No More Lonely Nights

by Nicole McGehee

  As on the previous evening, Hampton sent Dominique to bring back dinner. This time, they gobbled their food as he paced up and down in his office and dictated a section of the report. The next two evenings followed the same pattern. Dominique brought up sandwiches from the mess and they ate as they worked. Until Friday evening, when the contents of Stephen’s sandwich dropped onto the Oriental rug.

  His brows came together in an expression of annoyance, but Dominique couldn’t suppress her laughter at the sight of Hampton holding two pieces of bread, while the roast beef, cheese, and tomatoes lay in a tight little pile on the floor.

  Hampton looked at Dominique and his frown turned into a grin. She could see the tension ease from his face. Nevertheless, he declared emphatically, “This is uncivilized and, I’m sure, not at all what you’re used to, especially on a Friday evening. Surely, we can afford half an hour to eat in a proper fashion. Let’s go down to the officers’ mess. I’d enjoy a chance to—Oh”—he stopped in confusion—“you’ve finished your sandwich.” Stephen’s face fell.

  Dominique, flustered, looked at her empty plate, then back at Stephen. Disappointment washed over her. He had said, “I’d enjoy a chance to…” To what? Dominique wondered. To get to know her better? To have a break from work? She wished he’d finished his sentence. She wished she hadn’t already eaten her sandwich. She thought of saying that she was still hungry, then realized that she would look overeager. She could offer to have dessert while he ate, she thought. But a piece of chocolate cake was stationed accusingly at her elbow.

  “Well,” she teased gently, “I haven’t been doing the talking.”

  Hampton smiled. His cheeks carried a trace of five o’clock shadow and his tailored uniform showed a few wrinkles, but that only made him look more virile. “Next time, then,” he said.

  When? Dominique wanted to insist. The offhanded phrase tantalized her. She wished the report weren’t almost finished. There might never be a “next time.”

  Now Stephen was pacing up and down again, clearly ready to resume dictating. Oh, she was a fool! He’d meant nothing, absolutely nothing, by the comment. She was his secretary. He was her employer. That was all, she told herself firmly. Besides, Stephen Hampton was not the man for her. He was married. He had a mistress. And yet… he was fascinating. Dominique was intrigued by the mysteries behind his discreet facade.

  On the following Monday, Dominique’s routine returned to normal. She left the office each evening at four-thirty, went home to change for dinner, then danced till midnight. Like the people around her, Dominique attacked her social life with the sort of frenetic hedonism born of tension. Restaurants and clubs were full every night with lavishly gowned women and free-spending men. Parties were frequent, with a seemingly endless supply of liquor and delicacies served by white-jacketed waiters. The atmosphere was one of a perpetual New Year’s Eve.

  The British had promised to withdraw from the Canal Zone, their last base in Egypt, by June 1956, and there was a sense of an era ending, of chances slipping away, of good-byes and tears amidst the frivolity.

  Then, one evening in mid-October, as Dominique was preparing to go, Stephen approached her desk and announced in a tight voice, “Field Marshal Waterhouse is coming from London the day after tomorrow. There’s concern that these Israeli-Egyptian skirmishes are going to blow up—maybe even close the Canal. I need to prepare another big report and I’d like your help.”

  The gravity of his voice made Dominique’s pulse quicken, but so did the prospect of working late with him. “Of course,” she said. She looked at her watch. “I just need to make a phone call.”

  Hampton was apologetic. “I hope I haven’t ruined your evening. We should be no later than seven-thirty or eight. Most of the information I’ve already sent off in dispatches to London. It’s just a question of summarizing it in a risk assessment.”

  Dominique’s brow furrowed with concern. “There must be considerable risk if the field marshal is coming here on such short notice.”

  “I don’t think anything will happen until the Israeli elections in November, but we have to be prepared.”

  Dominique paled. “For war?”

