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They reminisced about their adolescence in Buffalo, and laughed about the foolish things they and others had done. "You told us all you were going to London to dance with the king," Charlie said. "And you did!"
"I hope they were jealous."
"And how! Dot Renshaw went into spasm."
Daisy laughed happily.
"I'm glad we got back in contact," Charlie said. "I like you so much."
"I'm glad, too."
They left the restaurant and got their coats. The doorman summoned a taxi. "I'll take you home," Charlie said.
As they drove along the Strand, he put his arm around her. She was about to protest, then she thought: What the hell. She snuggled up to him.
"What a fool I am," he said. "I wish I'd married you when I had the chance."
"You would have made a better husband than Boy Fitzherbert," she said. But then she would never have met Lloyd.
She realized she had not said anything to Charlie about Lloyd.
As they turned into her street, Charlie kissed her.
It felt nice to be wrapped in a man's arms and kissing his lips, but she knew it was the booze making her feel that way, and in truth the only man she wanted to kiss was Lloyd. All the same she did not push him away until the cab came to a halt.
"How about a nightcap?" he said.
For a moment she was tempted. It was a long time since she had touched a man's hard body. But she did not really want Charlie. "No," she said. "I'm sorry, Charlie, but I love someone else."
"We don't have to go to bed together," he whispered. "But if we could just, you know, smooch awhile . . ."
She opened the door and stepped out. She felt like a heel. He was risking his life for her every day, and she would not even give him a cheap thrill. "Good night, Charlie, and good luck," she said. Before she could change her mind, she slammed the car door and went into her house.
She went straight upstairs. A few minutes later, alone in bed, she felt wretched. She had betrayed two men: Lloyd, because she had kissed Charlie; and Charlie, because she had sent him away dissatisfied.
She spent most of Sunday in bed with a hangover.
On Monday evening she got a phone call. "I'm Hank Bartlett," said a young American voice. "Friend of Charlie Farquharson, at Duxford. He talked to me about you, and I found your number in his book."
Her heart stopped. "Why are you calling me?"
"Bad news, I'm afraid," he said. "Charlie died today, shot down over Abbeville."
"No!"
"It was his first mission in his new Spitfire."
"He talked about that," she said dazedly.
"I thought you might like to know."
"Thank you, yes," s
he whispered.
"He just thought you were the bee's knees."
"Did he?"
