‘I’m not the crying type,’ Victoria said. ‘I swear instead.’
Vera nodded. ‘All you girls who’ve been to university swear,’ she said, and smiled. ‘I won’t wait for you tonight, I’ll go on ahead. I know what Vince is like. If I’m not there and he sees some other girl he fancies, he’ll grab her.’
Victoria could think of no reassuring answer.
The noise could be heard from as far away as the river. There were taxis outside the door as well as an RAF officer holding a fur coat and handbag for some absent girl.
Victoria didn’t have to knock at the door. She’d raised her hand to the brass knocker when the caretaker swung the door open, spilling some of his whisky as he swept back the curtain. ‘Quickly, miss, careful of the blackout.’ He said it carefully, but his smile and unfocused eyes betrayed his drunkenness.
The house was packed with people. Some of the table lights had been broken, others shielded with coloured paper, but there was enough light to see that the drawing room had become a dance floor. Couples were crowded together too tightly to do anything but hug rhythmically in the semi-darkness.
Among the American uniforms she could see a few RAF officers and some Polish pilots. Men without girls were seated on the stairs, drinking from bottles and arguing about the coming invasion and what was happening ‘back home’. There were low wolf whistles and appreciative growls as Victoria climbed the stairs, picking her way between the men. More than one fondled her legs under the pretence of steadying her.
She found Jamie and Vince Madigan on the landing, trying to revive a female guest who’d lost consciousness after drinking too much of a mixture that had cherries and dried mint floating in it. Described as fruit punch, it smelled like medicinal alcohol sweetened with honey. Victoria decided not to drink any of it.
‘She needs air,’ Vera said, appearing from another room. ‘Take her downstairs and out into the street.’ Vera seemed to be in command. Although she was always saying how she hated crowds and parties she thrived on them.
‘She’s Boogie’s girlfriend,’ explained Jamie. ‘He’s a pilot…the one playing the piano downstairs.’ Victoria took his arm, but he seemed too busy to notice. Vera smiled to indicate how much she liked Victoria’s very pale yellow dress, and both women watched dispassionately as two officers in brown leather flying jackets carried the limp girl downstairs with more enthusiasm than tenderness. The men on the stairs hummed the Funeral March as the unfortunate casualty was bundled away.
‘Did you invite all these people?’ Victoria asked.
Jamie shook his head. ‘They’re mostly friends of Vince, as well as a few who wandered in off the street. What are you drinking?’
‘Not the fruit punch.’ Was it too much to expect that he would notice her hair, swept back into a chignon, and the high-neckline dress with its standing collar and the tiny black bow?
‘Whisky, okay?’ He was pouring it before she could answer, and then he stuck the bottle back into the side pocket of his uniform jacket. His eyes were bright and restless as he kept looking round to see who else was there. He wasn’t drunk, but she guessed he’d started drinking early that day. ‘How’s that?’ He held up the half-filled glass of whisky.
Victoria had never drunk undiluted whisky before, but she didn’t want to give him any reason for leaving her. Even while they stood there, she was continually being patted and stroked by men who passed, looking for food or drink or the bathroom. ‘It’s lovely,’ she said, and brought the whisky to her lips without drinking any. It had a curious smell.
He noticed her sniffing at it. ‘Bourbon,’ he explained. ‘It’s made from corn.’
He was watching her; she tasted her drink and thought it smelled remarkably like damp cardboard. ‘Delicious,’ she said.
‘I can see that you go for it,’ Jamie mocked.
Victoria smiled. He still hadn’t kissed her, but at least there was no sign of any other girl with him. He pulled her closer to make way for an American naval officer who was elbowing his way to the bathroom. Finding it locked, he hammered on the door and yelled, ‘Hurry up in there! This is an emergency!’ Someone laughed, and a man sitting on the next staircase said, ‘He’s got a girl in there with him. I’d try the one upstairs if you’re in a hurry, Mac.’ The sailor cursed and hurried upstairs past him.
Victoria looked at Jamie, trying to enjoy the party. ‘Are most of them from your squadron?’
‘That’s Colonel Dan over there. He’s the Group Commander, the big cheese himself.’
Victoria looked round to see a short cheerful man with a large nose and messy fair hair talking earnestly to a tall dark girl with a floral-patterned turban hat and a black velvet cocktail dress.
‘Is that his wife?’
‘She’s one of the chorus from the Windmill Theatre. They gave a show on base last month—before I got here.’
‘Was it an American general who said war is hell?’
‘And that’s Major Tucker.’ The Major was standing near the stairs drinking from his own silver hip flask and scowling disapproval. Victoria felt a common bond with him but did not say so.
Jamie tightened his hold on her shoulder, but only in order to pull her aside to make way for a middle-aged sergeant who was carrying a crate of gin upstairs and into a room that was being converted into a bar. ‘Thanks for the invite, Captain,’ said the sergeant, out of breath.
‘Good to see you here, Sergeant Boyer,’ said Jamie.
Harry Boyer’s arrival with the gin was greeted by loud cheers. Downstairs, Boogie and the musicians he’d collected for the night began to play ‘Bless ’Em All’, to which the dancers jumped up and down in unison.
‘You hate it, Vicky. I can tell by your face.’
‘No,’ she yelled, ‘it’s really fun.’ By now the whole house was shaking with the vibration of the dancers downstairs. ‘But is there anywhere to sit down?’ Her yellow shoes had never been particularly comfortable, and she’d slipped them from her heels for a moment.
‘Let’s try upstairs,’ Jamie said, and plunged into the crowd. She tried to follow, but with drink in one hand and shoes loosened she couldn’t keep up with him. One shoe came off and only with some difficulty could she get everyone to stand back far enough for her to find it again. When she did, there was the black mark of a boot across the yellow silk, and one strap torn loose. They were the last pair of pre-war shoes in her wardrobe. She told herself to laugh, or at least keep her sense of proportion, but she wanted to scream.
‘If you hate it, say so,’ said Jamie sharply as she reached him at the bottom of the stairs.
She wondered what would happen if she did tell him how unhappy she was, and decided not the take the chance. ‘Why don’t we dance?’ she said. At least she’d feel his arms around her.
If she was trying to find the limit to James Farebrother’s skills and talents, inviting him to dance provided it. Even in that crush, with the tireless Boogie playing his own dreamy version of ‘Moonlight Becomes You’, Jamie trod on her toes—especially painful as she’d decided to dance in stockinged feet rather than risk the final destruction of her shoes.
‘I’m no great shakes at dancing,’ he said finally. ‘Maybe we should call it quits.’
He found a place on the sofa, but they’d only been sitting there a few minutes when a lieutenant arrived with a message asking Jamie to go upstairs to help Vince. Jamie offered her his apologies, but she feared he was secretly pleased to get away from her. She regretted her flash of bad temper, but she’d so wanted the evening to be perfect.
‘Promise you won’t move?’ Jamie squeezed her arm. She nodded and he planted a kiss on her forehead