He opened the door for her to let her in before joining her in the close quarters of the cab. The scent of his shaving soap filled the small space, a familiar smell she recalled from their earlier interactions in the bookshop so long ago.

“I want to hear all about how your book readings are going,” he prompted.

Grace told him of the people who came and the stories she read as he listened with a smile hovering on his lips. All the while, the taxi sailed through the streets, weaving through the occasional Diversion signs to avoid craters from bombs.

She’d expected they might dine at a small eatery, something like the Kardomah Café, whose layers of sandbags rendered it safe enough to double as an air raid shelter. So, when they stopped before the multiple arched entryway of the Ritz, her mouth went dry with shock.

Never had she been to a place so fine, exploring any possibility only in her imagination on late night chats with Viv while they were still locked in a doldrum life at Drayton.

“I thought...” Grace stammered. “I thought we were going to a café.”

George grinned at her. “If I only have the opportunity to take you out once during my three-day pass home, I want to make it count.” He exited the hack, then offered her his hand. “If that’s all right.”

She put her fingers to his warm palm and allowed him to help her from the taxi. “Quite.”

He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm as attendants opened the doors to welcome them into the splendor of the Ritz. They were led into the dining area where many tables were set for two with fresh linens and plush chairs.

As grand as she had anticipated it might be, it was far, far grander.

There wasn’t simply one chandelier, but several. They were all linked throughout the oval-shaped ceiling by garlands and seemed to drip down like jewels from a fine necklace. Every inch of the place was resplendent with opulence, from the scrollwork-patterned rug thick underfoot to the painted walls and ceilings.

It was as though they’d stepped into a pocket of London where the war didn’t exist. Where people wore clothes that weren’t sensible for running to a bomb shelter or stumbling over rubble-strewn streets. Where the scent of food in the air held luxuries like sugar and quality meat. Somewhere unseen, a pianist’s fingers danced effortlessly over the keys, producing the most delicate tune that made her think of summer and laughter.

At the head of the room was a stately Christmas tree with not a scrap of painted newspaper to be seen among its glittering ornaments.

They were shown to a table set for two in the corner with a small bunch of what appeared to be dahlias in a vase on the table.