But, Ernest was thriving, and living with Ginny helped so much, that I began to feel hopeful again.

  Then on 10th March, two things happened: the government lifted the prohibition on married women working as teachers; and I received a message about Harry.

  He was back in Britain.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Day Eight, June 2019

  Fiona

  Madame Julie arrived with even more clothes for tonight’s adventure.

  Dolly had a silk cocktail dress with matching bolero jacket, lilac, of course, which was very beautiful, but when I saw what she’d ordered for me, my mouth dropped open. Inside the garment bag was Marilyn’s iconic gold lamé dress, the one that Bill Travilla had designed for her to wear in Gentleman Prefer Blondes.

  “Oh! Oh my goodness, Dolly! It’s so beautiful! I … I don’t know what to say. Thank you, obviously, but…” my words trailed off.

  “The look on your face is thanks enough, my dear,” she said with a smile. “And there are shoes, earrings and a bracelet to match. Now, off you go and change. Our helicopter will be waiting!”

  I took extra care with my hair and makeup—cat eyeliner and Marilyn’s bee-stung lips—then let the beautiful dress slide over me, falling to the floor in a pool of liquid gold. The neckline plunged daringly, but it was so well constructed that I had no fears my girls would be making an unexpected appearance. It clung to my waist and hips, then fanned outwards with all the tiny pleats falling gracefully to the ground.

  It was a perfect copy of Marilyn’s dress, but for the first time ever, I wasn’t wishing I looked like her—I felt like me. And I felt beautiful.

  The earrings and bracelet were stunning, and it was hard to believe they were costume jewelry—they looked so real. The earrings were in the shape of a gold flower the size of a daisy and adorned with tiny imitation diamonds that sparkled, then a thin chain of gold down to a second flower—so exquisite, and again, a match for Marilyn’s. Even the shoes were perfect—Dolly had thought of everything.

  Oh boy had she! Because when I saw Joe, all rational thought fled.

  He was dressed head to toe in black: black dress pants, shiny black boots with Cuban heels, black silk shirt, black suit jacket. He looked like someone out of a magazine, the warm evening light throwing his cheekbones into relief, his gaze reserved.

  “Jeez, Dolly, are you trying to hire me out as a gigolo for real?” he asked, his voice chagrined, and I couldn’t help laughing.

  “You look lovely, dear, doesn’t he, Fiona?”

  “Joe, you look amazing! Honestly! Like a model,” I said grinning, but when his eyes fastened on me, his gaze was so heated, I thought he’d burn a hole right through the middle of me. I certainly felt hot enough to self-combust.

  “Holy shit, Fi,” he whispered, his eyes raking me up and down.

  “It’s the dress,” I sighed happily, stroking the soft material.

  Joe shook his head slowly. “No, it’s the woman in the dress.”

  I flushed with pleasure, and Dolly clapped her hands. “We are a handsome trio indeed!” she laughed, “but I think I surpass you both!”

  “No argument there,” said Joe, grinning at her.

  “Why Joe Fox! You smooth talker,” she giggled.

  We headed downstairs and a limousine took us to the helicopter, with Dolly’s wheelchair stowed in the trunk for later.

  We were served champagne, and soon realized that not only had Dolly arranged a VIP package, but she’d reserved the helicopter for just the three of us. When I say no expense was spared, I mean that literally.

  Dolly held up her hand to stop whatever I was going to say.

  “I know, Fiona. It’s a complete extravagance, but we only pass this way once, and life must be lived and not regretted. There is a time to cry and a time to laugh, a time to grieve and a time to dance,” she paused, “and there is also a time to treat oneself to champagne and a helicopter ride. Drink up!”

  As we were buckled into our seats, I was a little nervous. I’d never been on airplane, let alone a helicopter, and I was afraid it might be very loud, too. But the pilot told us to wear headphones and played a piece of music that was so serene and lovely, I forgot all my fears.

  “Oh, The Lark Ascending,” cried Dolly. “I’ve always loved this one!”

  The helicopter vibrated more urgently, then rose from the ground, higher and higher, and soon the neon city was spread out below us.

