Free Call Nurse Jenny by Maggie Ford Page B

intricate movement of the quickstep he knew, so that those dark eyes watching him would know he was good. Though God knows why that should matter.
    A disconcerting thought came. What if she were only mediocre? All this weaving and twirling could frighten her off. Immediately he moderated his steps – the floor was becoming too crowded for showing off anyway – and fell to making occasional light-hearted smalltalk with his partner.
    The ending of the quickstep came as something of a relief. Escorting the blonde back to her seat, he made for the bar and the safety of those hovering males who, despite the romance of their various uniforms, hadn’t yet felt inclined to leave their kind and ask for dances, and couples having already found a partner for the evening – perhaps, he grinned, for life.
    Yet for all the press of people, he could still sense the dark-haired girl’s eyes watching him, and he found his need to know more about her pushing away that last-minute reluctance he had felt.
    For the past half-hour the dark-haired girl had sat out through dance after dance, feet tapping under the table as she watched the couples, uniforms and dresses melting together as one, moving around the floor.
    Susan Hopkins cast her escort a contemptuous glance. Apart from one visit to the bar for a pint of black-and-tan for himself and a small port and lemon for her, he hadn’t moved out of his seat the entire evening.
    He had cut such a dashing figure in his dark blue Marines uniform when she’d first met him last week: tall, broad, the briefest scarring on his face from an old outbreak of acne giving it a certain rugged look. She had felt proud to be on his arm. They had gone to the pictures, the cheapest seats, but he’d explained he hadn’t drawn his pay yet and she was ready to forgive him. He had asked to see her again, but this evening instead of his gorgeous dress uniform, he had turned up in this horrid khaki thing. It diminished the aura of romance, of the debonair. Not only that, but the dormant acne had run riot during the past week she hadn’t seen him.
    She’d never been endowed with a strong stomach for unsightly things like suppurating pimples or nasty-looking cuts and bruises. Any physical defect aroused squeamish sensations. It was just as well, she thought watching the dancers, that he hadn’t taken her on to that floor – being so close to those yellow-headed pimples would have made her positively sick. Most certainly there’d be no goodnight kiss, that’s if she could get out of his taking her home at all. Already she was rehearsing a polite farewell, this date definitely their last.
    The previous waltz had been in full swing, the lights dimmed, the faceted crystal orb in the centre of the ceiling flicking sensuous rainbow flecks over the dancers. Suddenly, she had felt an explicable compulsion to turn her eyes towards the hall entrance.
    Among the slick RAF uniforms, the rakish body-hugging navy blue, the officers’ smooth attire, the soldier’s khaki battle dress was unspectacular. The man it clothed, however, made it look as superior as any officer’s as he leaned with casual grace against one of the dance hall’s pillars. She saw him reach into his breast pocket, extract a cigarette case; with growing interest watched him light a cigarette, his head bent for a moment over the flame. It was then he looked at her, directly, just as she was sure he’d done earlier, which had caused in her that odd need to turn. It was as though he had actually spoken to her. When their gaze met across the clearing dance floor, she had looked quickly away, filled with embarrassment.
    The band had struck up with a quickstep. The man by the entrance stubbed out his cigarette and began walking towards her, making her heart start to pound against her ribs with excited anticipation. But as she composed herself to rise casually at his invitation to dance, ignoring her Marine, the soldier had paused just a few steps away,