Well, that wasn’t true; she did care. She cared deeply that she had to behave like this to get what she wanted. She cared deeply that Stone had laid such a solid foundation of rumor and innuendo that all it took was one smile and a drink with a man and everyone would think she was doing what they all did—sleeping around—but only when she was accused of it did it become a crime; the men were free to be as openly promiscuous as they chose. She’d tried letting her photographs speak for her and it wasn’t working. Time to unleash a different weapon.

After two whiskeys, Major Mayborn was laughing as she told him about Jennings’ misfortunes; after three, he was congratulating her for having done so much to keep the women of America behind their men. After four, she stood up and flashed the smile that had once adorned magazine covers. “Thank you so much for listening. I really should go and write my story, one-sided as it might be. If only someone would let the women go where the men are allowed.” Leaving him with that final thought, she turned and sashayed through the lobby as if it were a catwalk and she its star.

* * *

The next morning in the mess, Jess, Iris and Lee sat together, praying that Jess’s conversation with Major Mayborn had had an effect. But then Warren moved in, and allocated Jess a fashion show to cover and Lee and Iris a puff piece on how the Allied forces were helping the people of Paris to rebuild—and they knew she’d failed.

“I can’t even flirt properly anymore,” Jess said dismally. Her prospects of being anything more than a woman who’d once taken one or two good photos seemed as luridly disappointing as an overexposed negative.

“Give it some time,” Iris said, but time was the one thing they didn’t have. The war was marching on without them. Their male counterparts were the only ones reporting anything worth reading.

For two long weeks Jess grouched around Paris, drinking and complaining with Lee and Iris. Every night, she remembered how Dan’s face had looked the last time she’d seen him, when she’d exploded so publicly in front of his entire battalion. She had no idea if she’d ever see him again.

She was never so glad as when, one evening upon returning to the Scribe, she found herself engulfed by a set of arms.

“Marty!” she cried when she realized who it was. “You must have heard my prayers.”

“Couldn’t let you have all the fun,” Martha replied with a grin.

Their greeting was interrupted by the sound of a band striking up in the lobby. A young blonde girl in a very low-cut dress began to sing for the appreciative audience of correspondents who couldn’t take their eyes off her cleavage. Warren Stone was leading the chorus of cheers. Someone—probably Major Mayborn—had thought to prop a sign on the piano saying: “Anyone caught fraternizing with the singer will have his head shaved!”