He left the car and headed down the sidewalk at a trot. He needed to get to Sylvie. Across the sky the fighters soared, wings tipping this way and that. All the hair on his neck went up. He heard another explosion and then two more, this one he thought in the area of West Ham. Six more explosions rattled London, the sounds distinct enough for him to count. Perhaps toward Buckingham Palace, but he couldn’t say for sure. He kept running, and he barely noticed others making for shelters. Like him, they hadn’t been smart enough to take shelter when the first sirens went off, and now they might pay for it. He reached Sylvie’s building, hoping against hope they hadn’t been idiots and stayed upstairs.
Sylvie had always been possessed of common sense, so he knew she’d understand the need to get to a shelter fast. Again rumbles from exploding bombs rolled through the air. Signs in the lobby pointed to the shelter, and he dashed to the door. He took the two flights down, more bombs rattling the area. He reached the main door to the basement area and jerked the door open. A collective gasp met his ears as he stepped in the room, and the packed room turned to look at him.
He closed the door firmly. “Cheers. Is Sylvie Hunnicut in here?”
“Over here.” Sylvie parted the crowd as she walked toward him, that pocketbook over her wrist and pad and pencil in hand.
Relief rocketed through him, and he smiled. When she met him at the door, everyone turned back to their conversations. Sylvie didn’t look half so pleased to see him as he was to see her. “What on earth are you doing, Alec? Why weren’t you in another shelter?”
He clasped her shoulders, happy to touch her and take in the idea she was unharmed. “I was on my way back from shopping over on Oxford Street. Traffic was snarled. One area was blocked because they were clearing out rubble. I had to take a detour that brought me out of the way. I’m sorry I was late picking you up.”
She sighed, and the irritation left her face. “I’m sure it couldn’t be helped. I’m just glad you’re safe. While I’ve been down here, I’ve already interviewed two women in the shelter who work as secretaries in an insurance firm.”
“’Nother fella who doesn’t have a gas mask. That’s irresponsible, and then you’ll be one of the first ones to complain when something bad happens to you,” Benjamin said as he sauntered up.
Alec felt his patience take a backseat to anger. He glared at the guy, and the words came out before he could stop himself. “I never curse in front of a lady, Mr. Adams, but I’m afraid I have to make an exception this time. Do me a favor and bugger off.”
Benjamin’s cheeks went pink, and Sylvie’s mouth opened in shock. Then her face turned hard and disappointed. Alec didn’t care. Her boss was a wanker, and he didn’t like the way Adams looked at her.
“Talk to your boyfriend here, Sylvie. I think he needs to understand how important your job is to you.” Benjamin walked back into the crowd.
Alec took a deep breath and glanced around at the crowd. No one had heard their conversation, or at the least they pretended they hadn’t heard it. Sylvie’s soft hand grasped his arm, her face lined with new anger. Brilliant. She would let him have it now. A bang rumbled nearby and the entire building shook. Alec snatched Sylvie into his arms at the same time as she reached for him.
The lights went out.
*
Darkness enveloped the room, and screams echoed in Sylvie’s head.
Sylvie knew a bomb had landed somewhere close, as the ground shook and the roar hit her ears. Alec’s strength braced her close. She buried her face in his shoulder, and his hand covered the back of her head. Her fingers clutched at his sweater. In just seconds she absorbed his warmth and strength, taking comfort. She remembered being in his arms like this once before when they were so young. It had been so wonderful, so sweet a time. This moment, in spite of danger, felt raw and delicious in a way she didn’t understand. The lights flickered back on, and the panic in people’s voices ebbed. She pulled back enough to look up at Alec, and his gaze reflected a desperate hunger for something she couldn’t define but wanted to understand.
“Christ almighty,” a man said from the back of the room. “Did a bomb land on the building?”
James and Pugs pushed through the crowd. “Come on, let’s see.”
Alec released Sylvie and cupped her face. “I’m going with them to see what’s happened and make sure we can get out. I’ll be right back.”
