Then she heard the ghost of her mother’s voice telling her to be practical, to stand up, to not wallow. To not let the War Department get to her. So, just as her mother had always been the one to find the best camping spot, to give everyone errands so that food would be cooked and supplies purchased, Jess scrubbed her cheeks dry with a Kleenex and took out her own supplies.

To start with, the Rolleiflex her mother had given her. Then she hunted around for the Leica Emile had bought for her birthday their first year in Manhattan. She preferred the Rollei but knew it would be an advantage to take two cameras with her.

She ran her hand over her typewriter; it had been her mother’s. Each night of her childhood, Jess had fallen asleep to the sound of keys striking paper, the lullaby of her youth. It wouldn’t do for Europe though. A Hermes Baby would be just the ticket. How much paper could she feasibly take? Martha had said there were shortages across Europe. She made herself keep thinking along those lines—as if she was going—because the idea that she might have to stay working as a house model, waiting for advertisers to consent to her returning to the pages of magazines, had become unbearable.

A knock at the door startled her and she opened it to find Bel bearing a pot of soup and a bottle of wine.

“The last supper,” Bel said cheerily as she made her way into the kitchen. “I thought if we acted it out, it might come true.”

Jess managed a smile and took bowls and glasses out of the cupboard, then hugged her friend. “Thank you. What the hell will I do in Europe without you?”

“You’ll find someone. You’re the kind of girl who always lands on her feet.” Bel put the soup on the stove and they sat at the kitchen table, waiting for it to warm. “How did it go?” Bel asked shrewdly, studying Jess’s face.

Jess reached for a cigarette. “As badly as Martha said it would.” She hesitated. “They showed me a picture of my mother. I took it in a club in Montmartre during one of my parents’ rare visits out of the field and into civilization. I was at boarding school there and they picked me up on their way out for the night; I don’t think it ever occurred to them that Montmartre jazz clubs weren’t really the place for sixteen-year-old girls.”

Bel smiled. “Sounds like your parents were the kind every sixteen-year-old thought they wanted. I imagine the reality was a little different.”

“I didn’t think so at the time but now…” Jess pictured the photograph. Her mother sitting at a table in the club in the center of a group of artistes, having always been a part of that circle; her college training had been in illustration and drawing as well as botany. In the background, her father stood by the bar, watching her mother as if she was the most precious thing in the world. He always sat at the edges, eyes fixed to her mother’s face, content to listen and admire. Jess used to sit with him until, later, it transpired that Jess could tell a better story than anyone—or so she’d thought at the time—and she took her place at the table. She’d soon understood that her moving into the center actually coincided with her growing into her body and into her smile rather than her abilities as a raconteur.