“Shouldn’t you be doing war work? I thought all the women in England—”

“Jessica May!” Amelia exclaimed. “Or are you really an imposter? Bring back my friend. You’ve become so…earnest.”

Jess sighed. She was earnest. Where was the laughing girl who’d danced all night at Greenwich Village clubs or at Condé Nast’s parties, wearing beautiful gowns and a much-photographed smile, who’d fallen into bed with Emile at all hours of the morning and had damn good sex? Had she really been that person?

She took a large swallow of champagne. How was it possible to see Omaha Beach and not be earnest? “For today,” she said to Amelia with a weak smile, “your job is to make me not quite so earnest.”

“Hallelujah.” Amelia raised her glass, sipped, then something like earnestness fell over her face too. “It really is good to see you,” she said. “Everyone sleeping it off up there,” she raised her glass to indicate the bedrooms on the upper floors, “has only known me with all of this.” Her hand swept around to encompass the large room with its expensive but fusty adornments. “Whereas you knew me before any of it.”

Jess stayed that night for Amelia’s party but, rather than finding solace in another man’s arms as Amelia did, Jess went to bed early and wrapped her arms around herself, Amelia’s words playing through her head: you knew me before any of it. And the reply Jess hadn’t made: But where did that world go? And, without it, who are we?

Twelve

Over the next few days in France, Jess discovered what a goddamn joke the “rules” designed to “protect” women were. The press camp for the men was miles further back from the front and thus a hell of a lot safer than the Fifth General Hospital outside Carentan where Jess was posted. As a woman, she had absolutely no access to press camps, which meant no access to briefings, or to maps, or to news about hot spots and likely strafing attacks and the day’s objective or anything else that would actually give her an idea which part of the country was safe and which wasn’t. When Jess had pointed out that this would put her at more risk than the men, nobody seemed to care. And she still had to wait in line with her stories; hers were sent back to London, where the censors tore them apart and then directed them on to Bel, which meant that her words occasionally made no sense as she wasn’t allowed to review them. Whereas the men submitted theirs direct from France after their very own censor had checked them and allowed the men a final edit.

Warren had made sure to stress that she wasn’t to leave the field hospital without permission from the CO. And then he’d added, smiling, that he was going to France too. It had taken all of Jess’s willpower not to say, But that’s a little too close to danger for you, isn’t it? Instead she’d swallowed the retort and prayed that he’d stay at his cozy press camp and that she’d never have to see him again.