the_water_clock (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
the_water_clock) wrote2009-04-02 06:06 pm
the_water_clock) wrote2009-04-02 06:06 pm
Entry tags:
FIC: A Dream That Could Not Last (AI: Ryan/Simon, Amanda/Carly, Kimberley/Anwar, PG-13), 7/12
Author: Clio
Title: A Dream That Could Not Last Chapter 7 of 12: Gaslight
Pairing: American Idol: Ryan Seacrest/Simon Cowell, Amanda Overmyer/Carly Smithson, Kimberley Locke/Anwar Robinson
Chapter Rating: PG-13
Chapter Summary: The Battle of France. Also, dancing.
Chapter Length: 7800 words
Disclaimer: People sort of own themselves, don't they? Which means this is a work of fiction.
Notes: A Dream That Could Not Last is an AU romantic comedy set in 1939 London, when everyone knew war was on the horizon but no one was sure when or how it would arrive—which made love of all kinds that much more important. Follow a year in the life of three groups of (mostly) Americans: pilots who joined the RAF, singers and dancers in a swing music revue, and reporters for BBC Radio. As usual there will be plenty of songs along the way to set the mood, plus art by the amazing
![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif){kind=small}
bhanesidhe.This was a big undertaking, and needed a team. If I was the writer/director, then
locumtenens was my editor, lillijulianne, musicforcylons and evil_erato my producers, dana_kujan the actually helpful studio executive; and ali_wildgoose my executive producer who kept the train on the tracks in ways so numerous I cannot list them here.Prologue | 1: The Lady Eve | 2: Adam's Rib | 3: His Girl Friday | 4: Bringing Up Baby | 5: Stella Dallas | 6: Pursuits of Happiness
May 26, 1940
Sgt. Amanda Overmyer was frustrated. She hadn't really considered, being so distracted by the practicalities of her own training, that when push came to shove she wouldn't actually be in the fight. Back when she and Chris were kids, she'd done the fighting for both of them; whenever some kid had called him fat or a pansy or a sissy they'd met the business end of her fist or her patent leather mary jane. It hadn't taken much of that before the kids in town had learned not mess with either of them. At college Amanda had been close enough to check in every once in a while, but Harvard had been a different sort of place than Virginia, and money, football and a titled father had been enough for popularity—not to mention that Chris had finally grown out of his baby fat and into his own skin. Of course once they were out on the road barnstorming Chris was old enough to take care of himself. So was Amanda, though sometimes Chris helped.
But now all she could do was go over the checklist again; the fight was his. At first she paced like a tiger in a cage, and once nearly got into a fight with Sgt. Covington just for the fun of punching his absurd face in. Then Castro offered to teach her how to play his guitar. She hadn't sung since Calgary, and it soothed her somehow, distracted her without being a distraction. Still, she envied Chris, who fought pretty damn close to face to face, even though RAF High Command kept Capt. Johns's group of six squadrons in reserve, so instead of flying over France, they patrolled the Channel.
On this day when the boys got back there was another briefing in store, and when they got to the briefing room Capt. Johns was waiting for them, as were the two squadrons he'd brought with him from Australia and the two regular Canadian squadrons, so it was a tight squeeze in the room with all the pilots and mechanics standing around. Everyone looked tired—they'd been working morning and night, grabbing shuteye when they could—but Johns seemed more in need of sleep than any of them.
"Men," Johns said, "you've fought hard and well, but our mission is about to change. You're to continue to concentrate on the Channel coast, but now we will be protecting a strategic retreat."
A ripple went through the crowd—even the six lieutenants standing in the front with Capt. Johns looked alarmed, and Lt. Cook was never surprised by anything.
"I can't tell you the port at this time," Johns continued, "only that it will be within our range." There was a British Army installation at Dunkirk, Amanda knew; that much had been in the papers. But it was possible that a different site had been chosen. Johns went on—more about how the flights would work together—and then the ANZACs were off to the field, the Canadians to the mess hall, the Americans to a well-deserved rest.
It was a somber walk back, the men deep in thought. Most stopped by the club for a drink; a few went straight to the barracks for bed. Chris, nonchalant, announced that he was antsy and wanted more of a walk and Blake, of course, went with him. Cook watched them go, unreadable as always, then said "I should write to Mother" and headed off to the quarters he shared with Lt. Rogers, leaving Amanda and Robinson the only ones walking toward the recreation room.
"Hope you don't mind the company," Amanda said.
"Not at all," Robinson replied. "Don't think I'll be finding solace in a book tonight. Probably shouldn't be alone, actually." He flicked on the lights. "Heard Castro's been teaching you guitar."
"Yeah," Amanda said, following him to the piano.
He sat down and lifted the cover. "Oughtta be able to find something we both know," he said, playing a few chords.
Amanda pulled up a chair and sat nearby, watching him play something not quite a song, just as Chris so often would when he was thinking.
"So," he said, "I guess you're sweet on that radio engineer."
"McHale?" Amanda asked, making a point to look him in the eye. "He's married."
Robinson smiled. "No, I meant Miss Hennessey."
