“I’m not,” Polly said. “That was only an amateur troupe. We put on plays in the shelters, but they weren’t—”

But Mrs. Sentry wasn’t listening. “I have just the job for you. Wait here.” She stood up, hurried over to a file cabinet, extracted a sheet of paper, and hurried back. “It’s perfect. And you’ll be able to stay here in London with your family. Let me just write down the address for you,” she said, and printed “ENSA” on a card.

ENSA was the Entertainments National Service Association. It put on shows and musical revues for the soldiers.

Mrs. Sentry handed the address to her. “You’re to go to the Alhambra and report to Mr. Tabbitt. It’s just off Shaftesbury Avenue, near the Phoenix.”

Which was the theater where the pantomime had been.

“I’m so glad I remembered where I’d seen you,” Mrs. Sentry said. “If you hadn’t given that performance in Piccadilly …”

I’d have the address of an ARP post to report to instead of a theater, Polly thought disgustedly.

But there was no point in trying to talk Mrs. Sentry out of this. She was looking far too pleased with herself. She’d have to come back and speak to someone else and, in the meantime, hope Mr. Tabbitt wouldn’t want her.

Which I doubt he will, she thought. ENSA does musical revues, not plays, and I can’t sing or dance. But when she told that to Mr. Tabbitt, who turned out to be a large, beefy man who looked like he belonged on a rescue squad, he said, “Neither can anyone else in this cast.”

She’d interrupted a rehearsal, and the chorus girls standing hands on hips on the stage above them hooted derisively when Mr. Tabbit said that, and one of them—with a mop of black curls—retorted, “We’re only trying to live up to our name, ducks. ENSA: Every Night Something Awful.”

Mr. Tabbitt ignored her. “What professional stage experience have you had?” he asked Polly.

“None. I told you, there’s been an error. I was supposed to be assigned to an ARP post.”

“This is far more dangerous than the ARP,” the curly-haired chorus girl said. “The audience were throwing turnips at the Amazing Antioch the other night.”

“Turnips?” one of the other chorines said.

“No one’s willing to waste a tomato, you see,” the first chorus girl explained, and one of the other chorines said, “I keep hoping they’ll throw something good, like oranges.”

“Or ration stamps,” a redhead put in.

“Five-minute break,” Mr. Tabbitt snapped, and the girls sauntered off the stage.

“Sorry,” he said, turning back to Polly. “You were saying something about a mistake?”

“Yes. I was supposed to be assigned to the ARP. If you ring up the Board and tell Mrs. Sentry that you don’t want me, I’m certain she’ll send over—”

“Who says I don’t want you?” he said. “I assume you can memorize lines. Lift your skirt.”

“What?”

“Lift your skirt. I want to see your legs.”