A Fire Sparkling

by MacLean, Julianne

  They had just finished the dessert course, speeches had come to a close, and the bandleader was standing in his white dinner jacket in front of the orchestra, tapping his stick.

  Theodore reached for his champagne glass. “Is what true?”

  “I heard from Ogilvie that there are orders coming down the pipeline for more aircraft. What can you say about it?”

  Theodore checked his watch because he had early-morning meetings and wasn’t in the mood for dancing. He wondered how soon he could slip out. “I know that Chamberlain has changed his tune since March and finally sees the necessity of readying ourselves for war.”

  “That doesn’t answer the question,” Nolan replied. “How many aircraft? Fifty? A hundred?”

  “Two hundred bombers,” Theodore said flatly as the band began to play.

  Nolan reached for his glass of Scotch and raised it. “Well, then. Now I feel like dancing!” He turned to his wife. “Come on, darling. Let’s celebrate.”

  She smiled flirtatiously as she took his hand. “You want to celebrate two hundred more killing machines? Sometimes I wonder who I married.”

  They walked off laughing, while Theodore remained at the table alone, feeling somber. The dance floor flooded with couples, swing dancing to the tune “Don’t Sit under the Apple Tree.”

  He watched for a moment, wondering when he could say good night, when another colleague, Frank Smythe, claimed the chair beside him and began discussing plans for factory conversions, should they go to war. It was an important issue, and Theodore was pleased to accomplish something that evening, besides eating and drinking. But he became so engaged in the discussion that he was oblivious to the break in music as the bandleader welcomed a vocalist to the stage. It was only when she began to sing that Theodore’s attention was diverted. He focused intently on her. Not only was she beautiful, but she also had a voice so intoxicating it seeped into his blood like a smooth cognac.

  “Who is that?” Theodore asked, leaning back in his chair as he took in the woman’s slender figure in a red silk-and-chiffon evening gown and the features of her face. It was heart shaped, and she had full crimson lips and gigantic blue eyes, set wide apart. Her hair was shiny and blonde with fashionable finger curls, and she was absolutely, categorically the most beautiful creature he’d ever laid eyes upon.

  “I have no idea,” Frank replied. “But she’s something else, isn’t she? That’s a knockout voice.”

  It was husky and bluesy, and Theodore wondered how it was possible that he’d never seen her before. He’d been to most of the jazz clubs and cafés in the city, and he knew a number of musicians and bandleaders. But this woman . . . she was startlingly beautiful and exceptionally talented.

  A waiter came by with a tray of champagne. “Who’s the singer tonight?” Theodore asked him.

  “That’s Vivian Hughes.”

  “How have I never heard of her before? Where in the world did she come from?”

  “She’s a local girl, sir. She’s been singing at the Savoy for about a year now, off and on.”

  Theodore helped himself to another glass of champagne. “You don’t say. I must have been living under a rock, then.”

  The waiter moved on, and when Frank leaned forward to continue their discussion about factory conversions, Theodore found his attention uncharacteristically diverted. All he wanted to do was sit back, sip his champagne, and focus all his attention on the beguiling Vivian Hughes.

  When it came time for a short vocal break, Vivian walked off the stage to a round of applause before the band started up again.

  She approached the bar and ordered a gin and tonic. It was no surprise when a gentleman in formal black-and-white dinner attire appeared beside her, ordered something for himself—a Scotch on the rocks—and attempted to strike up a conversation. It happened all the time when she performed in the West End.

  “You have an extraordinary singing voice,” he said.

  She turned slightly to look up at him and was struck by his dark eyes, shiny black hair, and the fullness of his lips. He was tall, broad shouldered, and handsome, and there was something about his presence that was rather enthralling.

  “Thank you. That’s kind of you to say.”

  “I’m not being kind. It’s the plain and simple truth.” He accepted the glass the bartender slid toward him. “I can’t believe I haven’t seen you before. A voice like yours should be the talk of the town.”

  Vivian gave him the merest hint of a smile. “I’m sorry to say this, but that’s not the first time I’ve heard that line.”

  The corner of his mouth curled up in a grin, and he swirled his drink around until the ice cubes clinked in the glass. “I apologize. Clearly, this is not my forte.”

  Suddenly, she was intrigued, because he looked and sounded like the type of man who could have any woman he wanted. He spoke like someone born into the very highest echelons, and he was confident and sophisticated, yet charmingly boyish at the same time. She found him very attractive and had to work hard not to blush when he smiled at her.

  “And what is your forte, exactly? If you don’t mind my asking?”

  He relaxed a little and looked across at the band. “I don’t know. My work, I suppose. I’m rather obsessed with it, which is why it’s not my habit to approach beautiful woman in hotel ballrooms.”

  She glanced discreetly at his left hand and noticed that he wore no wedding ring. “So, if you are obsessed with your work, what do you do for fun?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s a shame,” she replied, “especially in times like these, when everyone is bracing themselves for war. You know what they say. There’s no time like the present.”

  “Indeed,” he replied. “I’ve been trying to remind myself of that lately.” He seemed contemplative as he raised his glass to his lips.

  Vivian gestured toward the couples on the dance floor, who were laughing and smiling and swinging each other around.

