Another letter arrived, this time with a typed envelope and a London postmark. It had not been tampered with. The note-paper was headed MUSCLE BOY, the return address was a PO Box number. But the large, girlish handwriting was familiar.

Dear Michael

Well isn’t it a small world! I think you will be very surprised to hear that I am writing to you in my new capacity as the art director of Muscle Boy magazine. Little did I think when they were doing tests on me at Halton that I would walk straight into such a cushy number which as you can imagine suits me DOWN TO THE GROUND.

Anyway I see you have been busy with your camera taking those lovely pictures of Airman Wright that you sent us which we will be very happy to feature in the spring number which is coming out in about Feb or March depending. I did not know that you read muscle mags but I suppose I should not be too surprised!!! We don’t pay for pics that have been sent in by readers but I will make sure if you want that it gets a full page, usually they only get a half or a quarter but I will do it as a favour and besides which it is a good shot mmm I think the readers are going to love it. Please let me know how to credit it and if you want an advert at the back you know that is how they make their money from the small ads at the back selling pics mail order but I won’t go into that now we will talk about it.

Come and see me on your next leave I am well set up and can even offer you a bed for the night no not mine in case that’s what you are thinking. I had better not do any more camp talk you never know whose reading. Give my love to everyone at Reville especially my boyfriend Sargent Kelsey.

Anyway I will send you a couple of copies of the mag when it comes out.

Stephen

When I told Wright the good news – omitting to mention the identity of the ‘art director’ in question – he whooped with joy, ran around the parade ground punching the air, returned panting and flushed, his eyes shining.

‘I knew we’d do it! I knew it! What a team! You’ve got the brains and I’ve got the muscle. We can have it all!’ He put his arm round my shoulder and started walking in the direction of the NAAFI. ‘This calls for a celebration. Cocoa and buns!’

‘Don’t get your hopes up too high. It’s only a page in a little mag.’

‘Yeah, but a page! A full page! Fucking fantastic!’

‘And it’s not one of the really big ones …’

‘I don’t care if it’s the parish newsletter, mate, it’s a start! We just have to get a foot in the door. Once they see what we can do, they’ll be all fucking over us.’