Free The Postmistress by Sarah Blake Page B

leaned down between her and Pankhurst. He was fine-featured and dark, his accent upper-crust, Oxbridge. His eyes rested lightly on her face.
    “All the time,” she tossed back at him.
    “Ha!” Pankhurst slapped Dowell.
    “Then come and dance.” The man reached in and held out his hand, and Frankie, looking up at him, took it.
    Following him down through the room, toward the dancers, she looked back over her shoulder and saw Dowell and Harriet stand up also, and Pankhurst raise his glass to them in a toast. The noise in the hotel bar dialed up, the orchestra swinging into “In the Mood,” sending gusts of chatter into the air. Outside in the cold dark, the city waited, but in here, for now, it was light and there was the chance of laughter and the gay tip of a light wave cresting, and the man was leading her onto the dance floor, easily, so easily Frankie felt the shiver starting along her spine where he lay his hand, and she smiled against his jacket. Easy and familiar, the hours in front of them stretched surely ahead, because of the way he held her and the way her body slid into the curve of his hand. And she gave herself up to what would come like a present, a present about to be opened slowly and with complete attention. The music shifted down a notch, slowing, or he was slowing against a beat, a counterpoint to draw her more cleanly in. It had been months since she had been held like this, and tonight she felt as though she’d ridden to the top of a crest and could slow slightly, and look out, look back. He was very close to her and his lips were so wide, and Frankie smelled the scotch on his breath. All the bombs and the noise had drawn back for a time, and in this moment in between, just right now, the world pushed back and there could be a single complete hour; so when the music stopped, and when he closed the last two inches between them, she opened her mouth under his and he groaned.
    They walked outside into the night, still kissing, and Frankie stumbled against him, and it was so dark outside but there was the smell of burning wood, the burning wood of the city—as if, her mind teased, and she kept her eyes shut—as if they kissed in front of a fire and he’d taken her shoes off and stroked her feet, and they were on a couch and there was snow. It had stopped raining. Her back was flat up against the rough brick of the pub wall and she opened her eyes to watch him kiss her again, and when he did, she kissed him, hard. Over the ridge of his shoulder, people passed in the dark, passed in the street, and as he lifted her up and she sunk down on him, she moaned out loud, and anyone passing, anyone looking, as some did, it happened so often, couples coupling under the bombs, in the shelters, though there were children, weren’t there, down there; but down there it was dark and it was deep and we were returned to the cave and the fire and the glint of life in each other’s eyes, never mind the sigh escaping, the unmistakable oh oh oh —it was all right, we were only human.
    Someone laughed on the street. Someone laughed and Frankie leaned her head back against the wall, her heart racing. Gently, he held her up as he slid out of her and, keeping one hand around her waist, so sweetly, so dearly, zipped himself back into his trousers with the other.
    “Christ,” she sighed and felt him lean against her again, and kissed him back.
    They were wrapped like this, resting, standing up drowsily with their lips against each other’s, when the first sirens whined, distant but unmistakable, to the west. He straightened and she opened her eyes.
    “That sounds like it’s Hammersmith,” he said.
    A second bank of sirens wailed up, this one much closer.
    “Can I walk you somewhere?”
    “No,” she smiled back at him. “No thanks.”
    His smile to her was sweet and very deep, and he touched his fingers to her chin. A barrage balloon crossed swiftly overhead and tinted the top of the wall behind his head. “So