She tried to keep a neutral expression. "Er—"
"You know," Robinson continued, as though he'd said nothing much, "I almost caught Richardson and Lewis once, back in Calgary. But it was new then, I reckon. They're a lot more careful now." He glanced up from the keys. "Don't worry. These people wouldn't know it if you diagrammed it for them."
Amanda cleared her throat. "And you?"
"Oh, I've been around," he replied. "Clever, covering for each other."
"Please, you're not—"
"Come on, what do you take me for?" he asked, smiling. "Not sure I'd be here if they hadn't stood up for me. Besides, we misfits gotta stick together."
"Yeah," Amanda said, and wondered if she'd tell Chris.
"So as I was saying, you're sweet on her?"
"Yeah," Amanda said, smiling, and thought how strange to talk to someone other than Chris. "She just—she isn't like anyone else I've ever known. She's smart and funny and she doesn't try to put me in a box—"
"No one could do that for long," he said.
"No, I guess not. And she likes Chris and he likes her, and Blake too. And did I mention that she's gorgeous? Only no one seems to know it; she hides it away under all those suits."
"She is a beautiful girl."
"And, well, I don't want to be vulgar, but—"
"You two are having a good time?" he asked, smiling.
She grinned. "That we are. So what about your girl, Robinson? You certainly have a lot of books and postcards going back and forth."
He shrugged. "She's not my girl."
"Only because you haven't done anything to make her yours."
"She's a singer, and I'm just an engineer. You can't court a girl like that with books."
"I don't know," Amanda said, "You look like you're doing a pretty good job of it. Have you kissed her yet?"
Robinson's back straightened. "Of course not!"
"But you want to?" she asked, smirking.
"Yeah, but geez, Overmyer."
"And you have kissed a girl before, right?"
"More than that, but I wasn't brought up to talk about that in mixed company."
"Aww, c'mon," she said. "You know I don't count."
Robinson shook his head. "Gershwin, I think," he said, as his playing coalesced into "Someone to Watch Over Me." "You know this one?"
"I do," Amanda replied, and began to sing.
May 27, 1940
Jennifer, who'd been given a similar deep orange costume, cracked up, but Katharine asked, "What's a fez?"
"You know," Kim said, "those hats with the tassel that monkeys wear." She mimed its short cylindrical shape above her head.
"Oh, that's what they're called?" Kat said. She giggled.
"Girls," Paula scolded. "This isn't helpful."
Paula's way of coping with the sudden anxiety of her girls, many of whom were worrying after the American airmen, was to stage a new elaborate Arabian Nights-style number to distract them, and was costuming the singers and dancers as harem girls. Kim had to admit the distraction worked, even on her. "Caravan" was a tricky song to sing, with its mimicry of non-Western harmonics, so the melody didn't go to the usual places. Not to mention that Randy gave them a complicated vocal arrangement, such that each of them came in and out of the melody line at odd moments, moving from high to low and back instead of just staying, say, a third below the melody. Paula's choreography was equally complex, with the dancers weaving in and out and even the three singers moving about the stage a good deal after entering on a moving platform that had been dressed up like a Bedouin tent. "Caravan" would be quite the spectacle.
"They'll make for a rough quick change," Jen said.
"Last number of the night," Paula replied, "and there will be a long dance sequence before to cover your change."
"What are the dancers wearing?" Kat asked, holding her own green outfit to her skin and looking in the mirror.
"The same, but with veils, in black and white of course."
"Of course," Kim said.
Paula scowled, her hands on her hips. "Well, if you don't like them …"
"We'll wear them, Paula," Jen said. "They just weren't what I was expecting."
The three girls dutifully put on the costumes, which fit quite well for a first try, and Paula paraded them out to the front of the club to show them to Randy and Simon Fuller. The band, unfortunately, was there as well, so there was the usual whistling and cat calling.
Jen put her hand on her hip. "You boys need to learn some respect."
"And you wonder why the girls are dating airmen," Kim added.
George, the quiet piano player, said, "Well, I think those costumes are real fine."
"Thank you, George," Jen said, smiling. "See, it's not impossible."
The chorus girls came out then, most in their usual rehearsal wear of tap pants and little shirts, but Kelly and Tamyra had on the new chorus costumes, which featured a headscarf instead of their usual wigs. Randy cocked his head. "They'll work," he said.
"I think so," Paula agreed. "Run through?"
"Yeah," Randy said, waving the band into their places on the stage.
Paula clapped her hands. "All right ladies, let's see how this looks."