She nodded, speechless. Her first day in London, and she’d already been bombed. As Alec turned and followed James and Pugs, she rubbed her arms, cold to the bone.
“Are you all right?” the young woman in the uniform asked Sylvie.
“I’m fine. Just cold.” Sylvie smiled. “My goodness. What am I doing standing here?”
The young woman smiled. “It’s all right. It’s only your first time. You’ll get used to it soon.”
Used to it? Surely the girl couldn’t mean it. Sylvie had an idea, and she ran to the exit to follow the men. Her curiosity wouldn’t relent. She reached the top of the two flights of steps in record time. James and Pugs stood near the open door. Alec was at the front doors looking out. She rushed past Pugs and Pendleton before they could say a word and headed for Alec. The rumble of bombs diminished as she waited, her breath still a bit fast, her heart still tripping over itself. She took one deep breath and then another as she came up to Alec.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
Alec swung around, alarm clear on his face. “Sylvie, go back downstairs.”
She shook her head. “You’re in as much danger as I am. I think the bombing has stopped.”
Pugs moved toward them. “No all clear yet. I wouldn’t assume.”
Alec gently took her arm. “If going downstairs is the only way I’m going to keep you safe…”
Sighing in frustration, she allowed him to lead her to the stairs. They stayed in the basement, along with Pugs and Pendleton, for another hour before the all clear was given. Frustration mixed with the conflicting feelings running around inside her. She was still very attracted to Alec, but his overprotectiveness made her insane.
When the all clear came, people began to file out, including Benjamin, Pugs and James.
When they reached the lobby, Benjamin said to Sylvie, “We’ll see you on Monday, Sylvie.”
He turned and left without a word to Alec. Pugs and James waved and departed without speaking.
Sylvie’s anger rose, and before she knew it, words spilled. “Well, that might be the end of my job, Alec. Thanks to you.”
He planted his hands on his hips. “What?”
“My job is probably in jeopardy because of what you said to Mr. Adams.”
Alec stepped forward, his voice low and his eyes sparking with frustration. He stood close to her. “If you think I’d stand by and watch a man like him treat you like a doxy, you are mad. He’s a lecher.”
“That may be, but I didn’t ask you for help. Please let me handle him.”
He heaved a sigh and closed his eyes. “Fine. Whatever you say. Come on, let’s get out of here and see if we can even get to the Savoy.”
Sylvie and Alec left the building; night had come. She had no guarantee Alec would follow her rules about running interference for her. She hoped so or she’d have to take more drastic measures. With their families on the verge of reconciling, she didn’t want to tell him to never to come back and to never see her again.
In fact, she didn’t think she could bear that idea. Weary, cold, and troubled, she hoped Alec would come to understand why she’d told him to back off.
Other than the white lines painted on the curbs, Sylvie could barely see, and she walked with the utmost caution. She’d worn sensible shoes rather than her higher heels, and now more than ever she was happy she’d worn trousers rather than a pair of stockings and a skirt.
“We’ll stay to the sidewalk. Be careful,” Alec said.
His voice was cool and not concerned this time, and she wondered if he’d gotten the message he needed to ba
ck away. As they made their way, she saw a glow to the west and knew a fire must have started.
“Don’t get any ideas.” Alec’s voice was low and hard. “You’re not even on the job yet. No need to put yourself in more danger tonight.”
She didn’t argue with him. She smelled smoke, and the stink remained in her nose as they reached his Bentley. The night had turned cool, and although she wore her wool coat, she shivered. They climbed inside and soon drove through a maze of streets.
“How do you know where we’re going?” she asked finally.
“I’m guessing. It’s damned hard to see. I’m thinking I should park the Bentley at my friend Daniel’s house in Belgravia for the long term. I shouldn’t have brought this car.”
She heard self-deprecation in his voice and felt sorry for him. “It’s all right. You got us here. And if you need the car later, it will be easier to get to.”