  When I felt brave enough to open my eyes, we had a 180o panoramic view through the Perspex windows, soaring over the dazzling downtown district and Freemont Street. We flew so close to the Stratosphere Tower that I felt I could reach out and touch it, then swooped down the Boulevard to see all the hotels, the Mirage, followed by the distinctive curved shaped of the Bellagio’s and the floodlit fountains shooting into the nighttime sky like fireworks. The helicopter hovered over the Luxor pyramid’s Sky Beam, bathed in white light, and when we turned and saw the glittering ‘Welcome to Las Vegas’ sign, Dolly laughed and waved.

  It was awe inspiring in a completely different way from the magnitude of nature’s design at the Grand Canyon, and I wondered what the city would look like from outer space, no more than a tiny pinpoint of light, where thousands of people worshipped at Sin City slot machines. It was extravagant, wasteful and wonderful.

  When we landed after the short ride, Joe was grinning widely.

  “Man, I could get used to this,” he said. “Thanks, Dolly! That was awesome.”

  “Yes, thank you so much!” I added, glad to be back on firm ground. “It was incredible.”

  “No less than you both deserve,” she smiled. “And I’ve always enjoyed flying. My third husband was a naval aviator, you know.”

  “How many husbands have you had, Dolly?” I asked teasingly.

  “Three-and-a-half,” she answered.

  Joe raised an eyebrow. “You had half a husband? What did you do to the poor guy?”

  “Oh, everything,” Dolly said with a wicked smile. “But we weren’t married officially, not in the eyes of the law in this country, although in every other way. I suppose I could still be married in the Mutawakkilite Kingdom of Yemen, if it still existed.”

  “Go, Dolly!” Joe laughed, shaking his head.

  I loved her stories, loved seeing the way they were with each other and I wished we could go on forever like this, the three of us. I loved Dolly for her sense of fun, her sense of adventure, her kindness and her wisdom. And Joe, I…

  Oh holy moly! Was I in love with Joe Fox? I did a quick survey: pulse racing? Check. Eyes for no other man? Check. Unbearable jealousy when another woman so much as looked in his direction? Check. Wishing only the best for him? Wishing him the world, wishing he was mine forever? Check, check and check.

  That was fairly conclusive: I was in love with Joe Fox. When had that happened and why was I the last to know?

  I was quiet on the way back to the hotel, stunned by this revelation and my own idiocy. Looking back, I think that I’d been in love with Joe since the start of our trip but had only just realized it. Which made me dumber than a rock. I’d had my guard up for so long that I hadn’t even realized he’d not only demolished it brick by brick, but he’d driven a tank through the rubble of my protective walls. There was no part of him that I didn’t love: his warmth, his kindness to Dolly, his flashes of insight, his thoughtfulness, his vulnerability, even the occasional spark of arrogance that I’d seen.

  I knew he liked me, maybe even cared for me, but if he didn’t love me back, I was in for a world of hurt—and there wasn’t a single thing I could do about it.

  “You’re quiet, Fiona,” Dolly commented. “I hope the flight didn’t make you queasy?”

  “Uh, just a little,” I lied, “but I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.”

  “Perhaps you should have a lie down,” she said. “Joe can look after me—I’m going to be playing poker for the next four or five hours, so it won’t be a problem if you do.”

  I licked my lips, slightly horrified by her plan, and glanced at Joe.

  He shrugged as if to say, her choice.

  “No, I’ll be fine,” I said wanly. “I’ll just drink a glass of water and maybe eat something.”

  Dolly nodded. “Jolly good. Now, this is the plan: I’ll be playing cash games where the buy-in is likely to be upwards of $100,000. I don’t want either of you two interrupting or trying to stop me in any way because I shall need to concentrate. Absolute silence unless I ask for you. Is that clear?”

  Her voice was so sharp and determined, there was no doubt that this was an order. There were so many things I wanted to say, but in the end I just nodded reluctantly and Joe did the same.

  “We’re here for you,” he said.