Kim, Kat and Jen sat down in the "tent," a small round cushion-covered platform at the back of the stage, and awaited their cue. Gauzy white curtains surrounded the three of them, creating a tent effect, and once they had sat on the cushions they pulled the curtains closed. The band started playing, and Kim could just see the girls dancing in front of them through the fabric of the curtains. Because she was usually changing her costume during the dance numbers, Kim rarely had the chance to just sit and watch the girls moving about and making the elaborate patterns that Paula favored—anyone could see how influenced she'd been by her mentor Busby Berkeley. The dancers sauntered across the stage in time to the hypnotic throb of Nicky's tenor sax and EJ's trombone. Rickey had switched out his alto sax for a clarinet, his melody soaring above the steady rhythm. It was a sultry sort of dance, with the girls all bare feet and pointed toes, and at the end the girls started to spin, which in the costumes would have a dance of the seven veils effect that would cover the three singers climbing into the tent from behind. The girls dropped into their pose: Kim and Jen reclining on either side of a kneeling Kat, and on cue the back light came on, silhouetting them against the front curtain. The platform moved forward, riding on the same sort of mechanism that might be used to rotate a stage, like a cable car. It started abruptly, jostling them, and Kat thought that tech rehearsal for this number was going to be a bitch.
Two of the dancers pulled the curtains open at the front as the backlight was dimmed. The music moved from the heartbeat rhythm to a hot jazz beat featuring Randy's bass and George's piano riffs, and the three began to sing: night and stars above that shine so bright, the mystery of their fading light that shines upon our caravan. Slowly, they stood, moving off the platform and walking over to the band. The chorus broke into a real jazz dance during Corey's trumpet solo, shimmying away, and then the three girls finished the song from the dais in front of the band. It was elaborate, and all didn't go as planned for this first real run through, but it could be done.
"Okay we're going to take a quick break to get the girls back out of costume, but don't wander off," Paula shouted. The costumed girls went into the back to change, Kelly and Tamyra talking to Paula and the seamstress, Brooke, about what changes might need to be made to allow for easy dancing. Brooke and Paula then retreated into Paula's office.
"Y'all haven't heard anything, have you?" Tamyra asked, and Kim remembered that she'd been spending time in the same crowd as Sgts. Grigsby, Castro and Lewis, so she was as worried as any of the rest of them.
"Not much," Kim replied. "I've had a few postcards from Robinson—they're tired, working very hard, spending a lot of time in the air. But of course he can't say what they're doing."
"Risking their damn necks," Kelly said.
"Well, isn't that what they're here for?" Kat asked.
Jen put up her hand. "Ladies, please. The war is happening whether we like it or not."
Kelly sighed, scowling, then stomped out of the dressing room. "Kelly, wait," Tamyra said, running after her.
Kat shook her head. "Poor girl. I wish she'd stop fighting it so hard."
Kim put an arm around Kat. "She's just scared. We all are."
"Well, I don't think her attitude is making it any easier for Cook! And we have to think of them now, and the French people."
"Oh, Kat, we all react differently. I'm sure she's supportive of Cook in her own way."
"It's just—the news is so bad."
"Just forget about that and put it all into the song," Jen said. "We've got a lot of rehearsal ahead of us this week, and recording for the radio show on Wednesday and new songs to learn. It's plenty to keep your mind off things."
"I guess. Oh, I just wish."
"I know honey," Kim said. "Me too."
Kelly walked back into the room then, Tamyra just behind her. "I'm sorry, Kat. I didn't mean to—"
Kat rushed right over to her and pulled her into a hug. "I'm sorry, too," she said.
Jen moved closer to Kim and whispered, "This is going to be one long damn war, and we aren't even in it yet."
Kim nodded. "Ain't that the truth," she said.
May 29, 1940
"Absolutely not," Simon said. "I won't hear of it."
"I'm not sure why you think you have a vote in this," Ryan replied.
"Because it's damned foolish, is why."
"But Paris is where the story is. And I can get in; I have contacts—"
"I don't bloody care! What on earth could you contribute to that story?"
"Now you're just being insulting."
"Ryan." Simon sighed, then stood up and closed his office door. Ryan was perched on Simon's desk, his usual pose when he was in the room. Simon leaned against the door, a few feet away. "I don't mean to be. You know how I feel about your reporting. But there are plenty of journos on the ground in France right now. And I don't think your audience is as interested in the ordinary Frenchman as they might be about the Englishman."
"They cared about the Spaniards," Ryan pointed out.
"Perhaps, when the war was safely over and you could romanticize it."
Ryan looked away. "Just because you keep saying that doesn't make it true."
Simon paused again, letting himself cool down, think clearly. Ryan was fiddling with a paper clip from his desk, nonchalant, but Simon could see the tension in his shoulders. "That was unfair. I'm sorry."
"Thank you," Ryan said, not looking up.
"Look, I know you want to be in the thick of things, but doesn't it make more sense to get your NBC man in Paris to bring some regular people into the studio there for you to interview?"
Ryan cocked his head. "Certainly cheaper, which NBC always likes."
"Yes, I can see that."
"Hey!"
"I only meant," Simon said, moving further into the room, "that they put you up here, rather than giving you your own office. Anyway, Joel's wife wouldn't like you bringing him into the middle of all that."
Ryan chuckled. "No, she definitely would not; that's why he left Spain with the International Brigades." He sighed. "So you really don't want me to go?"
"I don't think you need to go, no."
"Let me see how your idea works, anyway," Ryan said.
Simon smiled and moved closer, putting his hands on Ryan's upper arms. "That sounds good. Smoke on it?"
"Sure." Ryan pulled one out of his jacket pocket and held it for Simon to light. "Say, your hands are shaking."
