the_water_clock | FIC: A Dream That Could Not Last (AI: Ryan/Simon, Amanda/Carly, Kimberley/Anwar), 8/12 (Reply)

Author: Clio
Title: A Dream That Could Not Last Chapter 8 of 12: The Philadelphia Story
Pairing: American Idol: Ryan Seacrest/Simon Cowell, Amanda Overmyer/Carly Smithson, Kimberley Locke/Anwar Robinson
Chapter Rating: PG-13
Chapter Summary: The return of David Hernandez, an evening with Glenn Miller, and the start of what comes next.
Chapter Length: 6800 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

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

The Philadelphia Story

14 June 1940

Well, one thing Simon could say for him: David Hernandez looked every inch the dashing Latin hero Ryan had made him out to be. Hollywood could (and would) do no better. What surprised Simon was how young he was for having accomplished so much; he couldn't be much older than Ryan himself. Perhaps precociousness ran in the family. The three of them were speaking rapid Spanish, David and his nephew and Ryan, and just as Simon was thinking he should leave them to it Ryan said, "I'm sorry, where are my manners? Simon, this is David Hernandez. David, this is Simon Cowell."

They shook hands, strong but not overly so, and Simon could feel Hernandez's eyes sizing him up. "David tells me you've been looking after Ryan," the man said.

"Oh, Ryan can look after himself," Simon replied. "I've just been keeping him company."

Hernandez raised his eyebrows; Simon didn't dare look to Ryan's reaction. And then he was saved by, of all people, Paula.

"Simon—I'm sorry," she said, touching Ryan's arm, "but I need to steal him. Simon, some people you simply must meet!"

Simon could have kissed her for giving him an honorable retreat. "Of course. You must have a lot of catching up to do, so I'll leave you to it," he said, smiling.

Ryan put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't leave without me, okay?"

Simon blinked. "I won't," he said, locking eyes with Ryan.

The rest of the evening was a blur. Emotions had already been running high, what with Paris and all, but now Simon was keeping one eye on Ryan, who had sat down at a table with the two Spaniards. As Paula and Randy had planned only one show that night, to an invitation-only audience, the Pyramid took on the aspect of a large opening night party. Joel had set up speakers to play the music show on the BBC, so even the band could mingle—not that there was any dancing. Simon Fuller and Nigel Lythgoe sat at a banquette in the corner and Simon shuddered to think what they could be plotting; if they joined forces they could take over the world—that is, if Hitler weren't already trying to do the same.

Simon did make sure to congratulate all the singers personally. The new girls were surprisingly strong, and Simon was impressed by the depth of talent Paula and Randy had pulled together. He found Kim chatting with Carly—they'd become fast friends, which pleased Simon to see, as Carly needed more "just friends" girlfriends.

"Kim, you were fantastic tonight," Simon said, giving her a peck on the cheek.

"Well, thank you, Simon!" Kim replied.

"Your performance has given me an idea. I think these melancholy songs suit you very well. I'm sure between us all we will soon find that song for you that will give you that moment."

"I'm certainly glad about that," she said.

Carly cocked her head, looking at Simon. "I think I have an idea," she said.

Simon puffed on his cigarette. "Love to hear it."

She scrunched her nose. "Not yet. Let us surprise you with it."

"I do like surprises," Simon said.

Carly laughed. "No you don't!"

"I like pleasant surprises!" Simon protested. "Most surprises are unpleasant."

"So you trust me to give you a pleasant surprise?" she asked, eyes twinkling.

"You know I do," Simon said, "even if you're no longer as afraid of me as you should be."

"Fear you?" Carly asked. "I keep telling Kim what a pushover you really are and then you say such a thing!"

"Pushover for people doing their job," Simon said. "Perhaps I am."

"And other things," Carly said, tipping her head slightly.

Simon turned and realized she was looking at Ryan. Simon kept his expression deadpan, but he could feel the traitorous blush creeping up his cheeks.

Carly, of course, just laughed.