  Hampton was silent. His eyes met Dominique’s—sympathetic, anxious, and… something more. He took a deep breath. “I don’t think it’s reached that point. We’ll probably just see more of the same for a while. Border raids and the like. That’s what I intend to say in my report.” His voice dropped. It came out raspy and tender, like a lover in the dark. “I haven’t forgotten my promise to you. I’ll let you know if I think something’s going to happen. I wouldn’t let anything—” He stopped short. His eyes locked with Dominique’s. “I wouldn’t allow your family to fall into jeopardy,” he concluded formally.

  Dominique held her breath as she focused implacably on his face. After a moment she said softly, “I know.” Her trust in him was total, she realized.

  An odd light came over Stephen’s face. Dominique could see he was touched by her faith in him. She followed him with her eyes as he went back to his office.

  It was a little more than an hour later that she heard the sharp sound of high heels marching down the hall. Lieutenant Amanda Smythe brushed past Dominique without a word and entered Hampton’s office. She slammed the door so hard behind her that Dominique was afraid the glass panel would shatter.

  The woman’s voice, shrill and angry, rang out. “We’ve been planning this for weeks! You can’t cancel now!”

  Dominique couldn’t hear Hampton’s response—didn’t want to hear anything at all. She got up and went to the ladies’ room. When she returned, she saw that the door to Hampton’s office was still closed. She averted her eyes as she saw the blurry figure of Amanda Smythe pass behind the door. Dominique started to type, trying to ignore the drama going on just a few feet away. It was almost ten minutes more before the door opened again.

  “Fine.” The lieutenant’s high-pitched voice still registered displeasure, but the fury was gone. “I’m not at all happy about this, Stephen, but I’ll see you at eight-thirty. Don’t be late.”

  Dominique kept her head down as the lieutenant passed. But she still felt her glare.

  Seconds later, Hampton emerged from his office. Dominique continued to type, not wanting to meet his eyes. She was embarrassed for him—embarrassed to have witnessed such a private scene.

  As if reading her mind, Hampton addressed the matter directly. “Can you stop typing for a moment, Miss Avallon?” His voice was subdued.

  Dominique stopped and looked up at him. She focused on a place somewhere over his left shoulder. This was mortifying. She hated the woman for humiliating Stephen. He was so dignified and reserved. Such public ugliness must be unbearable for him.

  Hampton looked down at his feet, then at his secretary. “I’m sorry you had to hear that.”

  She couldn’t meet his gaze. She replied hastily, “I really didn’t. I was down the hall most of—” She paused when she saw the understanding smile on his face.

  Hampton said gently, “That’s a generous lie, Miss Avallon.” He was silent for a moment as he studied her face, his eyes soft. Then he nodded, almost imperceptibly. “You are a true lady,” he said.

  Her heart ached at the open simplicity of his declaration—at all that it implied. She wanted to cry, “Why do you put up with her? You deserve so much better!” It was almost a physical labor to suppress the words.

  Dominique’s eyes locked with Stephen’s. She swallowed, and the sound filled her ears. She sat motionless, unable to speak.

  Stephen held her gaze, wouldn’t release it. His eyes were bright silvery gray, like clouds after a storm. Dominique’s nerves tingled with the impact of his regard. When he spoke, she was almost startled by the sound. “Miss Avallon, I’m sure I’ve disrupted your plans this evening. When we finish, would you permit me to drive you home so you don’t have to wait for the shuttle?”

  Heat rose in Dominique, starting in a place near her stomach and f
illing her chest, then her head. It took great effort to answer calmly, “Yes, sir, I would.”

  When Dominique and Stephen emerged from the office at seven-thirty, the sky was dusky blue. Dominique lifted her face to the fresh air, glad to be liberated from the stuffy office. Directly in front of the entrance sat Hampton’s military car. His driver held open the door to the back seat. Dominique started to enter, but Stephen caught her by the elbow. She turned and looked at him questioningly.

  He smiled. “It’s such a fine night. I’d like to take my own car if you don’t mind.” He pointed to a sporty red Jaguar roadster parked some yards away. The top was down and Dominique could see the sparkling tan leather interior.

  She grinned back at him. “That would be wonderful.”