"No they're not," Simon replied as he lit Ryan's cigarette, and then his own.
"They are," Ryan insisted, grabbing the one with the lighter. "Were you—you didn't want me to go, did you?"
"That's what I just said, Ryan," Simon said, looking away and trying to pull his hand back.
"No, I mean, you didn't want me to go." He grinned. "You're an old softy, aren't you?"
Simon could feel the blush creep up his cheeks. "No."
"Oh, darling, come here," Ryan said, and pulled him into a kiss. "You're lovely, you know that?"
"Bit girly," Simon said.
Ryan shrugged. "S'what you are."
"Well, don't expect me to be at the train station waving goodbye to you with my white handkerchief."
Ryan laughed then. "I can't even picture that," he said. He glanced at the clock on the wall. "Okay, I need to get going. Following up on a few things to send over to New York tonight. You're recording the girls, right?"
"Yeah. See you after? Or come by the studio when you're done if I'm not."
"Will do." They kissed again, and then Ryan was out the door.
Simon sunk into his office chair and finished his cigarette. The words not again, not again kept ringing through his head, and lately he'd been seeing the face of another man, a young man with ginger hair and bright eyes, in every crowd, around every corner. He wondered if he was going mad, wondered if he'd already gone mad and no one had noticed.
Carly, showing her usual impeccable timing, came into the room then. "You all right?" she asked.
He rubbed his face and sighed. "Yeah. You? Heard from your airman?"
Carly smiled a little. "Got a letter yesterday, in fact," she said. "Tired and frustrated and wanting to get into the fight. No details of course."
"Of course," Simon said. "So, what do we have? Just the girls, yeah?"
"Yeah," she said, "and then the show's done."
"Great," he replied, and then looked up. "Oh, hullo David."
"Have you seen Ryan?" small David asked from where he stood in Simon's office doorway.
"You just missed him," Simon said. "But feel free to wait in his office, or here; we're just going to be listening to some songs sent over from America."
He sat in one of the extra chairs, staring at the floor as Simon opened the lid on the record player and turned it on. "You don't know if he's heard from my uncle?"
"I don't think so," Simon replied. "I'm sure he would have tried to find you, if he had."
The boy nodded. "At least before I was flying, and that was something. Now I just feel useless."
"There will be plenty of time for that," Simon said.
"I guess," he replied, picking up the bent paper clip Ryan had been fiddling with.
"What are the other children at school saying?"
"Well, a lot of them aren't really involved," he said. "But the exiles like me, they want to fight, too. The older ones, anyway."
"And so you shall," Simon said. "Lt. Cook said you had the makings of quite a pilot."
"Really?" small David asked, looking up sharply with a shy little smile. "Gee, he's so fantastic, and he said that about me?"
Simon smiled. "He was very impressed. People are, you know. I hear you're the leader of your little group of friends at school."
He blushed. "Who told you that?"
"Your friend Miss DeGarmo, the last time you brought her to supper."
"I don't know about leader," he said, squirming in his seat a little, and Simon marveled at the way the boy switched from seeming very old to very young in a matter of moments. But perhaps all precocious adolescents were the same.
"This is what I'll say. Someone needs to stick around and clean up after this war is over, and you're just the right sort of fellow to do that. So, see, you mustn't rush into this fight too quickly."
"Huh," small David said. "I didn't think about it that way." He tapped on the desk for a moment, then said, "So what are these songs?"
"Big band," Carly said. "Glenn Miller."
"Gosh! He's the limit!" small David said.
"Well!" Simon said.
"He's playing a concert in London in a few weeks," Carly said.
Small David turned to Simon, eyes wide.
"Yes, yes," Simon said. "We'll get you some tickets."
"That'd be swell!" small David said, grinning. "What's the record?"
"'Tuxedo Junction'," Carly read before putting the platter on the turntable.
Simon didn't have great affection for this sort of big band music; he preferred the looser feel of colored bandleaders like Duke Ellington, or the hotter jazz of Benny Goodman. But when he saw small David's eyes light up it was confirmation—this music was what the kids loved, and what the kids loved sold like hot cakes. He'd have to make a study of this. He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, listening.
"Don't be discouraged, Kim," Carly said. "He's just like this. If he didn't care for your singing he wouldn't even bother, believe me."
"Yeah, well," Kim said, putting out her cigarette, "I like how I sing, and so do Randy and Paula, and I wish Simon would just get with it, you know?"
"I know," Carly said.
They were sitting in a vacant studio around the corner from where Carly had been recording the three singers. Kim and Randy had brought in some new songs, and Simon Cowell was still vaguely dissatisfied. Not that Kim wasn't getting onto the radio; in fact, listeners were calling and requesting some of her recordings. But Simon was looking for something more, and Kim had no idea how to give it to him.
"Frankly, I have better things to worry about," Kim added.
"But you can't do anything about those things."
"I know. He's just so—infuriating!" She smiled a little. "And not in a good way!"
Carly grinned back. "You mean, like a certain tall handsome pilot?"
"I miss him," she confessed. "And it's stupid, because it's not like we were even going together. We just bought books and talked about them."