In Hollywood, Ryan Seacrest was known for his unusual dinner parties. Unlike most movieland hosts, Ryan actually cooked the food—often a large pot of pasta or, after he returned from Spain, paella for a crowd. But they were also distinguished by the odd mix of folks at the table. The guest list nearly always included Joel and his lovely wife, and of course movie people, but also politicians, mobsters, USC students, beach bums, or anyone else Ryan had met and found interesting to talk to. He loved watching the mixing, how the conversations rose and fell. Sure, he had the skills to save parties that had gone off course (as did Joel, another reason he was a must-have) but when it worked, it sang. He had that feeling again, now. Many of the invited guests had departed and Ryan sat at a table watching Richardson and Cook try to keep "Archie" from enlisting the next day; Carly making fast friends with Capt. Johns; Joel, Amanda and Blake having a debate about automobiles; Robinson explaining the difference between east and west coast styles of swing dance to Nigel; and Daughtry extolling the virtues of southern cooking to Simon Fuller. The singers had gone to change before a planned excursion to an after hours club but some of the other airmen and musicians sat in little clusters around the room.

Ryan lit another cigarette and sighed, and sensing his movement, David Hernandez turned and smiled at him. That grin still hit him like a sucker punch to the solar plexus, probably always would. Ryan tried to tune back in to whatever David and Simon, who was sitting on the other side of Ryan, were saying.

"I wouldn't want to call him a liar," David said, looking at Ryan, "especially since he made me look so good."

"What?" Ryan replied. "Lying about what?"

"The war in Spain," Simon said. "You know, romance and so forth."

"I had to lie about that."

"No," Simon said, frowning, "not that. I meant, about the glories of war."

"Oh," Ryan said, biting his lip to keep from apologizing, which would probably just embarrass Simon more, and make him even grouchier.

"You have to admit, Ryan," Simon went on, "Hemingway doesn't agree with you."

Ryan scowled. "He's an excellent writer," he replied, "but Hemingway didn't see what I saw."

"To be fair," David said, "Hemingway started out much more of an idealist than Ryan did, even though Ryan was the one who hadn't been in a war before. I think Ryan came to Spain to see a war, and discovered a cause, but Hemingway came for a cause and discovered a war."

"Well," Simon said, nodding, "that's one way to put it."

Some of the other conversations had ended, and Ryan felt a little fidgety that most of the table was listening to his former and current boyfriends debate his own outlook on war. He tried to think of a new topic, but Capt. Johns was leaning forward. "You've just come from France?" he asked.

"Yes," David replied, "just tonight in fact."

"How did it compare to Spain?" Johns asked. "I understand Franco got a good deal of help from Hitler and Mussolini."

"No comparison," David said. "We were just the try—how do you say?—the audition. Even Denmark doesn't compare. France, this was the real thing, where they showed what they mean to do everywhere."

Another silence, this one quite solemn. "So, a truly mechanized war then?" Carly asked.

"The Great War was mechanized," Nigel said, and Ryan thought he must be a veteran as well.

"But this is on a different order altogether," Robinson said.

"Particularly in terms of airpower," Cook added.

"The French could have at least put up a fight," Joel said.

"Fighting the last war," Simon replied. "Despite Denmark."

"It was a bad strategy," Ryan added.

"And by the time they realized that, it was over," Hernandez said.

"Good thing we have Churchill now," Simon Fuller said. "He isn't likely to make that mistake."

"No, he very much is not," Simon replied. "Ah, here are the ladies," he said, suddenly making Ryan feel like they were in some old-fashioned play, where the men went to the library after dinner to have whiskey and cigars while the ladies drank sherry in the drawing room. At the very least, his tone made it clear that he didn't want to have any more conversation about the war, a topic he'd been avoiding lately, ever since he'd talked Ryan out of going to Paris. And he was almost skittish about it, in a way that made it difficult for Ryan to even try to work out where all this was coming from; all he had was a vague sense that it had less to do with him and more to do with whatever had happened to Simon during the last war, which was a complete nonstarter as a conversational topic.

The girls were back from changing, anyway, so the remaining folks started to move toward the door. David was still talking with Johns and Cook and Carly about France, so Ryan hung back a little, keeping Simon with him with just a touch to his arm.

"Problem?" Simon asked.

"I don't think so," Ryan replied. "Er—we don't have to go out tonight, you know. We can leave now."

Simon shrugged. "I'm all right either way," he said.

Ryan tried not to scowl. "I mean, I know the old flame thing, it can be uncomfortable, but—well, I'm with you. Just, I want to make sure you know that."

