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?
As Alice turned to leave, Ursula stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Remember, you need to look him in the eye and make sure your body language isn’t defensive.”
“How do I do that?”
“Accept your fear, don’t fight it. Don’t forget that anxiety is there for a reason, so let it work for you, protect you.” Her lips quirked. “I should know. I’m good at pretending.”
The band had come back on, and Bridget stood watching them, her body moving gently to the music. Ursula glanced over at her and smiled, radiant and happy in a way she could only be in private or here at the Gates.
“Are you as good an actor as Katharine Hepburn?” Alice asked.
Ursula kissed her on both cheeks and whispered, “Nearly.”
Thirty-six
London, May 7, 1943
“Thank you,” Alice said, forcing a smile as Joe opened the car door for her to slip into the passenger seat.
When she’d arrived ten minutes early for their midday rendezvous, he’d already been waiting in the green Austin 8 two-seat tourer, yet he seemed preoccupied. Was he was having second thoughts?
“It looks like it might rain,” she said, looking up at the leaden sky as her fingers toyed with the buckle on her bag—then she realized her fidgeting made her look agitated.
“Don’t worry, the roof can go up if it does,” he said, glancing at her clothes.
They headed west, picking up the A4 as they wound through Hammersmith and out toward Chiswick in a tense silence. The denser housing soon gave way to tree-lined streets and larger detached homes, and he stole another glance.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Well . . . I think you might have overdone it with the outfit,” he said, eyes roaming over her navy polka-dot dress.
“What do you mean?”
It had taken her ages to get ready as she’d barely been able to close the zipper, her hands had been shaking so hard.
“You’re just a bit . . . overdressed, that’s all.”
Alice turned away and caught her reflection in the window, her red lips gleaming. In her mind the image was replaced by Ursula’s face, before it morphed into her mother’s, and she abruptly looked away. “What shall I do?” She had taken a handkerchief from her bag, ready to wipe her lipstick off, when Joe’s words made her freeze.
“I don’t know, Alice Cotton. Why don’t you tell me?”
She looked sideways and caught his eye. “How do you know my name?”
“Elizabeth called me . . . she mentioned you might come looking for some help.”
He turned his attention back to the road, and she carried on watching his profile.
“Does Olive know?”
“Not yet.”