"But he's still sending you postcards?"
"Yeah, almost every day. I think it helps him, to write them."
"Then it's not stupid," Carly said, clutching Kim's hand in her own. "He's your friend, of course you care about him. And he appreciates that, I know—I can see it. And I'm sure these boys need all the support they can get, right?"
"No, you're right. Thanks. And what about you?" Kim asked.
"Oh, you know," Carly said. "They read her mail, so she can't say the things she might. But it's there; I can feel it. She's worried for Chris; I don't think she could love him more if he were her brother. And she's worried for Blake, for Chris's sake. Really, all her pilots, and she's frustrated that she can't get up there and fight alongside them, which is so like her. She hates any kind of constraints."
"So I've noticed," Kim said, smiling a bit.
"I know she can seem difficult, but I think it's lovely. Not that I feel so horribly constrained, but it's refreshing to see someone refusing to make compromises."
"Except to you, of course," Kim said, teasing.
"Well," Carly began, and blushed just a little. "I wouldn't go that far. She takes pretty good care of me, when she can, and I do the same, when she lets me."
"And the way she looks at you, Carly."
"I don't know about that, actually," Carly replied. "She's definitely got an eye for a pretty girl. Sometimes I have to remind her to focus on me, but that's not so much. Why, the first time we met she was ogling Giuliana, not that I blame her."
"I think you're every bit as pretty as Giuliana," Kim said loyally.
"Thank you—I'm not, but really, that's fine. I don't think she'd ever stray; it's all just part of not wanting to be constrained, I think. So I know she loves me, even if she isn't always looking at me."
"She is clearly very attached to you," Kim said. "But do you really think she wants to, well I don't know, to settle down with you? If she's such a free spirit?"
"She says she wants something serious with me, when she's never done that before in her life. But even if she does, with the war and all—and I'm not sure I'd even be able to live in America. It's not as though I can be a war bride." She paused, and sighed, then sat up straighter. "I'm all right, really. And work helps."
"Work does help," Kim agreed, sensing that Carly was done with the topic of Amanda. "Speaking of which."
They went back into the studio, where Randy, Paula and Simon were still going at it, this time over Kat's recording of that song from the Oz movie. Jen was sitting on the piano bench with George Huff, and small David was sitting near Kat, reading a magazine. Kat was knitting, socks from the look of it.
"I simply feel that if it were smaller at the start, the contrast would be better," Randy was saying.
"And that's fine for the stage," Simon said, "but I'm not sure it comes across on the radio."
"Can't we just try it both ways and then decide?" Paula asked, her arms flailing about. "Instead of arguing in this not-real way?"
Before either of them could answer, Ryan poked his head in. "Oh, here you are," he said, and walked in, Joel and Giuliana close behind him. "You'll want to hear this." He turned on the monitor in the room, so the live signal of BBC radio played through the speakers.
"The Royal Navy is sending out a call for all seaworthy ships, of any size, particularly any merchant ships. Please notify your Civil Defense Officer. In the main news, fighting continued in northern France today …" Ryan turned the speakers back down.
Kim was confused—ships? But Simon seemed to understand.
"So, it's evacuation?" he asked.
Ryan nodded. "Dunkirk. It'll be out in the next day or two, but the British Army is pulling everyone out, and the RAF has moved to covering the evacuation from the air."
"Well that's it, then," Simon said. He lit a cigarette. "You know, I make as much sport of the French as the next fellow but I never thought they'd collapse so quickly."
"DeGaulle is only one man," Ryan said.
"They're pulling everyone out of France?" Kat asked.
"Yes," Ryan replied.
"Oh no, after Belgium and the Netherlands, this?" she continued, and Kim remembered that Kat was still working with Rabbi Yamin to help bring Jewish children out of harm's way, a job that had become much more difficult in the last few weeks. "But why?"
"They're losing," small David said, and everyone turned to him, surprised to hear him speak. "The foreigners all leave when you're losing. Happened to us."
"It was a little different," Ryan said gently. "And they're evacuating French troops, too."
"How can they get all those men out?" Jen asked.
"That's why they're calling for ships," Simon said.
Kat set her knitting down. "I think we should pray for them," she said.
And so they stood around the piano, holding hands—Jen and Paula were on either side of Kim, but she couldn't help seeing that Ryan had put himself between small David and Simon—and Randy said some things, and they all nodded and amen'd and Kim tried to keep her mind on those poor scared soldiers, but no matter what she did, only one face was in her mind.
"God bless you, Anwar Robinson," she whispered.
June 14, 1940
The first few nights after Dunkirk Amanda's sleep was dreamless, the hard sleep of complete exhaustion. The RAF had been pulling in every pilot and plane they could find, but new ground crew rarely arrived, and already their small RCAF group was relatively experienced. Poles and Czechs came in with planes that she barely had time to figure out before they needed to get back into the air, desperately trying to keep the Luftwaffe from plunging below the heavy cloud cover to harass the evac ships. Lt. Cook and Lt. Rogers and the Canadians in the other squadrons felt it more—there were Canadian soldiers to get out of France, too—but all the pilots were edgy and out of sorts, landing just long enough to catch some shut eye and grab a bite before covering the channel again. It had been a long week at the end of a very long and trying month, and Amanda wasn't sure what they had to show for it, however miraculous the evacuation had been. As Churchill had said, wars are not won by evacuations.