  “Look at them,” she said. “They look like they’re making the most of it.”

  “Yes, they do look like they’re enjoying themselves.”

  She slid him a glance. “You should be out there too. Why aren’t you dancing?”

  “Is that an invitation?”

  She chuckled. “I walked into that one, didn’t I? And you say this is not your forte. I don’t believe it.”

  His compelling brown eyes set her heart aflutter, which knocked her off kilter because she never fell for men who tried to charm her between sets. She had more sense than that. Especially when the men came from social circles far above her own. There was nothing to follow such flirtations but disaster.

  “So, what do you do?” she asked. “It must be a very fulfilling career if it has become an obsession.”

  “I’m deputy minister of supply.” He held out his hand to shake hers. “Theodore Gibbons. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “That sounds very impressive. I’m Vivian Hughes.”

  “I know who you are.” He finally let go of her hand but kept his eyes fixed on hers.

  “The Ministry of Supply,” she said. “That’s new, isn’t it? Something to do with weapons production?”

  “Yes.” He raised his glass to his lips, and she found it rather hypnotic, watching him take a slow sip.

  “It must be very unsettling,” she said.

  “Unsettling?”

  “To be on the inside of the government and to know that war is imminent.”

  He leaned an elbow on the bar. “Well . . . nobody knows anything for sure at this point. But I will say that it’s a relief to know that we’re doing everything in our power to arm ourselves against a threat, if it comes our way.”

  She faced him squarely. “Do you believe it will? Isn’t it possible that Chamberlain will still find a way to negotiate for peace with Hitler? He seems to want that. He’s worked so hard for it.”

  “Yes, but we don’t always get what we want. And what is the point in
negotiating with a madman?”

  She felt a sudden chill quiver across her skin. “It sounds like you believe we will go to war, Mr. Gibbons. That we must.”

  He swirled the ice cubes around in his glass again. “I certainly don’t wish it, but I believe we must act decisively if Hitler continues on his current path. I don’t believe he can be trusted. He has no respect for treaties or promises. He just does what he wants.”

  She nodded. “I believe you’re correct in that. So, you have my blessing, sir, to continue to be obsessed with your work if it means that you will be at the helm, preparing us for the fight.”

  Their eyes met, but Mr. Gibbons didn’t crack a smile. She knew in that moment that there would be rough roads ahead.

  “Will you sing again tonight?” he asked, changing the subject, as if he had read her mind and wished to calm her nerves.

  “Yes, in a few minutes.”

  “Then I’ll stay and listen. Because as you said, there’s no time like the present.”

  She raised her glass. “To making the most of life.”

  “The very most.”

  Vivian finished her drink and left Mr. Gibbons at the bar while she went to freshen up before her next song.

  When she returned to the microphone, he was seated at a table on the edge of the dance floor, conversing with a gentleman to his left. But he seemed only partly engaged, for he often locked eyes with her. In those moments, she felt as if she were floating. She was so intensely aware of him it was difficult to focus on the lyrics. There were times she simply had to close her eyes.

  Later, at the end of the night, she carried her bag to the ladies’ room to remove her makeup and change into her street clothes. When she emerged, she couldn’t help herself. She peered into the ballroom to see if Mr. Gibbons was still there, but his table had been cleared away, and the hotel staff was stacking chairs and sweeping the floor.

  While turning away—and knowing she didn’t have much time to catch the last train of the night—she collided head-on with Mr. Gibbons in the lobby.

  “Oh!” A heated rush of butterflies erupted in her belly.

  “Apologies. I’ve startled you.” He took hold of her elbow to steady her. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course. I beg your pardon.”

  She flicked her hair away from her eyes and fought to collect herself, wondering if he even recognized her in her everyday clothes. She felt like a different person without all the makeup and glamour.

  A slow smile spread across his face, and she knew in that instant that he saw through everything. “I was hoping to catch you before you left. May I offer you a ride home? My driver is just outside.”

  She regarded him intently, hoping that he didn’t think she was “fast” because she enjoyed singing in public. “That’s very generous, but I’m on my way to the Underground.”

  “It’s late.” He frowned. “Are you sure it’s safe?”

  “It’s never been a problem before. It’s very close. Just a two-minute walk.”

  He stared at her for a few seconds. “You look different.”

  “Are you disappointed?”

  “Not at all. You look . . . you look quite lovely.”

  Swallowing uneasily, she took a step back. “I should go. It was very nice to meet you.”

  Why did she suddenly want to bolt like a petty thief? She supposed she had enjoyed their conversation earlier, when he had seemed starstruck by the glamorous woman onstage, but now, she was just Vivian, a girl who worked in her father’s wine shop. A girl whose coat was shabby and whose shoes were tattered.

  She began to walk away, but Mr. Gibbons followed. “Let me walk with you. It’s no trouble.”

  “There’s no need.” She went downstairs and pushed through the riverside doors. It was dark and foggy outside under the haze of the streetlamps, and there was no one about.

  He placed his hat on his head and walked beside her. They said nothing as they walked, and it was painfully awkward. She picked up her pace, her shoes clicking rapidly over the paving stones.