He smiled, a little smug, which under these circumstances Ryan was happy to see. "I know," he said. "Well, let's go to the club for a little while, then."

"Good," Ryan said.

As they walked to the door Simon said, "He's a handsome one."

Ryan tried not to smile. "He is. And very intelligent. But you know, more idealistic than difficult."

"You find me difficult?" Simon asked.

"You know you need managing, Simon," Ryan replied.

"And that's a good thing?"

Ryan shrugged. "I like a challenge."

The next day Ryan met David for lunch at the Fitzroy pub, not far from Broadcast House. "So you're leaving tonight? Already?" Ryan asked.

David nodded. "Some people in South America are leaning fascist. Your book helps, now that they've finally translated it, and I'm off to make speeches and tour behind it. After the Graf Spee, we can't afford to lose Argentina or really, any of those countries."

"Well, with you making speeches, they're sure to see the light."

David smiled ruefully. "Ah, but that's what you said in Spain," he replied, "and you were wrong."

"No, I wasn't," Ryan countered. "They just had bigger guns."

"And the church." They were silent for a moment, eating, and then David said, "I want to thank you for looking after Davidito for me."

"Of course," Ryan said. "I was happy to. Anyway it gave me something to do, you know, after."

"Yeah," David said. "He's doing well. I admit, after I read your book I was worried that he would get too much attention. But he doesn't seem to be concerned by it."

"Well, the other kids at school don't care," Ryan said. "And he's a very focused, determined young man."

David grinned. "He's his mother's son. Her speeches were always better than mine; I think that's why they came for her first." He took a sip of beer and Ryan remembered that it was never easy for David to talk about the death of his sister and her husband, shot execution style by Franco's men while Davidito was at school one day. "Though that's not something the reader would get from your book."

"What does that mean?" Ryan asked, not looking up.

"When we were in Spain, you used to sing my praises to anyone within earshot," David replied. "And this book—even Hollywood thinks it's a love story."

"So? It's all true."

"Yes, but you left out the other bits, like when I would shout down an audience member even if they were making a good point, or that I spend entirely too much money on clothing, or—"

"Or that you snore?" Ryan said, smiling a little.

"No, that isn't a fault," David replied. "Snoring is very masculine."

"I see," Ryan said, and he'd forgotten how easy it was to flirt with David, how rewarding to make his eyes flash in a way usually reserved for his speeches.

"What is that the soldiers call him?"

Ryan realized he'd lost the thread, someplace. "Who?"

"Davidito."

"Oh! Archie. Lt. Cook started that."

"Archie, yes. He seems to like that."

"Well, he's been Davidito since he was a baby," Ryan said. "Archie is a man's name."

"He's becoming quite a man now," David said. "Flying lessons and all."

"Cook has really taken to him."

"He seems like a good man, that Cook."

"He is," Ryan said. "He looks after all those airmen as though they're his flock, and he's just pulled Archie into that."

"Mmm." Another pause, and then: "So, this Simon?"

At last. "Yeah?"

David laughed. "Look at you, you can't help but smile," he teased.

"Well, I like him," Ryan said.

"But do you love him?" David asked.

"I—um—"

"If you do, you should tell him. The war will come here, and you don't want to leave that unsaid."

"Well—but—"

"And it's not like you, not to say how you feel. The man I knew made grand pronouncements several times a day."

Ryan scowled. "I wasn't that bad."

"No, but almost. Why so shy now?"

"I—don't know," Ryan admitted, a bit lamely.

David cocked his head. "Joel was right."

Ryan looked up sharply. "Why? What did he say to you?" he asked, his eyes narrow.

"Last night, that he'd never seen you like this. Back in Spain, that you usually loved men you could admire. At the time I thought he was just flattering me on your behalf but after a while I realized he'd been telling the truth."

"Joel always tells the truth," Ryan said. "He just makes it sound outrageous, so you can choose to believe him or not."

"Mmm. Anyway, you haven't been singing his praises. Do you admire him?"

"Well, yes, I think so," Ryan replied, thinking as he went. "But for a million small things, like how he's developed Carly into a first-rate producer, or how hard he works to help the singers, or the care he takes with his show, or how he takes care of his mother. He's a good man."

"So it is different. Just … don't be stupid, Ryan. This one isn't an adventurer who'll give you an out as I did."