The days after Dunkirk were spent in a haze of briefings and cram books for the new planes. It was her life now, plane after plane after damnable new plane; she wished that all the Allied countries had sat down and agreed on one engine design. She saw lines and wires every time she closed her eyes, but anything was better than Chris, or any one of her pilots, going down because of something she'd missed. The briefings were interminable, and as a mechanic she didn't even have to go to half of them. They were waiting, now; she hoped, rather than thought, that France would hold. But with the Low Countries gone, and Sweden and Portugal pledged to neutrality (not to mention Russia, and she wanted to throttle the necks of every single red she'd known at college with the thought of that), France was all that stood between England and Germany. Frankly, she didn't like those odds.
In the mess hall it usually took both her and Lewis to coax Chris to eat properly, while the entire squadron tried to keep Lewis, who was already fidgety enough, from drinking a drop of coffee. Cigarettes were in ready supply, though chewing gum wasn't, and every man in the group had let out a cheer when Lewis's father, a shopkeeper, sent them a crate full of Juicy Fruit and Doublemint. Amanda rationed herself to a half a stick a day, often making it last from after lunch until lights out. Then she'd smoke a last cigarette, thinking about Carly, about the taste of the skin at the nape of her neck, or the base of her spine, or the way she would cling to Amanda's arms. It wasn't really any one thing about Carly, but all of it together, and the photo she kept tucked in her wallet didn't do her justice.
Tuesday Capt. Johns told them they'd be getting weekend passes, and she'd wanted to go straight to the phones to call Carly, but Chris reminded her that he was the one who should at least start that call, so all three of them were crushed around the mouthpiece, listening to Carly's excited squeals and making plans. After the trip to Burnshaw the other airmen had taken for granted that Chris was going with the Irish girl who'd seen them off, and Blake with Amanda, and none of them were interested in setting the story straight (so to speak). Amanda wouldn't have been surprised if Cook had "helped" that rumor along; she hadn't yet gotten around to telling the boys that Robinson knew as well.
The plan was to go straight to the BBC on Friday and pick up Carly, who was recording the Pyramid singers that morning, for lunch. Simon wanted to put them up again, which was generous of him, and that first night they were to go back to the Pyramid Club to see the new show. Amanda liked the Pyramid even if she couldn't dance with Carly, and Carly liked seeing Amanda in uniform anyway. Carly wanted to go along to the after hours club, as she'd befriended the girl singers and thought her friends would have fun. And so Robinson and Daughtry and Cook were coming with them to the BBC, if not to lunch. Amanda found their little posse odd, and fidgeted on the tube ride from the train station to Broadcast House, nervous about giving anything away. Carly had implied that she'd told two of those girl singers, but how much she'd said Amanda wasn't sure and as usual, she worried about Blake and Chris and what they might show in front of Daughtry and his girl, who were the wild cards in this situation.
When they arrived the recording must have been done because there were a lot of folks piled into Simon Cowell's small office. Carly, of course, as it was her office too, and Ryan and Joel, who greeted Cook as though they were just pals, and Amanda marveled at their pitch-perfect control. David Archuleta, whom the airmen had taken to calling "Archie" at Cook's lead, was there too, full of hero-worship for Cook, and so aw-shucks in his manner that it was difficult to remember he wasn't actually American. And the three singers, Kim, Jen and Kat, plus Kelly who had been trying out for Cowell for a spot on the radio, and their directors Miss Abdul and Mr. Jackson, and the kindly piano player whose name Amanda didn't recall. Pretty Giuliana had met them in the lobby and showed them in, which Amanda was grateful for because it was hard to keep from ogling the girl at least a little bit, and the walk down the hall let her get it out of her system before she saw Carly.
Of all the people in the room, the only ones who could really greet each other openly as sweethearts were Daughtry and his girl, and they made a bit of a show of it in their usual way. Robinson wandered over to Kim and Amanda was surprised at how shy he seemed, such a contrast to his behavior on base, and Amanda appreciated again the tough spot that being one of the few colored pilots put him in, even without Hicks sitting around being an ass. Cook and Kelly were wary, almost diffident, and Amanda remembered Daughtry referring to her as "crazy"—good grief, almost a month ago now—and at the time she'd been annoyed in the feminist sort of way that she never bothered to communicate to any man or most women for that matter. But seeing them together, she understood the point Daughtry had been making, even if she still objected to his choice of phrase. The piano player—George! that was his name, George something or other—was looking at Jen with a sort of affectionate respect that reminded Amanda of Chris's father's manner with his wife. And in the back, so low key as to be unnoticed, Simon and Ryan stood, not too close but close enough, just watching the chaos ensue.
It was downright cacophonous in that room, almost twenty people crammed into a space that would seat ten, perhaps twelve on a good day, standing cheek by jowl and greeting each other excitedly, and on top of that Simon had the monitor that played the live radio feed turned on. Amanda was just wondering when some angry co-worker or another would shut the door on them, when Simon suddenly shouted, "Quiet! Quiet!"