“I’ll ring up Daniel tomorrow.”
As they crept through the dark streets without headlights, the danger of hitting someone crossing the street plagued her mind. She wondered how many people were killed by cars, lorries, or double-decker buses on a nightly basis. The blackness felt eerie, as if they’d stepped into a sinister novel or movie where enemies lurked around each corner. She didn’t know if the tension between her and Alec kept them silent or the realization they’d made it through a bombing in one piece. It took them forever to reach the Strand and then to find the darkened Savoy Hotel. Settled on the North Bank of the Thames, the hotel should have gleamed with lights. Instead it rose into the sky a hulk of darkness. As they pulled in and parked, she let out a breath. Her muscles felt tight, her body aching.
“Where are you staying tonight?” she asked.
“Here, I hope.”
Her stomach growled loudly as she stepped from the car. The doors of the hotel beckoned. When they went through the revolving doors, she half expected to see no one there, but the lobby was full of people. They talked quietly, and no one looked at them when they came inside. Somewhere a band played a song with a happy sound. The art deco interior gleamed under muted lighting. When they arrived at the front desk and checked in, the clerk greeted them with enthusiasm and politeness. Middle-aged and balding, the man had a pleasant smile. His name tag said Jack Weston.
“How are you both this evening?” Mr. Weston asked.
“Very tired and in need of food,” Sylvie said.
Mr. Weston took their information and gave them each a key for rooms next to each other. “Were you in the bombing area tonight?”
“Fleet Street,” Alec said.
Mr. Weston’s sincere brown eyes turned worried. “We hear Buckingham Palace was hit.”
“What?” Shock and disbelief hit Sylvie.
“Bloody hell,” Alec said.
If Mr. Weston was offended by the cursing, he didn’t show it. “Bad business, I say. The damage isn’t extensive. We heard bombs landed in garden areas and broke some windows. There were no injuries.”
Sylvie relaxed. “Thank goodness.”
“The top two floors of the hotel are shut down because we’re worried about bombs, of course,” Mr. Weston said. “The restaurant is closed because of the glass cupola. We do have one kitchen open, so you’ll still be able to eat.”
“Another blessing. Thank you, Mr. Weston,” Sylvie said.
“What is that song the band is playing?” Alec asked.
Mr. Weston laughed and scrubbed a hand over his short beard. “Trust in God and Keep Your Martini Dry.”
“Interesting song,” Sylvie said.
“Indeed it is, Miss Hunnicut.” Mr. Weston smiled. “During the day you can get a meal upstairs, but in the evening you must go downstairs to the River Room. That’s where the band is playing, if you’ve a mind for music. We’ve turned the venue into a fortress. If the sirens go off, the shelter is in the A. Lincoln Room.”
Sylvie was surprised. “Abraham Lincoln?”
“The very same, Miss Hunnicut. We also have the American Bar. You’re a war correspondent?”
Sylvie nodded. “Yes.”
With a twinkle in his eye, Mr. Weston adjusted his tie. “You’ll find many of the correspondents working out of the Savoy, and they do end up in the bar rather frequently.”
Alec’s look was sardonic. “I’m not certain that’s reassuring.”
Sylvie laughed, glad to have some humor return to the day. “I’m too tired to spend any time in a bar this evening, but the River Room sounds wonderful. Tell me, how many A.R.P. Wardens do you have?”
“Why?” Mr. Weston asked.
She smiled as primly as she could. “Recording information for an article, of course.”
“We have seventy, Miss Hunnicut.”
“Interesting.” She committed the tidbit to memory but saw the puzzlement in his eyes.
Mr. Weston kept his broad smile and said, “The Abraham Lincoln Room and the adjoining Pink and Green Rooms have been converted into shelters with two hundred beds installed in separate curtained bays. Special compartments are set aside for the conferences of important individuals. The air-conditioned, gas-proof, and sound-proof dormitory is equipped with its own maids, valets, waiters, and nurses, with coffee room and a small bar one floor up.”