"An out?"

"When you tire of him. Or he fails to live up to your admiration of him."

"Oh," Ryan said, not sure what to say. He felt hot—he was probably blushing—and was tempted to loosen his tie.

David lit a cigarette. "Not that this describes me."

"No. But I think—I'm not sure I'll need an out, actually. I know, I've thought that before, but not like this." Ryan paused, thinking, then said, "Do you like him?"

David nodded. "He's smart. Keeps you on your toes, which you need."

"Thanks," Ryan said, rolling his eyes.

"I mean that. Complacency does not look good on you."

"Mmm."

"And the man—at least, he can't take his eyes from you."

"Yeah," Ryan said, and he could feel himself blushing, which made David chuckle.

"What has he said to you?"

"Only that he doesn't want anyone else, and he doesn't want me to go to war. He's been very firm on that point, usually refuses to even discuss it."

"But surely he knows—I mean, Spain and all."

"He must," Ryan said, "but he doesn't like it. More than the usual—that would be normal—he's very brittle about it, if that's the right word. You heard him going on and on about my romantic view of war, yourself."

"Ah, but he's right about that," David said.

"What do you mean?"

"This isn't the same as Spain. There will be no romance if this cause is lost—and then Hitler will be knocking on your door before long." David took another drink from his pint. "He isn't as right as he thinks he is," he continued, "but neither are you."

"All right," Ryan replied.

"Just think about it. So," David said, smirking, "I see Joel didn't get his satisfaction with you after all."

Ryan grinned—knowing David, the story he had to tell would make him like Cook all the more. "Well, actually…"

10 July 1940

Kimberley Locke sat out on her balcony smoking a cigarette. Inside was pandemonium, as all the singers and dancers rushed to get ready for the concert that evening. Kim was glad for the large mirror in the wardrobe of the room she shared with Kat and Jen, because she didn't need the bathroom as much. She'd taken the rollers out of her hair, brushed it through, and put on her makeup all in her room. For now, she was in her dress but no shoes; she only had two pairs of nice stockings left and didn't want them to get a run before she even got to the hall.

Robinson had sent her a flower for her hair, which she'd just retrieved from the fridge downstairs, violet colored like her dress. He'd even asked her, specifically, what she was planning to wear so her flower would go, which Kim found adorable. Not that Robinson went in for the standard romantic gestures, as Daughtry did, but he was attentive in his way. Mostly, she was looking forward to dancing like she did back home—real swing dancing, not this society fox-trotting that was her duty most nights with various patrons on the floor at the Pyramid Club. She appreciated the perks of playing in a high-class establishment, and usually just going to the after hours clubs with the musicians and singing the blues, or whatever came to mind, was enough. But now the weather was finally warm—well, warm for London, not warm for Atlanta or Memphis or even Harlem—and her body wanted to move.

Jen came out onto the veranda, and perched on the railing. "What was I thinking?" she said.

Kim smiled—Jen had been saying the same thing in the same way all week, ever since she agreed to go to the concert with both Rickey and Nicky Smith as escorts. "Even you can't dance with two men at the same time," Kim said.

Jen turned to look out into the garden. "Oh, there they are," she said to Kim, and then leaned over and let out a loud wolf-whistle.

"Oh god, Jen!" Kim said, putting her head in her hands.

Jen paid her no heed. "My, my! Look at those handsome men in uniform!"

Kim could hear the men calling up to Jen, so she rose and moved to the railing. The airmen were looking up at the balcony as they walked to the back door; Robinson waved and she waved back.

"Did that humdinger of a whistle come from you, Miss Locke?" Cook asked, barely keeping a straight face.

"No it did not," she answered, "and you know it."

He laughed as he led the other men into the house.

Their leave-taking was raucous as usual. Other than Jen, the girls with escorts in the band had already left, as had Paula, and the Studdards were just behind them. Kim couldn't think of anyone who wasn't going. Even the men from the other "Yank" squadron who didn't frequent the Pyramid would be there. As Sgt. Overmyer told it, some of them just didn't care for supper clubs, but others were the ones who'd caused trouble for the colored airmen, and Kim hoped there'd be no trouble at the show.