The hubbub died down remarkably quickly as they all turned toward him, confused. He turned up the monitor, and it crackled. "The road south is crowded now," said a voice in that plummy accent Amanda already recognized as not actually belonging to any real person, but to the BBC itself, "but the government's departure to points south has been swift and efficient, as if it had been planned for some time. Again, the flash: Paris has fallen to the advancing German armies. We go now to our American correspondent, still in Paris."
A more familiar accent: "Here in Paris all the flags have been lowered, the tricolour replaced by the swastika. No one is on the street now except for German soldiers and a few dogs …" Simon turned off the monitor with a click.
Amanda had been staring at the speaker, but now she turned, looking slowly around the room. Carly's eyes were wide and her skin pale, and Amanda yearned to take her into her arms, soothe her the best she could. Joel was there at least, pulling her against his chest with one arm, and Amanda felt Chris and Blake's arms around her, and mostly she just felt so very fucking tired, like she had never felt in her life. Would this German war machine just roll over one continent after another?
Paula was the one who broke the stunned silence. "We should change tonight's show," she said. "Less dancing, songs about Paris."
"Like a concert," Randy replied. "And more of the dancers could sing, too, like Kelly here."
"I could help you find some songs," Simon said.
"You know," Ryan added, "we should think about putting this on air, make a special of it."
And the four of them were off, throwing around suggestions between them, with Joel and Carly as well. Amanda hadn't seen Carly working since that first day they met (when to be honest she hadn't been paying much attention) but it was fascinating to see them all working together like—well, like a well oiled machine. The rest of the crowd was calling out suggestions for songs, which Giuliana was taking down on her steno pad. Kat looked a little teary, Daughtry's handkerchief in her hand. Kim and Jen were all business, but Robinson had taken Kim's hand at some point and neither of them looked interested in letting go.
In the end, lunch had been at a long table in the BBC cafeteria, twenty of them crowded around like a holiday dinner. Then they scattered—Randy to round up the band and make simple arrangements of the new songs, Simon to call in some favors regarding the rights fees, Paula and the girls back to the theater to work on the vocals and think about staging and which of the other dancers might also get a solo. Paula had put the airmen to work doing various things—for example, Lewis could sew, which didn't surprise Ryan much, and had been dispatched to help their seamstress Brooke whip up some gowns for the dancers. Ryan had grabbed Amanda to help out with production, not only because he was sympathetic but also because he knew it would amuse Simon to watch Carly ordering her around. By late afternoon they had worked out the technical details for the remote. Ryan had called New York and secured a time slot on NBC Blue for the recorded show that evening, and Nigel had cleared a spot for the show to be broadcast live on the BBC Forces Programme. (It was nice to not have to worry about sponsors for the BBC show, though the New York sales boys had done a bang-up job, quickly lining up Ford Motor Company, Coca-Cola, and Bell Telephone.) One of the junior engineers with the BBC, a Russian émigré named Federov, would man the live airing from Broadcast House and the recording for later transmission to New York. Then Ryan and Simon put their heads together and wrote the script for the opening of the show; they'd just ad lib the rest.
With the help of some of the airmen, Mrs. Studdard brought a large dinner to the Pyramid Club so everyone could continue rehearsing. Over bean and ham soup, the four of them—Randy, Paula, Simon and Ryan—hashed out the order of the show and the approximate running time, with help from Carly and Joel. Then Simon said, "Ryan, why don't you host the show?"
"I, well," Ryan said, "I thought we'd do that together?"
"Well, I might introduce you on the radio," Simon said, "but you know I don't like standing up and talking in front of an audience."
"We could do both," Joel suggested. "We could have Simon at the desk, with a seat for Ryan, and have Ryan moving back and forth between the desk and the stage. Probably more visually interesting than Ryan standing around in the same place the whole time. After all, we're broadcasting a stage show, not performing a radio show for an audience."
"Very good idea," Simon said. "Ryan, you should give that man a raise."
"Ha ha," Ryan replied. He looked at his watch. "Well, we have just enough time for the run through," he said. Randy and Paula rose and started to round up the band and the singers and get them into position, even as Lewis, his mouth full of pins, was chasing after a chorus girl named Gina to hem her costume.
Ryan sat down next to Simon at the desk. "Ready?" Ryan asked him, smiling.
"As I'll ever be," Simon replied, sneaking a grope under the table.
"That's right," Ryan said, unfazed. "Get it out of your system now."
"Wouldn't do to be unprofessional on air," Simon said. "Besides, it will take us much less time to change into our tuxes than all these ladies to put their gowns on. Awfully nice of Paula to let us use her office as a dressing room." He winked.
"I am not fucking you in Paula Abdul's office," Ryan said.
Simon looked for all the world like he was reading his script. "You say that now," he replied.
