One London Night

by Denise A. Agnew

  She drew a deep breath and plunged into icy waters. “Are you?”

  He made a scoffing noise. “No. Even if the AFS takes me on, we’re considered lower than low. That we’re dodging the war. I doubt the AFS will ever command the respect of the RAF.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I mean that people look down on the AFS.”

  “Of course it is, but people believe what they want, even if there are no facts to support it.”

  She didn’t believe him. “Why on earth would people think firefighting isn’t a part of the war effort?”

  “They think it’s better to get blown up upon foreign soil than in England. Getting blown up on your own soil is somehow not prestigious enough.”

  She snorted softly. “That’s silly.”

  “I think, perhaps, that’s too mild a description for it.” He shook his head as they came up behind an older car going very slow. “It doesn’t matter. I am hoping my physical condition will be enough to qualify me despite the eye.”

  She drank in the sight of his broad shoulders, chest, and strong arms encased in a navy sweater and the way his gray pants fit his muscular thighs. She jerked her attention back to the road in front of them.

  “I’m sure you will do fine,” she said to reassure him, guilt eating a new hole in her.

  She couldn’t tell him what his father had done to ensure Alec got onto the AFS. She couldn’t, but she desperately wished to confess. It was on the tip of her tongue when traffic started to clear and he pulled forward, urging the Bentley to perform.

  “Do you know anyone else at your new work?” he asked.

  Somewhat relieved he’d changed the subject, she answered quickly. “No. My boss in New York gave me my new boss’ name here in London and their phone number. I called him yesterday to let him know I would be in town later today. Benjamin James.”

  “You’re staying at the Savoy, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll drop you at work first, and we can meet this boss of yours.”

  Surprised, she asked, “We?”

  “No sense in you taking the Underground when I can drive you. At least until Sunday.”

  “You’d do that?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you, Alec. You’re…” She smiled gently. “A stubborn man, but a good one.”

  “Stubborn yes. Don’t be too sure about the goodness.”

  They shared a laugh as traffic cleared and moved faster. Quiet pervaded a short while before she decided write some ideas for more articles. She retrieved a notebook and pencil from her purse and jotted notes.

  “Story already? Didn’t think I was that interesting,” he said.

  “I’m writing down ideas for articles.” She threw a smile his way. “Has nothing to do with you.”

  He smiled but kept his gaze on the road. “Newspapers publish propaganda, don’t they?”

  She knew he was baiting her and answered in good humor. “Yes, but it’s all mostly true.”

  He laughed again, and the deep sound held a magic that brought her back to their times together as kids. It was a warm, lovely feeling. She hadn’t expected this when he’d seemed cautious and almost snarly that day in the driveway.

  “So you don’t mind writing propaganda?” he asked.

  She considered his question. “I’m not here to approve or disapprove of how the British react to the war in their lives. I’m just here to get the facts.”

  She saw a flicker of admiration register in his eyes. “That is admirable.”

  Sylvie was a bit indignant. “You don’t believe me.”

  “You were always honest. Unless you’ve changed over the years.”

  She swallowed hard. He was right—she'd turned into someone who wasn’t honest. She was willing to lie to him. She shouldn’t have agreed with his mother not to tell him that his acceptance in the AFS had been arranged by his father.

  “I haven’t changed so much,” she said.

  Several cars back someone honked, and she decided now was a good time to change the subject.

  “When did the war start to scare you?” she asked.

  He sobered. “Probably the first bombing on August thirteenth. Since last year we’ve been ready with those nasty-smelling gas masks, the Anderson shelters, and rationing. People made jokes about the Phony War. But when I heard a thousand people were killed, including children, it made a new hole in me.”

  She’d researched the first bombing in England. There had been light bombing raids on places such as Stoke and Bristol as early as June of this year. When the Germans attacked Portland, a factory near Birmingham, and a naval base at Southampton, the tide turned and a new reality was born.

  “Americans don’t care what’s happening here. At least not most of them. Their world is so isolated,” she said.

  He snorted. “I don’t bloody blame them. Why would they want to help us?”

  “We are allies. We should defend each other.”

  “Perhaps the British believe the Americans admire us more than they do.”

  “Still…” She sighed. “We really are close friends.”

  “What power does a war correspondent have over governments and whether the United States will help us?” he asked.

  “Maybe the stories I write will change people’s minds and we can help Britain more than we have so for.”

  “More than cans of Spam, I hope.”

  She decided the whole thing had become too serious. “Umm. Delicious.”

  “What, you don’t like it?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I’ll eat it if I have to. I may have to before the war is over.”

  The intensely curious part of her continued to probe for answers.

  “Alec, what will you do after the war?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t thought much about it.”

  “So you won’t be a barrister?”

  He grimaced. “I really hate the idea of being a barrister. I don’t know. I suppose you could say I’ll think on it while I’m fighting fires.”

  “How long is the training for the AFS?” she asked.

  “Sixty hours. But I have a feeling it will be less.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they still need a lot of people to join, and with the Jerries attacking us, it is more urgent than ever to get people into the service.”