  Dolly smiled. “I know.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  RAF General Hospital, Wiltshire, March 1944

  Sylvia

  I was dreading what I had to do, absolutely dreading it. I had to remind myself that falling in love with Charlie hadn’t been wrong and that bearing his child hadn’t been so very wrong, either. Although I doubt Charlie’s wife would see it that way. However, lying about it for seven months or more—that was very wrong indeed. I should have told my parents and born with Mrs. Woods’ disapprobation, but I’d been a coward, and now I had to pay the penalty of all cowards: I was about to be found out.

  I was given permission to use the telephone in Brigadier Tiltman’s office to call Mother. I could hear the excitement in her voice when I spoke to her.

  “Oh, darling, isn’t it wonderful! When do you think you’ll be able to see him?”

  “I’ll ask for leave as soon as possible,” I said.

  “Surely, they’ll let you have a couple of days this week?” she persisted. “The circumstances are unique, after all. Darling, you do know that he’s in a hospital, don’t you?”

  A shocked breath gave me away.

  “You didn’t know?” she asked, her voice soft and distressed.

  “No! Yes, sort of. Mrs. Woods said that he was convalescing. I didn’t think … I didn’t realise…”

  “You have to prepare yourself, Sylvia. He’s been through so much. I remember when your father came home from the Great War … well, Audrey says he can’t wait to see you.”

  My heart sank and Mother could hear the tears in my voice that I tried so hard to hide, because I was crying for so many reasons, and not all of them were to do with poor Harry, but with what I had to tell him.

  Two days later, I obtained permission to travel to the RAF General Hospital in Wroughton, where Harry was being cared for.

  The train journey wasn’t direct and would take between three and four hours in each direction. I decided that it wouldn’t be a good idea to take Ernest, and luckily Ginny agreed that was the right thing to do.

  “Are you going to ask for a divorce?” she asked quietly whilst holding James over her shoulder and rubbing his back.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “To be honest, I want to get it over with, but it depends on how he is when I see him. They’re being very close-mouthed about his condition. If he was well, they’d have sent him straight home, wouldn’t they?”

  But the more I talked about it, the fewer answers I had. So, with trepidation, I set off on my journey to Wiltshire.

  I’d packed sandwiches for the journey, but my mind and body were in such turmoil I couldn’t face eating them.

  I arrived at the large, purpose-built hospital in the late morning just before lunch. The Red Cross nurses were brisk and cheerful, and the place was very clean. I was told that they had nearly a thousand beds, but all I could think of was a thousand young men whose lives had been changed forever.

  Perhaps that was melodramatic, but that’s how I felt.

  I was taken to a ward with 30 beds in it, although only seven were occupied.

  “This is one of six orthopedics wards,” the matron said with a professional smile. “We encourage those who can to get out and about as much as possible—the grounds here are quite lovely. It’s good for them and helps with their rehabilitation. Flight Lieutenant Woods is in the bed on the end.” She paused. “Such a brave man.” And she looked at me. “We have many brave boys here, but he really is marvellous. Of course, being his wife, you already know that,” and she gave me a bright smile.

  I tried to smile back but I don’t know if I managed it.

  She turned and left, bustling off somewhere else, while I walked towards Harry, each footstep weighed down and as heavy as my heart.

  But when I reached the end of the ward, it wasn’t Harry but some wild-looking bearded man, and I thought the matron had made a mistake. But when I looked around, it was the only occupied bed nearby. I was about to leave when I heard my name.

  “Sylvie.”

  It was the bearded man. I peered closer, my heart hammering. The man’s eyelids fluttered, and suddenly I was staring into Harry’s familiar brown eyes.

  “Sylvie,” he said again, and reached out a trembling hand towards me.

  I edged closer, shocked by the wreck of a man I saw in front of me, confused by the thick beard and tangled hair.

  The eyelid drooped over his left eye, and I could see the taut, shiny skin of someone who’d been badly burned pulling down the side of his mouth. Thick ropes of scar tissue wreathed his neck and disappeared into the top of his pyjamas. His left arm was swathed in bandages, and there was a cage contraption covering his legs. He was thin to the point of emaciation, and his shaggy hair was quite white at the temples.

