I didn’t care what his name was. I thought, honestly, Peter, you could at least have got someone a bit like Alastair. It was idiotic of me but seriously, lighthearted blond pilots were ten a penny, weren’t they? I so wanted everything to be nice for Célia that I nearly rang up the club, to get Peter over here to save the evening, but he was superstitious about seeing her on the night before the wedding.

“Oh, blow,” Célia was saying, on receiving this news. “Is he training again? He has the most awful luck.”

It was true. Alastair seemed to be kept back at the last minute, or called away early from leave, far more often than Peter. But at least we had Peter. Célia knew a girl whose wedding had been postponed three times.

“What is Growler?” I dared to ask.

“Gerawala,” Célia said, with a slight lift of her chin. “It’s an airfield, Yvette.”

I allowed her this pride she had, in her knowledge of airfields.

“Not far from Marsa Matrouh,” added James Acton, without smiling.

“Thank you,” I said, absurdly.

Maman and Papa came downstairs at that point and the news was repeated a third time. Papa was tremendously charming and kind as always. Maman pouted and peered around, saying, “Mais où est Alastaire?” as if he might be hiding mischievously behind the couch. I was furious with her but Célia just turned the full power of her beauty onto James and thanked him with a dazzling smile.

A note on Célia’s beauty