Free Jasmine Nights by Julia Gregson Page A

fill up. The barman was reciting his cocktails – Singapore Sling, White Lady, Naval Grog – to a group of army officers. Dom was staring at her across the table, his brain trying to accommodate, to understand. It was all such unfamiliar territory.
    ‘I know what that feels like,’ he said at last. ‘I’m flying again; my mother doesn’t know yet. I’m going home next week to tell her.’
    ‘Why?’ It was her turn to look shocked. ‘Don’t they let you stop once you’ve been shot down?’
    ‘I don’t want to stop.’
    ‘Why not? Aren’t you frightened now?’
    ‘No.’ That could never be admitted, not even to himself. ‘I can’t stop now. It feels like the thing I was born to do – if that doesn’t sound fantastically corny.’
    She was staring at him properly now.
    ‘No, not corny,’ she said. ‘Hard.’
    Her hands were resting on the table between them. A schoolgirl’s hands, no rings, no nail varnish.
    ‘Are you fit enough to go?’
    ‘Yep.’ He didn’t like talking about it, not with a girl, particularly. It made him feel breathless, hunted. ‘I’m fine now.’
    ‘How do they know?’
    ‘Had the X-ray, been spun in a chair. Fit for active service.’
    She looked at him steadily. ‘I liked that poem you sent me,’ she said.
    ‘Oh God, did I?’ His turn to be embarrassed – he’d written it out, and when Misou came into the room, must have stuffed it into the envelope by mistake.
    ‘ Whatever comes, one hour was sunlit ,’ she said dreamily. ‘Such a good thing to say. Sometimes one hour is enough.’
    ‘Pound actually rewrote the poem later – he said two weeks was better.’
    Her dimples appeared. ‘Dom – I’m going!’ Playfully, as if they were children and the game was tag.
    ‘I know, so am I. So let me walk you home,’ he said. ‘I could help you pack, or sew on your uniform pips or something. I’m good at sewing.’
    ‘No.’ She put her hands over her face.
    ‘A cup of coffee, then.’ He had half a bottle of whisky in his greatcoat, just in case.
    ‘I can’t.’ She touched his hand. ‘I’m definitely going to take that job. I decided as soon as they asked me. I can’t let anything stop me now.’
    ‘I know.’ He did too, understand. Unfortunately.
    She laid the key to the B and B on the table. She’d produced it proudly for his inspection earlier, thought it was very trusting of her landlady considering this was London. He felt a pang looking at it. How easy it would have been to creep up the stairs together, and how blameless it would feel – all the old rules of courtship had been bent out of shape since the war began.
    ‘Saba.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘When you’re cleared for security, let me know where you are.’
    She was about to answer when the waiter interrupted. He’d returned to smile at them, to squint at the wings on Dom’s uniform and ask what squadron he was with. The management would be honoured to offer him and his good lady a cocktail on the house. They were brave men and they deserved it. Dom, going through the usual nonchalant disclaimers, felt shamingly pleased to be in the spotlight in front of her and also glad not to have to say more about the medical, which had for reasons not explicable made him feel angry and defensive, like a small boy required to drop his trousers.
    They ordered Singapore Slings. She wrinkled her nose as she drank it, like a kitten dipping a paw into water. She wasn’t half the sophisticate she pretended to be.
    When her glass was half emptied, her lit-up look returned like a flash of lightning. He wondered if she was thinking about her job again, and feeling at a sudden loss, he stood up, and on the pretext of hurrying the waiter along with their food, walked as casually as he could over to the bar.
    He was standing there when a slight figure came out of the shadows, and stood in a puddle of light in front of him. It was Jilly, Jacko’s fiancée. Later, it made perfect sense to him that she would come here