When they arrived at the hall a local swing band was playing—Kim recognized some of the musicians from the after hours club. Packs of teenagers dominated the dance floor; Kim saw small David in the center of one cluster with the Italian girl he'd been going with. They certainly looked like they attended an international school; there was a boy that must have been from Gandhi's India, a tall pale one with red hair, and a smaller blond with glasses. One of the girls looked to be from somewhere in the south Pacific, and played up that fact with a tropical flower in her hair. Two of the girls were colored, though given the school they attended, they were more likely to be from Africa than Alabama.

Their elders were around the fringes of the large room, having cocktails and saving their energy for the main event. Carly and Giuliana walked up to Kim and Robinson, Carly in a pretty blue dress. When Kim complimented her she said, "Giuliana went shopping with me! Apparently I can't be trusted to dress myself for such occasions!"

"And how does your beau like it?" Kim asked.

Carly blushed. "Just fine, thank you," she said. "Here, they're just over in the corner."

They spent the rest of the time before the show in pleasant conversation with Giuliana and her Bill, Overmyer and Lewis, and Richardson. Carly pointed out Ryan and Simon up in the VIP balcony with some other folks from the BBC as well as Paula and Randy. "I must admit," Overmyer said, "I can't picture Mr. Cowell doing the Lindy Hop!"

"No," Kim said, "but Paula is going to be on that floor before it's all over, mark my words! And until then she'll be dancing up there, in front of her seat, as she usually does."

The kids spotted Glenn Miller first, as he hopped onto the stage, and a roar came up from the crowd. Miller was a tall bespectacled man, and he smiled and waved at the now-packed house. "Did you come here to dance?" he asked.

They roared "Yes!" and Kim and Robinson joined right in.

"Well!" he said. "With no further delay!" He turned to the band and counted off, and the saxophones rose as one and played the familiar opening of his big hit of a few years before, "In the Mood." The crowd shouted again, and then got to dancing. Kim hadn't been swing dancing since she arrived in London, and she was struck by how different the style was than even the white kids back in the States—more upright, more rigid, more like formal ballroom dancing. Kim and Robinson stood and clapped along for a few bars, and then Robinson leaned over and said, "I think we should show these Brits 'how we do', uptown."

Kim turned. "I agree!"

Robinson moved Kim out onto the floor, steering her around the swing dancing couples until they found a space. They started easy, Kim getting used to how Robinson led—just like the more formal foxtrot, actually, with a light but steady hand. Then he caught her glance and winked, and they started really dancing, knees bent low, legs as loose as rubber bands, Robinson pulling and pushing Kim around him, and Kim spinning around before grabbing his hand again. It was like flying, this kind of dancing, even when your feet didn't leave the ground. The song ended and while everyone was clapping the band headed straight into another swing song.

Jen and Rickey weren't far away from them, and Nicky was dancing with one of the schoolgirls, a rather tall and sturdy one who by the way she moved might have been from the States after all—and from her grin was certainly enjoying herself. Anyone else in the band and Kim would have warned the girl away, but Nicky was too caught up in Jen, and just too darn nice, to take advantage of a teenaged girl. Before long there was quite a little set of them dancing in that Harlem style, between the colored airmen and the boys in the band, and the Brits around them were watching and copying them, and Kim thought picking up the style pretty quickly.

Miller gave them a break then with the mid-tempo "Tuxedo Junction", and as would often happen the couples who didn't care to dance too close cleared the floor and the older folks came on. Robinson, though, didn't even move to leave, but instead pulled Kim into his arms, into that informal slow dance that wasn't much more than a hug-and-shuffle, like the later stages of a dance marathon. Kim looked around, knowing this was a particular favorite of the Studdards, and saw them near the edge of the floor, holding each other tight and probably singing to each other. So she was a little surprised when Robinson leaned in to do the same:

Way down south in Birmingham
I mean south in Alabam'
There's an old place where people go
To dance the night away

Kim pulled back, and Robinson grinned. His warm tenor suited him, but it had never occurred to Kim that he could sing, and sing well. So she joined in:

It's a junction where the town folks meet
At each function in a tux they greet you

Their voices blended fairly well, and Kim thought she would make a point from now on to encourage this singing thing from Robinson. But before she could think about it too much, Miller sped up again, and the floor erupted in swing dancing of all kinds. They called out "Pennsylvania six-five thousand!" along with the band, and for "Bugle Call Rag" Miller called out to the American servicemen in particular, and Kim cheered along with them. By then most of the other airmen had found their way to the floor—to one side, Lewis was shooting Overmyer through his legs, and to the other Joel McHale was tossing Gina into the air like she was a doll. Castro and Rogers danced with many of the chorus girls, as did Ryan Seacrest, and though his style was quite comic he acquitted himself well. Kat and Daughtry, of course, only hit the floor for the slower songs.

