“Well, that was strange,” Maggie said to Sarah.
“Quite.”
The guests began to arrive just after seven o’clock. Maggie, Paige, Chuck, and the twins were at the door to greet them, dressed in their best summer frocks.
“Why, look at you, Chuck,” Paige said, taking in her silk dress, along with the pin-curled hair and hint of lipstick. “We’ll have to call you Charlotte tonight.”
“Not if you want to live,” Chuck deadpanned. The twins giggled.
They were to be eleven: the six girls; John and David, of course; plus Simon; and also Dimitri, Sarah’s frequent ballet partner. And Nigel was coming from the barracks on leave.
The tall wax tapers were lit, the table was set, and dinner was in the oven. Thanks to Sarah, a surprisingly good cook, delicious aromas wafted through the house.
“Jolly good show, ladies,” Nigel said as he arrived with the other boys. He looked smart in his dress uniform, and they splendid in their dinner jackets. “The place looks wonderful, as do all of you.” He grabbed Chuck around the waist, spun her in a circle, and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “You, especially, my dear.”
“Why, thank you, kind sir,” Chuck replied, dropping into a mock curtsey. John looked away. He had circles underneath his eyes, and his cheekbones looked sharper than ever.
“Oh, please,” Maggie said to John. “Don’t you ever have any fun?”
“Occasionally. But this is England, after all. Fun’s considered to be in poor taste.”
Maggie gave him a half-smile.
“Don’t mind him,” David said, kissing Maggie’s cheek. “He’s still in a filthy mood over Hitler’s tour of Paris.” She caught a whiff of gin on his breath.
“And you?” she asked, trying not to glare at Annabelle and Clarabelle’s fussing over John.
“Oh, I’ve had too much to drink to be in a filthy mood about anything.”
That left Simon Paul, John and David’s friend from Oxford, whom they’d met at the Blue Moon. Maggie offered her hand, which he took and kissed. “Welcome,” she said.
“Thank you,” he replied. Then, to Paige, “Why, Scarlett O’Hara, you’re ravishing!”
Dimitri arrived last; he was tall, dark, and slim, with a gallant air about him.
Finally, with theatrical timing, Sarah entered at the top of the staircase, wearing a daringly low-cut gold lamé dress. “Everyone,” she said, raising her arms in a commanding gesture, “thank you so much for coming for Chuck’s birthday.” After she made her grand entrance down the staircase, she said, “This is Dimitri Zakharov, my favorite partner. Dimitri—meet everyone.”
Dimitri looked at the assembled group and smiled. “Milo mi poznac. Pleased to meet you.” He clicked his heels together and bowed to Sarah, offering her his arm.
Simon offered his to Paige. “Charmed, I’m sure,” Paige cooed, obviously won over. She took his arm and led everyone into the library for cocktails.
Once everyone had taken their seats, Paige mixed a pitcher of martinis, using what was left of Grandmother Hope’s liquor cabinet. “You look just like Myrna Loy,” Simon said, as he watched her put ice in the silver shaker, slick with beads of condensation.
Paige laughed and tossed her hair. “Well, it’s not the American Bar at the Savoy,” she said, handing him a glass, “but everything’s cold, and as you can see, the vermouth’s been kept to a minimum. Now, tell me all about your club at Oxford.”
After a few drinks, the group sat down at the table, set with Grandmother Hope’s good china and crystal. Nearly everything was from their victory garden. There was a thyme-scented vegetable soup to start, then carrot soufflé, peas with mint, glazed turnips. David had somehow procured some red wine, which they used to toast Chuck’s birthday. Although Maggie had been nervous about pulling it off, the dinner was excellent. Dimitri was funny and charming and, as it turned out, Polish, not Russian.
“Public likes Russian dancers,” he said over weak tea and birthday cake with white icing and tiny pink fondant roses; Chuck, Paige, and Maggie had all saved their sugar, butter, and egg rations for a month for it. “My real name? Stanislaw Wilecki.” They all laughed. “Dimitri” just seemed more dashing, somehow. “And Alicia Markova? Really Lilian Alicia Marks. English.”
“No!” Annabelle exclaimed.
“It’s true,” Sarah replied, licking buttercream frosting off her fork. “And the great Margot Fonteyn is really little Peggy Hookham from Surrey. I thought about changing my name myself, except then all my friends from Liverpool would never learn when I become rich and famous.”