short as he gave Dominique a speculative look.
Her smile disappeared and her expression became earnest. “I’d like the job and… I think I can help.” Her eyes went to the pile of papers in Hampton’s “in” box.
Hampton grimaced at the overflowing stack. With a sigh, he turned back to Dominique. He looked thoughtfully at her, then once more at the piles on his desk. “Well… you’re certainly capable of dealing with the backlog here. And there’s no real reason not to at least try…” He clapped his hands palm down on the desk in a decisive gesture. “Let’s give it a go, shall we?”
Dominique removed her white gloves and put them in her pocket-book. She removed her navy blue and white straw hat and looked questioningly at Hampton. “Where should I begin?”
The group captain looked at her with a startled expression. “Now? Don’t you need to get settled or… fill out some forms?…”
Dominique laughed merrily. His confusion was endearing. “Please! I’ve spent all morning filling out forms. Besides”—she gestured at his desk—“you have enough work to last me at least a few minutes.”
Hampton chuckled, then cut short the sound by clearing his throat. “Your desk is just outside. I believe you’ll find supplies in it.” He was all business now. He paused. “By the way, do you take dictation?”
“Not shorthand, but I can type as fast as you can speak.”
“Hmmm… perhaps we can use that table for the typewriter.” He gestured at a small table against the wall with an empty vase on it. “We’ll put you in here for the morning. I’m sure you can understand that I don’t fancy pacing up and down in the hall outside as I dictate to you. There’s not much privacy there, I’m afraid.” Secretaries along the corridor sat in built-in alcoves directly outside their superiors’ offices. The alcoves, while providing some sound insulation, had no doors, so anyone in the hall could see into them.
“Of course,” Dominique said in a tone as crisp as his. “I’ll get the chair.” She put down her hat and purse and stood.
Hampton sprang to his feet. “Here, let me help you.”
Dominique picked up the ringing telephone on her desk. “Group Captain Hampton’s office.”
“Bonjour, c’est moi,” Paulette was whispering—she had a job in the typing pool, and her conversations could be overheard—but her excitement came through anyhow.
“Hello!” Dominique replied in French. “Ready to go to lunch?”
“Sure. But it’ll just be me. Jean has another date with her captain.”
“Good for her!” Dominique laughed.
“Anyhow, I’m not calling about lunch. I’ve found a wonderful way to celebrate the end of your first week working for the Royal Air Force.”
“What’s that?”
“How about a date for dinner and dancing tomorrow night at the French officers’ club?” Paulette giggled. The French officers’ club, which was in Ismailia, was far more popular than the British officers’ club, which was on the base, twenty minutes from town.
Dominique’s eyes sparkled at the prosp
ect. It would be the first date of her life that didn’t have an eleven o’clock curfew. “Who are they?”
“Two very handsome British lieutenants.” Paulette sighed. “I’m not sure which one I like best.”
“They’re not married?” Men far from home frequently lied about that, Dominique had discovered.
“They’re only twenty-four and they’re not wearing rings. But, of course, I didn’t ask them!”
“Why not?”
“Dominique! Come on. It’s just dinner and dancing. Anyhow, who cares? There aren’t many British wives on the base, you know.”
“So what?” Dominique shot back. “That doesn’t mean the husbands should cheat.”
“You’re such a prude! Everyone here dates whomever they want and you’re the only one I’ve ever heard object to it.”
Dominique knew this was true. For as long as there had been European military in Egypt, there had been local liaisons. Those in charge cast a blind eye on the behavior of men far from home.
As though Paulette could read Dominique’s thoughts, she said, “You know, their situation here is tense. President Nasser is on the radio every day telling the Arabs to rise up and murder the foreign imperialists. They’re being forced to give up everything they’ve worked for here over the past century. There are constant run-ins with the Egyptian police. Who can blame them for trying to find someone to make their time here a little easier? And a lot of it is innocent. They just want to look across the dinner table and see a pretty face. What’s wrong with that?”
Dominique tried to see it from her friend’s point of view. It was true that the base was cloaked in an air of taut expectancy. Tension crackled in the dispatches Dominique’s boss received from the Home Office. Egypt’s President Nasser alarmed London. He was trying to extend his power in the Middle East beyond his own country. He was meddling in the affairs of Jordan and the Sudan, areas traditionally in the British domain. Although the British had agreed the previous year to phase out their military presence in the Suez Canal, it was an agreement that left the British military uneasy. They were trying to maintain a fine balance between cooperation and capitulation, and the strain was apparent in the hostility of the Egyptians, the self-righteousness of the British.
No More Lonely Nights Page 2