It was during one of those ballads—"Midnight Serenade"—that Kim turned and saw Richardson dancing with Carly, and Lewis with Overmyer, though the two couples were very close. She couldn't help but sigh.

"I wish they could dance with the ones they really love," Robinson whispered.

Kim didn't move for a moment, not believing what she'd heard. She looked up. "What did you say?" she asked.

Robinson smiled. "You know what I said. You're a friend of Miss Hennessey. Well, I'm a friend of Sgt. Overmyer."

"Oh," Kim replied, not sure what to say to that.

"Come on," Robinson said, "we can sit the rest of this one out." He led her off the floor, where they ran into Ryan, who urged them to accompany him to the VIP lounge in the balcony. As so often happened when she was with Robinson, Kim wanted to get him alone to ask him what he'd meant, but her escort accepted Ryan's invitation, and upstairs they went.

Ryan settled into a chair next to Simon Cowell, who seemed to be the only one remaining on the balcony, the others having taken to the dance floor, and Kim wondered if that was why Ryan had made a beeline up the stairs. She and Robinson sat and looked out over the floor, and as Ryan and Simon seemed to be having their own conversation, she turned to Robinson.

"Now, I'm in show business," Kim said, "so I've been around plenty of, um, that sort, but you don't seem to be upset by it."

"I'll tell you a story, Miss Locke," he began. "Back in Calgary, up in Canada where we were training, some of the other colored pilots washed out. No time to learn how to fly well—they needed us to hit the ground running, or I should say, the sky. And when it was just Rogers and me, and Grigsby on the ground, there were going to be some problems. Not enough for our own squadron, you see. So they talked to the other pilots to see if they had trouble with it and of course some did. I expected Richardson to be one of them, him being the big house type and all. But he stood up in that meeting and he said sure, he'd never thought a Negro could fly a plane as well as a white man, but that Rogers and I were as good as any of them, and he'd be glad to fly with either of us beside him, and he's kept saying that ever since. And that was the end of that. So when I was taking a walk a week or so later and happened to see Richardson go into one of the sheds on the landing strip, and Lewis follow him in a few minutes later, well, I reckoned if he could be broad-minded enough to pay no mind to a Negro pilot, I could do the same for a queer pilot. Besides, he's one of the best pilots we have. Lewis too, but Richardson's in my flight."

"Your flight?" Kim asked.

"They break us up into groups of three planes for each mission," Robinson explained, "and my flight is Richardson and Daughtry. Lewis and Rogers are in Lt. Cook's flight."

"By your admiration," she said, "I presume Richardson is in charge of your flight?"

"Um, no," he said, looking away, "that would be me."

"Well," Kim said, smiling at his shyness but deciding not to tease him about it, "I'm glad you feel that way about it. I didn't like having a secret between us."

Robinson looked up then, and smiled back, and seemed about to say something when Ryan said, "Oh my god, it's Paula!"

The four of them stood up at the railing to see the floor better, and sure enough, Paula was on the floor, and the crowd had pushed back to give her and her partner room. But that partner wasn't her fiance Mr. Fuller, but a blond man. "Who is that with her?" Kim asked.

"Is that Nigel Lythgoe?" Robinson asked.

"Indeed it is," Simon said, grinning around his cigarette. As Kim and Ryan looked back down on the floor in shock, Simon explained, "Back in his day, he won a national cakewalk contest—I was a boy, it was in all the papers, must have been around 1904? Something like that. He was quite the dancer. Toured around Europe and America with Vernon and Irene Castle."

"Wow," Kim said. Clearly Nigel knew the current dances as well, as he could keep up with Paula, and they made quite a show, twirling and sliding—Nigel even tossed Paula into the air at one point.

"Never thought I'd see that," Ryan said as the dance ended.