  Hampton dismissed his driver and led Dominique to the convertible. He held the door open for her as she got in, then went around to the other side. He turned his head to look at her. “You should take off your hat, or it may blow away.”

  “Oh… I hadn’t thought of that.” Dominique reached up and removed the tiny round cap pinned to her curls.

  “I think there’s a scarf in the glove box if you’d like to cover your hair,” said Stephen.

  “No, thank you,” she said, too quickly. Dominique suspected that it was Lieutenant Smythe’s. She didn’t like to think about that.

  “Right, then. We’re off,” Stephen said briskly. The engine growled to life, then settled into a contented purr. Dominique watched Stephen’s hands as he put the car in reverse, then shifted into first. They were strong-looking, but long and elegant.

  As they started to drive, the wind mussed Stephen’s hair. It made him look younger, Dominique thought, as she covertly studied his face. She felt the sudden urge to run her finger down the smooth line of his aristocratic profile, as a blind person might to discover the features of a loved one. She quickly averted her eyes and looked straight ahead.

  The car slowed at the base checkpoint and Dominique spoke. “I live nearby.” She gave him rapid directions. “You’ll be back by eight-thirty.”

  Stephen gave her a puzzled look.

  Dominique reminded him, “For your appointment with Lieutenant Smythe.” She tried to keep her tone neutral.

  “Oh, yes,” Stephen said indifferently.

  They drove the rest of the way in silence. Dominique was excruciatingly aware of Stephen’s body. Each time he moved his legs to depress the clutch or step on the gas, she could see the muscles of his thighs through the thin, tropical-weight wool of his slacks. His left hand on the stick shift was so very near that her skirt, buffeted by the wind, once blew over it. She hastily pulled back the material and secured it under her right knee.

  Dominique wished she could think of something witty or intelligent to say, but she was tongue-tied. Nor did Hampton look at her or speak. He seemed deep in thought. Occasionally he whistled a few bars of a tune, then abruptly stopped. Dominique remembered the day in the office when he had whistled the tune of the rumba from the officers’ club.

  Before she realized it, they had arrived at her apartment. Hampton eased the car to the curb and stopped. He took one hand off the steering wheel and turned the upper half of his body to face Dominique. For a moment, he contemplated her.

  Dominique held her breath, wondering what would come next.

  Finally, Hampton said, “Thank you so much… for your help.”

  Dominique was overcome with disappointment. But what had she expected? she asked herself. She knew he had a date at eight-thirty. And even if he didn’t, what had she expected?

  She realized, with a start, that she hadn’t answered him. She was simply staring into his eyes. Quickly, she looked away. “I didn’t mind helping,” she said. She gathered her purse and hat. He didn’t move from his place. Did he intend to open her door or did he have something more to say? With her right hand, she reached across her left shoulder and unlocked the door.

  Stephen looked startled by the action. “Oh, excuse me…” He hastily got out of the car, then came around to her side and held the door open. He politely extended his hand to assist her.

  Dominique reached for his hand. Even before they touched, she felt the vibration, like an electric current. It sizzled through her. It was impossible that he did not feel it, too. She stood and found herself just inches away from him—almost in his arms. His scent teased her. A mixture of sandalwood cologne, leather, and soap.

  Suddenly, two images flashed in quick succession in her mind, like slides on a projector screen. She saw Stephen’s wife, then Lieutenant Smythe. Both tall, blond, cool beauties. She compared them with herself: diminutive and unquestionably Gallic. Her heart sank. He wouldn’t be interested in her. She wasn’t his type at all.

  She spoke automatically—words she didn’t even hear. “Thank you for the ride.” With a halfhearted smile, she turned and started to move away.

  Then she heard his voice. Not loud at all. “Dominique…” Like a caress. “Wait, please.”

  She spun around to face him, her eyes alight. “Yes?”

  He stepped toward her. “Would you”—he paused, as if debating whether to go on. “Would you have dinner with me this evening?”

