She looked at him, startled. “Before?”

“Before Dulwich. I’m attempting to determine where it is we first met.”

“Oh. Oxford.”

“Oxford,” he said, and frowned as if he was truly trying to remember.

Oh, no. She’d assumed he was only flirting. “Haven’t we met?” had been almost as common a pickup line during the war as “I’m shipping out tomorrow.” But there was a possibility she had met him. This was, after all, time travel. She might have known him on an upcoming assignment. And if she had, it could be a major problem, especially since she’d have been there under a different name. And if he’d seen her somewhere which didn’t match the story she’d told the FANYs and the Major, and he told Talbot … I need to get him off this topic before he remembers where he met me, she thought. “What do you fly?” she asked. “Hurricanes?”

“Spitfires,” he said, and for the rest of the way to London regaled her with tales of his flying exploits. But as they were coming into the city, he asked, “Where were you before Oxford?”

“I was in training. Were you in the Battle of Britain?”

“Yes, till I was shot down. You weren’t ever posted near Biggin Hill, were you?”

“No,” she said firmly. “I’m quite sure we’ve never met. I’m certain I’d remember someone as cheeky as you.”

“You’re quite right,” he said. “And I could never have forgotten meeting someone as beautiful as you.” He stretched his arm across the back of the seat, shifted so he was facing her, and edged closer. “Perhaps it’s déjà vu.”

“Or perhaps you’ve flirted with so many girls you’ve got them mixed. That’s what you get for having a girl in every port.”

“Port?” he said. “I’m in the RAF, not the Navy.”

“A girl in every hangar, then. Tell me, does that ‘destined to be together forever’ line of chat work on other girls?”

He grinned at her. “As a matter of fact, it does.” Then he gave her a puzzled look. “Why didn’t it work on you?”

Because I’m a hundred years older than you, she thought. You died before I was ever born, and then regretted it. He was a pilot. He might very well die before the end of the war.

Or before they reached Whitehall. London had had eleven V-1 attacks between two and six. “Where in Whitehall is your meeting?” she asked.

“The Ministry of Health,” he said wryly. “In St. Charles Street. Take the Tottenham Court Road. It’s quickest.”

And it had had a V-1 hit at 1:52. “Turn left here,” he ordered, and as she turned right, “No, left.”

“Sorry,” she said, continuing to drive away from Tottenham Court Road. “It was fate.”

“That’s unkind,” he said. “Isolde would never have said something like that to Tristan.”

“Sorry,” she said, turning down Charing Cross Road.

“Why is it you’re completely immune to my charms?” he asked. “Oh, no, don’t tell me you’re engaged?”