"And now for our last number"—at this a groan went up from the crowd, and Miller smiled—"we present our newest song, and to help us tonight a special guest that you all know quite well, Miss Vera Lynn!"

The audience roared as the British singer took the stage, and then the song started, slow, clarinets playing very high, like a bird calling. Robinson moved behind her and wrapped his arms around her, and they swayed to the music as Miss Lynn sang: when you turned and smiled at me, a nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.

Kim closed her eyes and relaxed against Robinson. She didn't care that it was the lovely song, rather than their feelings—she wanted to keep that moment with her forever.

But the song ended, and she took a breath and walked out of Robinson's arms. Miller's band then played three songs in quick succession: "La Marseillaise," which still made Kim tear up; "The Star Spangled Banner," which Kim, Ryan and Robinson sang loudly, hands on hearts; and finally in honor of their hosts, "God Save the King."

Some of the others were heading out to various after hours clubs but Kim begged off; she'd had enough of being in a crowd. Robinson escorted Kim on the rather long walk back to the house. The warm night air furthered their thoughtful mood, and they strolled in companionable silence. By the time they'd arrived at her door Kim had come to a decision. "Wait here," she said, leaving him in the sitting room as she ran upstairs.

Robinson, ever the gentleman, rose as she came back into the room.

"I want you to have this," she said, holding out the small black cat charm she'd bought years ago, after college, when she left Memphis for New York and a singing career. "For luck."

"Well," Robinson said. He took the charm and held it in the palm of his hand.

"Please," Kim replied.

He reached into his shirt for a moment, and then pulled out a chain with a cross pendant. "Don't suppose the good Lord would mind a little help," he said, putting the cat next to the cross. "I just won't tell Mama." He smiled at Kim as he refastened the chain around his neck, now outside of his clothes. "There," he said. "That'll suit me just fine." He looked at her, and seemed about to say something else, and then Kim heard Cook and Kelly laughing as they neared the little entryway outside the kitchen.

Cook was saying good night, and Kim could see by the shadows through the curtains they they were kissing. When they pulled apart he added, "Don't know when we'll be back in town. The Germans could come on at any time."

"Yeah," Kelly replied. "I guess you shouldn't start anything, then."

"I didn't say that," Cook said.

"No, I did," Kelly said, and extended her hand. "Good luck, Lt. Cook."

"Um, thanks," Cook said, and shook her hand.

Kelly turned and came in, stopping short when she saw Kim and Robinson. "Good luck to you too," she said, and then ran upstairs.

Cook was standing in the door. "That girl," he said, shaking his head. "I just don't get it." He shrugged. "Well, guess I'll see what McHale is up to," he said.

Robinson smiled at Kim. "I should let you go," he said. "You have a show to do tomorrow." He kissed her cheek. "Thank you for the charm."

"Be safe, Robinson," Kim said.

"I will," he replied, and walked away.

Kim turned to go upstairs and found Kelly sitting on one of the steps. "I hate this war," she said, scowling.

"We all do," Kim replied. "But we'll make it through. Cook will make it too, I expect."

"And what if he does?" she asked. "If it doesn't kill a man, it just—it ruins him!" she said, and stormed up the stairs and into her room, slamming the door behind her.

Kim went down to the kitchen and poured some milk into a pan. The evening had been fun, but just a little too much for her nerves. A cup of cocoa and Austen, though, and she might get to sleep before daybreak.

Blake Lewis laid his head back against the seat of the cab and hummed, and Amanda recognized the tune as the new one Miller had played to close the concert. "Where is Berkeley Square, anyhow?" he asked.

"It's in Westminster," Carly answered. "Very posh. Many peers have their town houses there."

"Peers?"

Carly smiled. "Titles. You know, aristos."

He turned to Chris. "Don't even tell me."

Chris, as usual, blushed and rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "Yeah," he replied, "that's where our town house is."

Blake smiled a little, shaking his head. It wasn't long before the cab pulled up at Simon's address—he was spending the night with Ryan and had once again generously lent his own flat to the two couples. The airmen were on only a 24-hour furlough; patrols of the channel were increasing to protect the convoys, but both the British and American governments had wanted them to attend the concert for publicity's sake, to reinforce the image of friendship of the two countries. Amanda didn't much like being a symbol, but she and Richardson had been asked to pose for a picture or two with Miller after the concert, and had obliged; the press man thought that the American grandson of a British peer and his childhood friend the lady mechanic would make for good copy. Amanda did get an autograph from Miller, which she was going to send home to her little brother first thing when she got back to base.