  Dominique’s pulse thudded in her ears. “Yes,” she answered. She didn’t even think about fetching a wrap from her apartment. She was afraid he would change his mind in the interim. She just got back into the car. She wondered, only briefly, what he would do about Lieutenant Smythe.

  They went to the Majestic, a convivial downtown brasserie. As they entered the etched glass doors, they were hit with a wave of sound. The restaurant was crowded with French and British military, and the roar of conversation echoed off the wood floor and high ceiling. Tables were closely packed, but there were dark red velvet booths separated from each other by panels of etched glass.

  As soon as they were seated in one of the semicircular banquettes, Stephen ordered a bottle of light, dry Sancerre for them to sip. Then he excused himself. Dominique guessed he was telephoning Lieutenant Smythe.

  When he returned, he slid into the booth, leaving a discreet amount of space between them. He looked at Dominique and smiled conspiratorially, his eyes silver in the light from the brass chandeliers overhead. He wore a look of exhilaration that made Dominique’s pulse race. What had he told Lieutenant Smythe?

  Dominique didn’t have time to dwell on it, because Stephen turned the conversation to her. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you from the first time we met,” he said, still smiling.

  The room was so noisy that Dominique had to ask him to repeat himself. Stephen edged closer and spoke more loudly. “You said you came here to escape your mother?”

  He remembered? A thrilling sort of tension made Dominique’s heart pound faster. She leaned forward and raised her voice over the din. “Mostly that. Yes.”

  Stephen cupped his ear and edged closer until they were side by side. “Surely, she didn’t finance such a move for you?” he said, now able to speak in a normal tone.

  Dominique took a sip of wine to calm herself. She was reeling at the fact that she was actually having dinner with Stephen. She could feel the warmth of his leg, though it was not quite touching hers. It made it difficult to focus on their conversation. The last subject she’d expected Stephen to bring up was her mother. “No, you can be sure Mother’s not helping me,” she said with a crooked smile. “I’ve saved some money from birthdays and the like. And, luckily, I found a job immediately.”

  “Your air force salary can’t possibly afford you the lifestyle you’re used to.”

  Dominique shrugged. “I take the shuttle to work. I share my apartment with two other girls. And…” She was going to say that she dined out most nights, courtesy of the British Air Force. Then she thought better of it. She continued on another tack. “And I have enough clothes to last me a long while. Anyhow, I told my mother I’d quit my job next spring when it was time for us to go to France.”

  Stephen looked star
tled. “That’s disappointing!” His features settled into a scowl.

  “But you—the British, I mean—are pulling out of the Canal next year, aren’t you?” Dominique looked down, then reached for her glass and twirled it absentmindedly on the tablecloth. Talking about the future with Stephen disturbed her because she knew that after next year, she’d never see him again.

  But Stephen’s next words lifted her spirits. “As you know, there’s some discussion about how quickly and completely we’ll pull out. Nasser, of course, wants us all gone by March. We’d like to keep a small force here for several more years.” He sighed. “We’re negotiating.”

  They were interrupted by the arrival of the waiter with their appetizers, escargots in garlic butter. When he left, it was Stephen who spoke first. “I’ve been wanting to do this for some time.” He gave her a sidelong look.

  Dominique stammered, “I… you never…”

  Stephen shrugged and stabbed an escargot with his fork. “I didn’t want to spoil a good working relationship.” He put his fork down and looked squarely at Dominique. “But I was afraid—with things as they are now—that if I didn’t take the opportunity, I might lose it altogether.”

  Dominique stopped with her fork halfway to her mouth. “I don’t understand. I thought you said there was no cause for alarm yet.” She heard the sound of metal on china before she realized she had dropped her hand to the table.

  Stephen’s smile faded. “That doesn’t mean that my stay here is indefinite. We may not get what we want from President Nasser. Things are changing every day. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be stationed here.”

  Dominique’s stomach flip-flopped. Her fingers released their hold on her fork. It slid from her hand and lay askew on the edge of her plate. “I would think you would be one of the last to go,” she said in a constricted voice.