On the outskirts of old Oxford, there stood a rickety old aircraft hangar, one of those metallic creations brought with them when the Americans flew in. In the hasty victory celebrations that followed V-Day, the U.S. Army forgot to take their building back with them, and the city left it there. Between 1945 and the day Sam and Daniel arrived, it had been everything from a fallout shelter to an unwieldy concert hall. In its more recent years, a local historical laid claim to it, hosting Regency dance lessons and Arthurian sword fighting classes.
But, by far, the most popular event they held was the twice-annual Blitz Ball. Inspiration for the event had come from Daniel’s mother, the Historical Society President. She’d been three-quarters deep in a bottle of wine when she clicked the “If You LikedCall the Midwife,You Might Also Like,” bar on Netflix. One thing led to another, and suddenly it was seven in the morning, she’d exhausted Netflix’s entire catalogue of films about World War II, and she was making half-tipsy, half-hungover calls to her Historical Society friends about holding a 1940s dancehall night. They’d only intended to do the one, but it was such a smash they’d now done it for five years running.
The key to the success was the authenticity. Mrs. Best was a perfectionist, spending hours upon hours poring over yellowing Polaroids and copies ofSoldiersMagazine. When guests arrived, after making their donations at the door, they were shuffled into a kind of shopping mall of sorts, a real MGM costume shop of 1940s clothing. Everyone traded their old duds for new looks.
A veritable legion of volunteers trained for weeks to learn the quickest way to twist a long-haired woman’s hair into a Victory Curl and pour the perfect sidecar. It took nine full days to transform the main hangar of the building into a proper dancehall, and the band selected to play the live music needed at least five months’ notice so they could learn Mrs. Best’s book of era-appropriate songs and arrangements.
With the tremendous overhead and the headaches it caused all of the volunteers it could only happen twice a year, but if the people of Oxford had their way, there would have been a Blitz Ball every weekend.
Sam knew all of this, of course, because Daniel had talked about it the entire car ride from her home to the place. Before she could even offer to change out of her ball gown or offer the use of her father’s 1940 Coupe De Ville (itwasa World War II dance, after all), Daniel had shuffled her into his car. The rusty tin can of a vehicle was immaculately maintained. The sight of the freshly vacuumed interior and hand-buffed hood brought back memories of her house being trashed by the Animos. They had everything but cared about nothing as much as Daniel cared about this cheap car.
As the tree-lined roads unwound themselves, leading away from the thin violin music humming in her house, she found she enjoyed listening to him talk, and not just because he provided an easy distraction from her racing mind. For every time her thoughts strayed to the sickening tightness of Captain’s hand at her waist or the sight of him muttering gleefully to a stone-faced Daniel, she found instant relief by tuning back to his quick quips about his disastrous attempt to master some sword technique at a Historical Society class.
Her sides actually hurt from laughing by the time they reached Oxford proper. The laughter turned to vocal awe, though, as Daniel rounded the corner and the hangar came into the full view. The front windshield framed it like the square lines of a movie screen, giving the entire sight a distinctly Hollywood-constructed flair. If she hadn’t known any better, she’d have thought she’d been driven onto a soundstage. Or back in time.
There could not have been two different places than the one they’d arrived at and the one they’d left. Her house was a palace, an imposing construction of stone and manners. Music was kept to polite lows, so it couldn’t even be heard from the front driveway. No guests stood outside, and the staff who did remained in their trained poses of rod-straight backs and impassive faces. Even the house’s lights didn’t intrude too violently into the dark night outside, only barely bleeding past the drawn curtains onto the front lawn. It was closed off. Exclusive. Too good for anyone, even the people who were special enough to be invited.
When compared with the Blitz Ball, her party looked like a funeral. A very nice and stupidly expensive funeral, yes. But a funeral all the same. She hadn’t even stepped inside and she could already tell. The Hangar—that’s what the locals called it—was an overflowing champagne glass of delight. Even half a block away, the flamboyant wail of the trumpet shook the windows of their car. Golden light poured into the surrounding street with arrogant abandon, as if challenging the entire city to ignore it.Come inside, it beckoned,you’ll have a hell of a time.It was seductive. The doors hung open, and jitterbugging couples of all color, sexes, and description shook in and out, cigarettes and plastic cups in their hands. Laughter moved across the air like delicate tinsel. The mood was wild. The entire display was almost offensive in its disregard for rules and decorum. Her family, not even Thomas, who was the least snobbish of them all, wouldn’t be caught dead at a place like this. It was beneath them, as tasteless as it was insulting. An embarrassment.
Sam couldn’t wait to get inside.
“Wait there.” Once they’d parked, Daniel nearly tore off his seat belt and dove out of the car.
“Why?” Sam asked, though she shouldn’t have bothered. No sooner had she said it than she understood. “Jesus! I can open my own door.”
He opened the door and leaned into her. The light from the Hangar glowed around him.
“Who invited whom on this date?” he asked.
“You did.”
“Looks like you’d better play by my rules then, hadn’t you?” His lips quirked up in a smirk, the perfect, unchallengeable gesture. Her stomach tensed in reply. Then she swallowed hard and took his outstretched hand.
“Just this once.”
Once inside, Daniel led them to a ticketing table where a few men in old-fashioned army uniforms and caps greeted them. The toes of their shining boots tapped in time to the music vibrating the walls around them.
“Two, please.” Daniel reached for his wallet.
“I can—” Sam protested, reaching for her purse in turn.
“Danny Boy!” one of the mustachioed men called to him. “You’re not playing with the band tonight?”
Mild surprise registered at the question. She’d assumed he played with a few groups; a 1940s cover band was not one she would have pegged him to be part of.
“Not tonight. Gave the mic to Freddie. He sounds good in there.”
“Not as good as you. There are your drink tickets.” The man handed over a “ration packet” of drink coupons before pointing at two side doors on either end of the welcome room. “Ladies to the left, gents to the right. You know the drill.”
Daniel wasn’t kidding when he said the volunteers learned efficiency. With most of the guests already in the hall (Daniel said folks started arriving as early as four o’clock, though the live music didn’t start until ten), a barrage of sweet-eyed women hustled Sam into a soft green dress and a pair of heels straight from the set ofFrom Here to Eternity. Her gown was checked into a tall locker as one woman worked on restyling her hair and another made some slight alterations to her makeup.
When it was all done, she stared at herself in the mirror. At least, she thought she was looking at herself.
Rational thinking told her she couldn’t enjoy this night; she couldn’t invest in it or in the man who brought her here. She could only be doing this to seem like she was getting closer to him, not toactuallyget closer to him.
Reason told her to calm down. But as she looked at herself in the mirror, she couldn’t help but choose a different path.
I look so different. Maybe… for tonight… I canbea different person. For tonight, I can let myself go. It’s only one night. What’s the worst that could happen?
