Chapters (57)
- Cover
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
- Forty
- Forty-one
- Forty-two
- Forty-three
- Forty-four
- Forty-five
- AUTHOR’S NOTE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- POPULAR BOOKS FROM THE ERA
- When We Meet Again
- A Conversation with Caroline Beecham about When We Meet Again
- Discussion Guide
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- What’s next onyour reading list?
He leaned close. “Is everything all right?”
“I’m sorry, Theo, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to go.” She slid to the edge of her seat, grabbing her gas mask and bag. “I just remembered something terribly important that I need to do.”
“Surely it can wait?”
“I’m afraid not—it’s something I should have paid more attention to before. Entirely my fault.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“No, thank you. It’s something I have to do on my own.”
And then she was gone.
It was still raining when the luncheon finished, but Theo decided to walk back to the office. He wanted some fresh air as he reflected on the valuable introductions he’d made and conversations he’d had. His pocket was full of business cards, and he’d seen Sir Duncan, so the luncheon had been a success from a business point of view. But for some reason, he felt deflated.
He sidestepped another puddle, his hat pulled on tightly and his collar upturned as he kept his head down, thinking about his conversation with Alice. Her interest in his life had surprised him, yet she’d been so unwilling to talk about her own. She’d only become animated when they spoke about the local publishing industry, telling him how it had started alongside St. Paul’s and Paternoster Row way back in the sixteenth century, until one night in 1940 when seventeen publishing offices were destroyed. She spoke with sadness as she told him how it had changed the landscape of the British book trade forever. Duncan Sutherland’s painting Twisted Girders had become synonymous with that tragic night and was circulated widely in newspapers and magazines; Theo was familiar with the image.
The only time Alice spoke about herself was when she talked about her favorite parts of London, and he realized he was walking one of them now, tracing her recommended route through Mayfair back to Russell Square. The journey stretched to places he’d not yet visited; it took him through the streets and alleyways of Soho, past fabric shops and department stores, picture-book houses and street traders, and he felt the pulse of the London she’d described.
Theo’s footsteps quickened the closer he got to the office, as he kept returning to the same question: where had she gone so urgently, and had she returned to work?