“Let’s head in to see the band!” Dottie said, never one to turn down a chance to see live music.
“Sounds good, Dots,” Viv said. “I need to sit and have a cold drink after that walk.”
Blanche and Martha agreed to wander with Frankie, while Viv, Dottie, and I followed the sound of swing music. We entered a massive dance hall with high ceilings and cream-colored paneled walls covered with ornate plaster molding. Lights were strung across the width of it, and a crystal ball dangled in the center of the dance floor. There was a bar in the back corner, and the band was on a stage on the opposite side of the room from the entrance. Small tables and chairs were scattered near the walls around the edges of the room. The floor was packed with couples jitterbugging to the Hepcats’ rendition of “Stompin’ at the Savoy.”
We squeezed our way up to the bar, where most of the men were more than happy to step aside and let us through—compliments, whistles, and “Hey, dolls” coming at us the whole time. Viv smiled and nodded, acting like a movie star responding to her fans. She even blew a kiss to a couple of young soldiers as we walked by, and one of them stumbled back, holding his heart. Dottie put her head down, blushing as red as the frames of her glasses, which only made some of the guys try harder for her attention. I followed behind them, giving the men a friendly smile as I realized I was searching the crowd for a tall blond second lieutenant I would never find there. If Danny were alive and able, he wouldn’t have been at this club tonight anyway.
“What’s your pleasure, ladies?” the bartender said when we finally made it up to the bar.
“A gin and tonic and two beers, please,” Viv said.
“We’ve got warm British beer and cold American Cokes—no gin and tonics here,” the bartender said with a wistful smile. “And the beer is only on Friday and Saturday nights—Red Cross rules.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “To be honest, I don’t think the top brass even know we serve beer at all.”
“I say, you ladies must be new here,” a deep, British-accented voice called across the bar. We looked over at a—well, there was really no other way to describe him—a dashing man in a British Royal Air Force uniform standing to the right of the bar, holding a beer mug. He was tall, and with his accent, large dark eyes, and thick black hair, all I could think of was Cary Grant. He lifted his mug in a toast. “Welcome to London. So glad they’ve finally sent some more Red Cross girls over here. Can I ask, are there any young men left in your country? Because it seems like all of them are in mine.”
“Almost all of them are gone. What’s a British officer doing in an American club? Isn’t that against the rules?” Viv said, clinking her glass against his. Dottie and I exchanged furtive glances that said, This guy is a goner. None of them could resist when Viv started flirting.
“Well, it’s all about friends in high places, isn’t it?” he said with a smile. “I’m Harry Westwood, invited by a few of my new American friends. Where are you all from?”
“All from Boston,” Viv answered. “I’m Viv; this is Dottie and Fiona.”
“Viv, like the actress Vivien Leigh?” Harry asked.
“Like Viviana Occhipinti,” Viv said, giving him that sultry smile that had broken so many hearts.
“Lovely city, Boston, despite our country’s beastly history there,” Harry said.
“You’ve actually been there, then?” Viv said.
“One of my old chums went to Harvard, and I visited him while on holiday one summer,” he said. He looked up and noticed something near the dance hall entrance. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go see someone. Have a jolly good evening, ladies.” He nodded, tipped his glass, and walked into the crowd.
I looked over at Viv, and I could tell she was miffed. No man ever walked away from her charms. No man ever walked away before she did.
“Well, he left in a hurry,” Viv said, following him with her eyes. “I must be losing my touch. Let’s go find a ‘jolly good’ table.”
“Do you think he looked like Cary Grant?” Dottie asked when we sat down at a small, wobbly table in the corner of the room. “I kept thinking he looked exactly like Cary Grant.”
“No way—you’re not losing your touch, Viv,” I said. “I’ve heard the Brits can be very standoffish.”
“Oh, I don’t really care,” Viv said with a little too much emphasis, lighting up a cigarette and scanning the crowd one last time. “I’ve told you girls, I’m not here to meet my husband. I’m here to see the world. To have an adventure outside of the four square miles of Boston I live and work in. And, you know, actually contribute to the war and all that.”
“Cheers, girls,” Dottie said, clinking her mug with ours before taking a sip. “I can’t quite believe we’re in London. And listen to this band!” She craned her neck to get a better view of the stage. “Their pianist is amazing; do you hear that? He also happens to be gorgeous. It’s almost enough to make me forget our close encounter with a bomb today.”
“Almost but not enough,” said Viv. “I’ve still got the jitters.” She elbowed me and added, “So what’s going on, Fiona? Dottie and I noticed you’ve been unusually quiet since we arrived. Are you that upset about the bomb today, or is it because we’re stuck here in Britain? Or is it Danny?”
“A little bit of all that,” I said, taking a sip of my beer. “But as far as being stuck in Britain, after sleeping on it, I think I know what we need to do.”
“We?” asked Dottie.
“We,” I said. “So, in eight days we’re off to the countryside with the rest of the Clubmobilers that just arrived.”
“Yes. And what’s your grand scheme exactly?” Viv said, looking at me with skepticism.
“All we have to do, the only thing we really can do, is impress Miss Chambers with our skills,” I said. “We have to be the best Clubmobile trio she has ever laid eyes on. We’ll knock her socks off with our work ethic and our charm. She’ll quickly realize our value and how amazing we are, and we’ll be the first women in our group to be transferred to the Continent. I mean, how hard is this job going to be? We’re college-educated, professional women for God’s sake.”
“I don’t know, Fiona. I’m not sure it’s going to be as easy as you think,” Viv said.
“I’m telling you, it’ll be a piece of cake for us,” I said. “And we’re already friends, so we work together well. Although, Dottie, you definitely need to get over your stage fright with the troops. Hellooo, Dottie? Did you hear what I said?”
Dottie was blushing and looking behind me, where the band had paused for a quick break. I turned around to see a tall man with reddish hair heading to our table. It took me a minute to place his face, and then I remembered him from my sleepless night on the Queen Elizabeth.
“Joe Brandon, the late-night piano player from the QE! How are you?” I said, standing up to greet him and make introductions.
“Ah, the Boston girls,” he said. He pulled up a chair and sat down with us, and one of the white-coated members of the Hepcats came up behind him and handed him a bottle of beer.
“Nice playing there, Brandon,” the band member said. “Don’t tell Bernie, but you’re way better on the keys. You can play with us anytime.”
“Aw, I doubt that, Wayne,” he said to the man. “But thanks, it was fun.”
“Wait, that was you up there?” I said as Wayne walked away. “Dottie was just saying that you were amazing, and she knows music better than anyone.”
I immediately regretted saying it because Dottie was visibly mortified. At least I had left out the part about how she also thought he was gorgeous.
“What’s a piano player doing in the army?” Viv asked, covering for Dottie, who couldn’t manage to squeak a word out.
Joe explained how he was captain of the army band of the Twenty-Eighth. He was looking at Dottie when he talked, but she could barely meet his gaze as she took a big gulp of her beer and fiddled with her glasses.
“Dottie, Fiona told me you play more than one instrument. Is that right?” Joe said, trying to put her at ease with a kind smile.
“I . . . yes . . . I do,” said Dottie, her voice soft. “Guitar and piano . . . though not nearly as well as you. I also play clarinet, although that’s my least favorite of the three.”
“What do you like the best?” he asked.
“I think guitar,” she said with a slow nod. “I brought mine, but I need to work up the nerve to play for the troops. Fiona was just saying that, and she’s right. My usual audience members are under the age of twelve, at the elementary school where I teach music. It’s a . . . it’s just different.”