The run through went without too much incident, Ryan acting as de facto director, keeping all the transitions short and snappy so the show wouldn't run long. It was a challenge to keep Simon from running off at the mouth, but the show wasn't about him; it was about the songs. Despite his teasing Simon kept his hands (mostly) to himself while they changed, and before long they were letting in the audience. Once they were in place Ryan came out to introduce Randy and the band, Paula and Simon Fuller, Nigel, and finally his own Simon, and then he explained the special show, particularly that the singers would often be using lyric sheets as they had only learned some of the songs that afternoon. Then Joel counted down and they were on air.
"I'm Simon Cowell," Simon said.
"We're here this evening to celebrate Paris. The City of Light may be dark this evening, but we prefer to remember her as we last left her, and as we hope to greet her again. And to help us do this, through special arrangement, we present a programme of Cole Porter."
Simon took over then, discussing how many of Porter's recent shows had scenes set in or around Paris, "including his recent hit, DuBarry Was a Lady, which features our first song, 'Mesdames et Messieurs'."
Ryan spent the rest of the show in that heightened yet detached awareness that he always had for a live show—a skill that, come to think of it, had served him well in Spain. The girls were pros and moved on and off the stage smoothly, even the chorus girls who were being given a first chance at a solo number. Carrie Underwood was adorable on "Give Him the Ooh La La" and Kelly shined leading the company through "Do You Want to See Paris?" Out of the corner of his eye Ryan could see Simon making notes while Tamyra sang "You Don't Know Paree." Several chorus numbers came in between, and the band played a few numbers associated with Chevalier. Kat did her star turn on "Let's Fall in Love," and Jen on "If You Like Belles Poitrines." Kim was last, and even Simon had to approve whole-heartedly with her rendition of "April in Paris," the one non-Porter song they all agreed they must include. By the time she reached those last lines—who can I run to? what have you done to my heart?—there wasn't a dry eye in the house, not even Simon's.
After the broadcast, which of course ended with a rousing rendition of "La Marseillaise" sung by the audience with help from the company, they cleared the floor for dancing and moved backstage. The airmen, who'd been helping all day, came back as well and they all toasted their efforts, and Paris, and Ryan was looking forward to getting good and drunk and forgetting about the war as best he could until tomorrow, when he caught sight of small David, who'd attended the show with some of his school chums. But that was no teenager small David was pulling along with him through the backstage crowd; that lean, olive-skinned man with the bright smile was all too familiar.
"Well Ryan," said the man with just a hint of an accent, "you spent all that time seeing me in my element. At last I have seen you in yours, eh?"
Ryan blinked, just to make sure. "David Hernandez," he said. "Thank God you're safe."
Chapter Eight: The Philadelphia Story
Notes:
Gaslight (dir. George Cukor, 1944) is a melodrama starring Ingrid Bergman and Charles Boyer.
"Men," Johns said, "you've fought hard and well, but our mission is about to change. You're to continue to concentrate on the Channel coast, but now we will be protecting a strategic retreat."From 27 May-4 June 1940, nearly 350,000 British and French troops were evacuated at Dunkirk. The troops, which included the core of the British Army, had been cut off by the Germans and stranded at the coastline. The Royal Navy put out a call for additional civilian ships, and indeed, many small ships such as pleasure cruisers and private fishing boats, provided crucial assistance with the evacuation to England. They ferried men from the beaches to the larger Naval and commercial vessels, and also brought men across the channel themselves. The RAF covered the evacuation, fighting with the Luftwaffe above the heavy cloud cover, then returned to destroy any French ships that had been abandoned, lest they fall into German hands. The success of the evacuation, especially the way that the British people worked together to help, provided a much-needed morale boost in the face of bad news in the Battle of France.
"The Royal Navy is sending out a call for all seaworthy ships, of any size, particularly any merchant ships. Please notify your Civil Defense Officer. In the main news, fighting continued in northern France today …"
" …the government's departure to points south has been swift and efficient, as if it had been planned for some time. Again, the flash: Paris has fallen to the advancing German armies."If you've been watching the dates, you'll see that France fell to the Germans in five weeks. Disorganization, the wrong generals in charge at the start, underestimation of German strength—there are many reasons France fell so quickly, but it's why Homer Simpson could refer to them as "cheese-eating surrender monkeys." Paris would not be liberated until 1944, after the invasion at Normandy.
no subject
Once again, i loved it and cannot wait for the next chapter!!!!
no subject
no subject
The live show was awesome, those boys never change ;)
I especially loved the scene where Simon is telling Ryan he doesn't have to go to France, and Ryan knew he was trying to say he didn't want him to go. So sweet! <3
no subject
no subject
I wanted to hug Simon when he didn't want Ryan to go to France.
"I am not fucking you in Paula Abdul's office," Ryan said.
Simon looked for all the world like he was reading his script. "You say that now," he replied.
HAAA! Last season my friend and I came up with a list of places where we think Ryan and Simon would've had sex at the Studio and Paula's dressing room ended up being like #2. LOL this totally reminded me of that.
Brilliant as always. I can't wait to read this all as a whole when you've finished posting all the parts.
no subject
I'm pleased that people liked that scene; vulnerable Simon is so tricky.
Thank you! I'm so glad you're enjoying it!