For now, though, she just wanted to be alone with Carly. Their time together had been so limited since the fall of France, and Amanda thought she'd go crazy. It was the first time since college that she'd attempted to have a real girlfriend, and even back then she'd been half-hearted. But Carly was worth holding on to, and not just because she was gorgeous, but because she just sort of fit into that space marked "girlfriend."

And a very nice space it was, too; so nice that after they'd made love Amanda had curled into Carly's arms and stared out the window at the moon. "I love this," she sighed.

"This what? The moon? The posh flat? The orgasm I just gave you?" Carly asked, smiling.

Amanda turned to look at her. "Jeez, last time I try to be romantic!"

She could feel Carly chuckling. "You should know by now that fine phrases don't work on me," she replied. "That's why I love you; you're straight forward."

Amanda pushed up just a bit, resting her hands on Carly's shoulders. "Was there a time when fine phrases worked on you? Have you become level-headed through hard experience, or were you just born that way?"

"Mostly the latter," she replied, "but of course I've been lied to. Who hasn't?"

"I'd never lie to you," Amanda said.

"I know."

Amanda lay back down, and Carly resumed stroking her hair. "I wish I could have danced with you tonight."

"Me too. Chris is taller than I'm used to."

"I'm serious!"

"So am I," Carly replied. "But what can we do about it?"

"We can talk about it, at least!"

"Okay, then talk."

Amanda sighed, and tried to pull her thoughts together in some non-mushy way. "I want to dance with you at concerts. I want to take you home to meet Mother and Dad. I want to ride horses with you in Virginia and in Ireland. I want to find a little home for us and bring you to it. I want to make you my war bride. I want to see little children running around with your pretty skin." She stopped, and ran a finger along Carly's stomach.

"Feel better now?" Carly asked.

"Yes, actually."

Carly turned so she was looking into Amanda's eyes. "I want those things too. You know that, right?"

Amanda smiled. "Yes."

Carly cupped Amanda's cheek in her other hand. "All I want is you, Amanda."

"Well," Amanda said, "I can give you that." She leaned forward and kissed Carly, her hand moving up to Carly's breasts. "You cold?" Amanda asked, rolling the hard nipple between her fingers.

"Not in the least," Carly said, and kissed her again.

After this second go-round, Amanda fell into a deep sleep, though she had vivid dreams of bells ringing, church bells and cow bells, louder and louder until she felt a hand on her shoulder, waking her up.

"What?" she said, sitting up with a start, and glanced at the clock—it was only 5am.

Chris stood over them, his hair wild, trousers in his hands. "We gotta go," he said. "Cook just called. Those damned Krauts bombed our base."

"Amanda?" Carly asked sleepily.

"Come on, baby," she replied, getting out of bed.

They dressed and managed to find a cab, even at that early hour, and made their way to Ryan's flat as quickly as they could. They picked up Cook and dropped off Carly into McHale's comforting arms—Amanda and Carly sneaked a last kiss in the entryway of Ryan's building before Amanda hopped back into the cab and they sped away to Paddington.

"They got a few planes," Cook said, "but luckily no men. Not sure we can spare the planes either, though."

"Damn," Chris said, shaking his head. "So it's starting."

Chapter Nine: Contesting Tears

Notes:

The Philadelphia Story (dir. George Cukor, 1940) is a romantic comedy starring Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant.

This week's notes are all about dance! Here are Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers doing the "Castle Walk" in their biopic about Vernon and Irene Castle:

The Castles were huge in the 1910s; Irene Castle was a big fashion trendsetter (including bobbed hair) and they introduced many American dances to Europe, and popularized the Fox Trot.

The fox trot is the more formal dance that our pals have been doing at the Pyramid Club and at the gay club Ryan and Simon have been going to. Simon, in particular, would prefer the fox trot.

This is the lindy hop, which came out of Harlem in the early 1930s. On DWTS last week they said "lindy" refers to a pretty girl, but it doesn't—it refers to Lindbergh's flight across the Atlantic in 1927. As you can see, it's a much more youthful, informal dance, and hence a relief for Kim who's been fox trotting all this time.