Sylvie’s mouth had popped open at all the information. “I take it you tell every guest this, or is it because I’m a journalist?”
“Both.” Mr. Weston winked, then gestured, and the bellhop started rolling their bags to the elevators. “Not far to go. You’re only on the second floor.”
“I wouldn’t take the elevator at any point after tonight. If the power goes out, a person could be stuck in there,” Alec said.
“Good thinking,” she said as they followed the bellhop.
At their room doorways, Sylvie and Alec agreed to meet in the lobby in ten minutes. Once she shut her door, Sylvie took note of the room. It was extremely nice and the best hotel room she’d had the fortune to occupy. She took in the bed, the heavy blackout curtains lined with brown satin, and wanted to look outside at the view. She decided not to—with the blackout, there wasn’t much for her to see. She went to the sink, patted her face with water, and then combed her hair as best she could.
In her head a story started to form on what she’d experienced tonight.
London in blackout is twenty miles of dark and silent. A ghost town. The English are grateful for their blessings, going to church, reading papers, and working in the garden.
Although her bed looked inviting, she needed food more than sleep. She left her room, knowing whatever they found to eat would help warm her. She took the stairs from the second floor rather than the elevator, just as Alec suggested.
He waited for her in the lobby, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his clothes slightly askew, and his hair combed into submission. He looked every bit the rakehell, but her stomach did a tumble and then tingled in excitement at the sight of him. She swallowed her unexpected reaction. She needed to stop this silly girlish feeling that came each time she saw him.
“All right?” he asked when she walked up to him.
As gratified as she was that he cared, she still didn’t like how bossy he’d been today. “Of course I’m all right. You?”
“Knackered. And famished. Let’s eat.”
They proceeded downstairs and emerged into the River Room. The band they’d heard faintly upstairs played in one corner of the larger room. It could easily accommodate a significant number of people, but tonight there were perhaps thirty dining. A waiter seated them at a table away from the band, which suited Sylvie fine. A headache teased at the edges, and when the waiter brought water, she gulped it with appreciation. Alec seemed a bit subdued as they stayed quiet until they gave their orders. Not that there was a lot on the menu, but she expected that.
Sylvie took stock of the room. She suspected many of the rougher looking bunch were journalists. The well-heeled might be the aristocratic. She’d heard many had shut down their houses to s
helter at the Savoy. After all, if their staff had gone to war, who would feed them? She smiled to herself. She had nothing against the moneyed because she countered herself as well off, but she found some of their airs a little much.
Before she could make conversation with Alec, she noticed the woman at a table nearby. Betty Parks. Wonderful.
The woman glanced over and smiled; then she rose and came their way. Sylvie’s gut clenched as the woman’s attention seemed centered on Alec.
“Pardon the interruption,” Betty’s cultured accent had a low and almost throaty sound. “How are you both?” she asked, obviously referring to the bombing earlier in the day.
Alec grinned, and the smile held all the charm in the world as he took the woman’s hand. “We’re doing fine.”
Betty shifted a chair away from the table and sat to his right. “Someone should do a story on you.”
Everything inside Sylvie went on alarm. She’d run into women like this before, men as well. Betty’s attention completely centered on Alec, her body turned toward him, her elbows on the table and leaning toward him. Sylvie considered leaving, a weariness making her impatient.
Alec gestured to Sylvie. “She’s already interviewing me.”
Gratified Alec had included her, Sylvie held her hand out. “Nice to see you again, Betty.”
Betty’s bright expression faded as she shook Sylvie’s hand. “Yes, very nice.”
“Are you staying at the Savoy?” Sylvie clipped her words, her distrust in the woman growing with each encounter.
Betty sat back in her chair, her body language more open. “No. I have a dear friend in town who has a flat not too far from Fleet Street.”
“I didn’t see you at the shelter earlier today,” Sylvie said.
One London Night Page 8