  A twinge of disappointment filled her. She wouldn’t get to see him often, if at all. Maybe that’s for the better. If she didn’t see him regularly, she couldn’t delude herself that they could form a relationship other than mere friendship, if that.

  “That sounds incredibly difficult,” she said. “I admire the women who are already working in it.”

  “They aren’t doing much of the physical work. They tend to keep to the central control room, taking messages and sending out the alarms when a fire starts.”

  Her mouth twisted. “I’m not surprised. Women are always getting shoved to the back of the line.”

  He made a small sound of amusement. “Is that bitterness I hear?”

  “Maybe a little.” She sighed. “I understand that the women are doing hard work in the AFS. Very important work. I just know that some of them could do the hard work the men are.”

  He smiled, a hint of teasing in it. “I heard that one official in the AFS was very opposed to women being in the AFS at all. He said they’d faint.”

  She shook her head. “As you English would say, that is utter bollocks.”

  His full-blown laugh was deep, the sound so rich and masculine it made her tingle everywhere. “I agree with you. The official must not have met some of the women I know. I doubt they’ve fainted once in their lives. Someone like you could do the job.”

  His confidence in her made her pause. “Thank you for the vote.”

  They went silent for a short time before he asked, “Do you think you’ll have trouble with the other male war correspondents?”

  “Trouble? What do you mean?”

  “Obviou
sly some men are not happy that some women have taken over jobs.”

  She knew he referred to more than just her grandfather and his father. “I’m very used to men making comments. It doesn’t concern me in the least.”

  He made a doubtful sound. “Doesn’t concern you? It seemed to when my father was being his usual controversial self.”

  She sighed and threw up her hands. “In the case of family, perhaps it does bother me a little. Strangers don’t matter.”

  “Good. That’s the Sylvie I remember.” He glanced over at her, and their eyes met for one moment. “You know, maybe I do know what I’ll do after the war. Maybe I’ll settle down and wear cardigans and smoke pipes. Be just like my father.”

  She smiled. “I can’t see that.”

  “Why not?”

  She thought of the daredevil in him that had contributed to his car accident, but she didn’t plan to rehash old wounds in a hurtful way. “A man who lives for every moment isn’t likely to be that sedate.”

  “No, he isn’t. But who knows? War can change a man. And a woman.”

  “Have you changed that much over the years, Alec?”

  “Yes. I think I have.”

  As they roared on toward London, she wondered if he’d honestly remembered everything they’d shared, or if he wanted to keep that in the past forever, along with the old Alec.

  * * * *

  The city had changed some since Sylvie had been here last, a decade ago, but the noise, the traffic, and the regular bustle hadn’t. He’d taken the long way to Fleet Street, by way of Piccadilly and through other streets she didn’t recognize. As they drove toward Fleet Street and the building she’d be working in, she glanced from here to there, most buildings standing tall and strong. Apprehension filled her as the scenery around her began to change…crumbled buildings, ruins blackened and twisted, bricks and stone and wood altered by fire. Immediately her mind started to generate a story. She shoved that aside for taking in what she could see.

  The British seemed determined to move on with their daily lives, even when death and fire rained down on their city. They walked along the streets, pushed prams, sold newspapers, made their way to jobs that may not be there tomorrow. The sheer number of people always made her feel a bit closed in, but she knew London would be important in the rest of the war, and being here, where things happened, could propel her toward bigger assignments.

  “These poor people,” she said in a whisper.

  “What?” Alec asked.

  “These people are going through hell.”

  “This isn’t hell. Wait until the bombing has been going on for weeks. We’ll understand hell then.”

  “And here we are, insane enough to come closer to the edge. We are crazy, Alec.”

  “Changing your mind about being a war correspondent in a city that may be wiped off the face of the Earth?”

  “I hadn’t thought of it in quite such devastating terms.”

  “I can’t stop thinking of it that way,” he said.

  She made a soft sound of acknowledgment. “My parents always said I have too good an imagination. I remember when they caught me daydreaming. Father told me to straighten up and stop.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you once wanted to be a novelist. What happened to that idea?”

  A pang of pure sadness hit her. She didn’t want to talk about it, but how could she avoid it? “I grew up.”

  “That’s a shame, if you ask me.”

  She’d never heard anyone say that before, and it took her by surprise. “A woman has to find a practical way in the world if she isn’t marrying and having children.”

  “You never want to marry and have children?”

  Oh, yes. She used to fantasize about him coming back into her life. Of having those children with him. Her face grew hot as she remembered her most amazing, sinful dreams, both awake and sleeping. “I’ve thought about it. I’m not sure I want that life. Most men would want me to give up my job and start popping out little ones right away.”

  “Every man?”

  “Most.”

  “Perhaps you’re interested in free love, then?”

  She snorted. “Hardly.”

  They drove the Strand, and he pointed. “There is the Savoy.”