  “When will you sing again?” he asked.

  “Not for a few weeks. I’ll be back at the Savoy for a wedding reception.”

  “Can I come and see you then?”

  “Not unless you know the bride and groom.”

  He laughed softly. “I’m afraid I don’t have any weddings scheduled, so I’m out of luck.”

  Vivian was exceedingly aware of his sleeve brushing against hers as they reached Villiers Street and walked to Embankment station.

  “This is where I say good night.” She stopped and paused outside the entrance. “Thank you for walking with me.”

  “It was my pleasure.”

  She stood for a few more seconds, staring up at his handsome face under the station lights and feeling as if her feet were stuck to the ground. “Good night, Mr. Gibbons.”

  “Good night, Miss Hughes.”

  She turned to go, but he called out to her. “Wait! Will you have dinner with me?”

  “Dinner? When?”

  “I don’t know. Tomorrow?”

  Her heart was pounding like a hammer. She wet her lips and managed a somewhat coherent reply. “I don’t know. I have to work.”

  “You do something other than sing?”

  “I work in my father’s wine shop. In the East End.”

  He inclined his head, and she regretted telling him that. She felt as if the spell had been broken.

  “What time do you finish?” he asked. “Surely you’ll be hungry.”

  She found herself smiling. “Where? What time?”

  He smiled in return and removed his hat, seeming pleased as punch that she was accepting. “At the Savoy? Seven o’clock?”

  “All right. I’ll meet you there.”

  He placed his hat back on his head.

  Heaven help her, she was entranced. Those dark, long-lashed eyes . . . he was like something out of a dream. Was she out of her mind to agree to see him again?

  She really shouldn’t. Nothing good could come of it. If she knew what was good for her, she would say she’d changed her mind or tell him she just realized she had some other commitment she’d forgotten about. But she didn’t say any of that. She simply turned and headed for the train.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Vivian had hoped her father would be in bed by the time she arrived home, but she was never lucky where he was concerned. The wine shop was closed, of course, but the lights were still on in their two-bedroom flat on the second floor.

  This wasn’t where Vivian had grown up. There had been happier times when her mother, Margaux, was still alive, when they’d lived in a charming town house in Bloomsbury, just around the corner from Virginia Woolf, not far from Russell Square. Her mother had been a stylish and beautiful Frenchwoman—a rather famous singer in her day—and her father had taken great pride in their social connections.

  But tragedy struck. Vivian’s mother died in a car crash with a married man who turned out to be her secret lover. There had been a terrible public scandal. Within two years, Vivian’s father became a drunkard and mismanaged his successful wine importing business. He lost the house and all their savings, and they were forced to let a small flat above the only wine shop he’d managed to hold on to in the East End. Vivian and her sister helped keep the shop running until a year ago, when her sister couldn’t take it anymore.

  She’d always been the wild and adventurous one—she was the most like their mother—and she had left Vivian behind to sing in a nightclub in Bordeaux, France, which was where their mother had once performed.

  It was where their mother had met their father. Evidently, he’d been very handsome, wealthy, and charming (it was difficult for Vivian to imagine her father in such a way), and they had fallen in love upon first sight. He proposed marriage after a month and whisked her away from the world she had known to settle down in England and have babies.

  Not long before she died, Margaux admitted to Vivian that she�
�d mistakenly believed he was her Prince Charming and that her life was about to become a fairy tale. Then she took Vivian by the shoulders, looked her square in the eye, and offered a piece of advice: Remember, darling, there’s no such thing as fairy tales. It’s never what you dream it will be. So learn how to be prudent. I know you will. I can’t say the same for your sister, though. She’s not like you. She’s far too romantic.

  It was true. Vivian had always been the practical one, while her sister was the free spirit. That’s why it was so shocking that Vivian had just accepted a dinner invitation from a man who looked and talked like a prince—and might as well be one, for he was far beyond her reach. Vivian had no business socializing with a man like him.

  Now, there she stood, thrust back into her dark and grimy reality, outside her father’s wine shop in Rotherhithe, south of the river near the docks. She paused a moment, listening to the sound of men singing drunkenly somewhere in the distance and a dog barking viciously around the corner.

  She should never have accepted that dinner invitation. At the same time, she couldn’t help but dream about the moment when she would see Mr. Gibbons again.

  After climbing two flights of stairs, she heard raucous laughter from inside the flat. Her father was probably playing cards for money at the kitchen table again.

  She quietly turned the key in the lock, hoping to sneak through to her bedroom without being noticed, but she jumped when she heard her father shout her name.

  “Vivian! Where have you been?”

  With a sigh of defeat, she turned to face him. He was seated with two men she didn’t recognize. There were three empty wine bottles between them.

  “I sang tonight,” she explained.

  Her father’s expression darkened as he studied her appearance. “Just like your mother. Following in her footsteps.”

  Vivian wanted to say that she would never follow in her mother’s footsteps and marry a man like him, but she held her tongue.

  “I enjoy music,” she said. “And it pays well at the Savoy.”

  “Ooh!” One of the other men fluttered his stubby fingers. “The Savoy. That’s a step up from the East End, ain’t it?”