Beverly Stark
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“You can’t tell me where, of course.”
He smiled. “But you can write to me.”
She didn’t say anything but stubbed out her half-smoked cigarette.
“You got my letters?” he asked. Francesca’s brown eyes gave little away.
“Yes, thank you, Jamie. You know me, though; I’m not much of a letter writer.” She poured them both a cup of tea.
“But when we were younger-”
“Golly, I hope you haven’t been sentimental enough to keep those.” She didn’t look at him. She was turning the bracelet on her wrist.
He felt a pang of hurt. He tried not to glance at his pack. Her last letter was in there with his books. “Your job is going well?”
Francesca’s face lightened. “Jamie, I simply love it. Working for a publisher. Running his office. Bags of entertaining.”
“Sounds just right.”
“We were at the Mirabelle last night. And you’ll never guess who was there? Mr. Churchill! Dining at the very next table. Just thrilling.”
This restaurant must seem mundane after that. “What was Churchill like?” he asked.
“I tried not to stare but I did take a few peeks. He’s wonderfully solid. And that growly voice. Just like on the wireless. Very reassuring somehow.”
He poured himself another cup of tea. He noticed she’d hardly touched hers. “How are your parents?”
She pulled a face. “Worrying about me living in London. I feel guilty sometimes.”
He was puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I can’t tell them, you see. How much I love it here.” She looked at him for a moment as if judging whether to go on. “It sounds awful to say this, Jamie, but if the war hadn’t happened, I’d probably still be stuck in boring Exeter, the wife of a bank manager.”
‘Or a farmer,’ James thought. But no, Francesca, as she was now, would look out of place at Cleave Farm as an exotic flower in a kitchen garden. She could never thrive somewhere like that. He wasn’t even sure he could now. He was sweating in his uniform. The place was too crowded. If he could just get away for a minute.
He excused himself, headed for the Gents. Francesca was not as he’d remembered. Her gaiety and candour had a hard edge. She seemed distracted, evasive. Perhaps he did not match up to her memories either. His eyes in the mirror looked guarded, the small scar by his left eyebrow still showed.
As he walked back to the table, he saw Francesca, reflected in one of the big mirrors adorning the walls; that radiant hair made her stand out. The Americans had shifted their chairs to talk to her. Francesca was scribbling something. The dark-haired Yank took the paper from her, put it in his pocket.
James felt his breath catch. He’d been such an idiot. Francesca didn’t care for him. Did her really know her at all? Seeing her again had been a mistake.
“I’m sorry, Jamie,” Francesca said brightly. “I’ve got to get back. I’ve asked for the bill.”
He nodded. Politely, he tried to salvage something in the dying minutes. “Tell me about your brother, before you go. How’s Johnny getting on?”