  She couldn’t see much from this vantage point. As they continued, they passed Kings College, and eventually the road turned into Fleet Street. She craned her neck to see the tall buildings. Certainly they weren’t as spectacularly tall as the ones she saw in New York City on a daily basis, but they had a personality she couldn’t deny. The passed the Royal Courts of Justice, creeping by in slow traffic.

  “Oh, my God,” she whispered. “Look.”

  Asking him to look was no doubt a silly thing to do because damage had been done to the Royal Courts by the September eighth bombing. She’d certainly used that imagination of hers when it came to thinking about what the bombed areas would look like. Somehow her imagination had filled in the smells as well. Even inside the Bentley with the windows rolled up, the scent of dust, plaster, and leftover smoke was obvious.

  “It’s awful,” she said, not expecting an reply.

  He didn’t give one, and they moved onward.

  “If we keep going, will we run into St. Paul’s Cathedral?” she asked.

  “Yes. Fleet Street turns into Ludgate Hill. Not too far. We could probably walk it if we had a mind to. Why?”

  “Just curious. I want to see the King Edward Building eventually. You know, the Central Telegraph Office that has the wire services for national and international.”

  “I see. Well, it’s only a ten-minute taxi ride from Fleet Street to the Savoy. Is that the way you plan to travel to work each day?”

  “It’s probably the best way.”

  “I have a question. Why the Savoy, when it’s so expensive?”

  She laughed. “Twenty-three shillings a night.”

  “My God.”

  “That’s what my boss said in New York. I don’t know what he was whining about, considering there’s quite a few hotels in New York City that are as expensive.”

  “Is he a snob?”

  “No. Just rough around the edges. He put me in The Savoy because correspondents from other papers will be there. The paper is paying for it, not me.”

  “Hmm.” Eventually he pulled into the only available spot he could find along the street and turned off the engine. “Here we are. Your building is just up ahead.”

  He started to open his door, and she caught his arm. “Wait. You don’t need to do this. I can introduce myself to the boss all on my own.”

  He frowned, and some of the good humor he’d shown her on the drive vanished. “I know that. You aren’t going to leave me in this car by myself, I hope.”

  He grinned and glanced down at her hand on his arm. The warmth of his body and his proximity in the confines of the car made her heat and a strange dance start in her lower tummy.

  She shook her head and released him. “Fine. Come along. But don’t start any trouble.”

  “When have I ever done that?”

  “Humph.”

  As they stepped out of the car, a strong wind pummeled her. She automatically reached for her hair, and then wished she’d worn a hat and dress. A hat would look more professional. Her stomach clenched with apprehension. She couldn’t deny feeling nervous, but she put one foot in front of the other as they headed down the sidewalk, pocketbook secure over her arm. They entered the building, the art deco design inside nothing like the older façade. She passed by the elaborate lobby to the elevators, and soon they’d zipped up to the third floor. Her nerves didn’t improve as they ascended; in fact she felt even more anxiety, but she took a deep breath and let it out.

  “It will be all right,” Alec said with a smile.

  “I hope so.” His words took away her apprehension, and she drank in his support. You can do this without him. She could, and she would keep remind
ing herself of that over and over until her confidence rose. She hadn’t come this far to fall apart. Although she was determined to make a career as a war correspondent work, a bit of her still worried she’d do the wrong thing and mess up.

  As they walked the third floor hallway, a woman approached them with a broad smile. She wore a pert hat and dress, which looked like something from the late teens or early twenties, while she looked somewhere in her forties, her dark hair short-cropped. An elaborate ring on her left ring finger winked with diamonds.

  The woman put out her hand and smiled. “Hello, you must be Sylvie Hunnicut. I’m Annie Hollister of the English Lady. Our offices are right here.”

  Sylvie perked up, shook the woman’s hand, and introduced Alec, explaining that he was reporting to the AFS this week as well. Annie shook hands with him and continued smiling.

  “I was a war correspondent,” Annie said. “But now I’m writing about knitting and other things more sedate.”

  Sylvie immediately wanted to know why a woman who had been a war correspondent would give it up.

  Before Sylvie could ask anything about it, Annie said, “Glad to have another woman nearby. You’re a few days early to report, aren’t you?”

  “I thought I’d come down to London early and get settled in.”

  “The Savoy?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  Annie reached out and squeezed Sylvie’s shoulder. “Almost everyone is there, darling. By the way, I’m letting a flat near the Savoy. If you’d like to take the Underground or taxi together, I’d be happy to share.” She took out a small card and handed it to Sylvie. “My number. Otherwise, meet me in the lobby of the Savoy at eight in the morning Monday. Have a wonderful day, and so nice to meet you.”

  Annie started to leave.

  “Wait,” Sylvie said. “How did you know who I am?”

  Annie didn’t look the least disturbed by the question. “Benjamin had a photo of you.”

  “Benjamin Adams?”

  “You sent a photo with your application, yes?” Annie asked.

  Sylvie glanced around, embarrassed. “My boss in New York told me I had to.”

  “He did what?” Alec’s expression turned incredulous. “Why?”