  “Harry?” I whispered, not believing the truth of my own eyes.

  “Sylvie, my sweet girl,” he croaked, his voice hoarse. “I’ve dreamed about you for so long, and here you are: my sunshine.”

  Tears rolled down his sunken cheeks as he took my hand and held on tightly, as if I were the only thing anchoring him to this world, and maybe I was.

  He sobbed my name over and over again, and I began to cry, too. He was still there, my Harry, the sweet boy I’d known half my life; he was still there in this broken husk of a man.

  He cried as though his heart was breaking, and I cried for everything he’d lost; I cried for him, for Ernest, for Charlie, and I cried for myself. Our sobs echoed through the ward and a nurse thoughtfully pulled a curtain around the bed to give us a little privacy.

  She laid a hand on my shoulder.

  “He’ll be alright now,” she whispered. “You’re the best medicine.”

  It was a long time before Harry’s tears abated, time that turned me inside out: a lifetime.

  Gradually, his story tumbled from his lips in gasps.

  “When I heard your voice on the radio, I thought I was already dead,” he whispered, his vocal cords as damaged as his poor, dear face. “It seemed like a wonderful way to go: you singing to me, and then death and a how do you do from Saint Peter. Flames were filling the cockpit and that’s what took out the radio. I couldn’t see to fly anymore and ended up ditching in the Channel. I started sinking right away and I remember trying to open the canopy but my leg was trapped and I couldn’t. I was hammering away at it as water rushed in, and I thought I was going down with my Spitfire. Then the canopy must have come off and I seemed to just float out. I don’t remember much more after that, so the next bit is a little hazy. I was found by some French fishermen. They were dodging the Nazis to do some night fishing and they saw my Spit go down. It was sheer luck that they found me and dragged me out of the water. I was pretty banged up.”

  His lips trembled and he closed his eyes for several minutes before he could continue.

  “I’m told that being in the seawater for so long was the best thing for my burns and that I’d have been a lot worse off if I’d crash-landed on the beach.” He gave a lopsided smile that tugged at his scarred mouth. “They saved my life. I owe them everything and I don’t even know their names: safer for everyone that way. Well, they managed to get me to some Resistance fighters in Honfleur who found a doctor. He patched me up as best he could but I was in a pretty bad way. They didn’t think I’d survive and it was dangerous for everyone to hide a British airman. I was passed around from place to place, mostly village priests, I think. It was a long time before I was well enough to even think about trying to get home. Those French Resistance were incredible, men and women, children, too; they said they’d try to get a message back to you. Oh, Sylvie, darling—thinking about you was the only thing that kept me going. I fought tooth and nail to stay alive, to make it home to you. And Mater, of course.”

  I didn’t have the words. I could barely look him in the eye. I couldn’t bear to see the love on his damaged face, the warmth in his voice; the despair in my own heart was too much. Too much.

  Harry squeezed my hand and continued with his story.

  “It took seven months to make it over the border into Spain. Every time I was passed to a new Resistance group, I asked them to get a message home for me. They said they’d try, but the Germans were getting more brutal by the day, more desperate I suppose. But those French boys didn’t give up on me either. I crossed the Pyrenees on a donkey,” he said, giving another of those awkward, crooked smiles.

  “When I finally crossed the border, I promised myself that I’d never leave Britain again.” He gazed into my eyes, his expression open. “I promised myself that I’d never leave you again. I love you too much to ever leave you again. When I get out of here…”

  His gaze dropped away and his expression became shuttered. What had he seen in my face that made him look so hopeless? I squeezed his hand, but he wouldn’t look at me again.

  “The truth is, Sylvie, I’m not the man you married. I’m hardly a man at all.”

  “Oh, Harry! That’s simply not true,” I cried.

  “Please, my darling,” he said, his voice imploring. “It’s hard enough for me to say this, I’ve been dreading it, to tell you the truth, but I must. They say I’m going to be awarded the D.S.O., the Distinguished Service Order, for meritorious service.”