Christmas with the Queen

Chapter 28 Jack

Chapter 28

Jack

London, August 1945

S ince VE Day, our new group of friends had stuck together like glue. Once a week, we met at The Thirsty Dog, a corner pub we’d grown to like, where we spent the evening catching up on everyone’s news and having fun away from our responsibilities at work.

I finished my shift as a line cook in the worst fish and chip shop in London, changed clothes, and headed over to meet the gang. My routine was now so familiar, it seemed that I’d lived in London much longer than three months. I was a little early that night, but that suited me fine. A quiet pint sounded nice before the boisterous fun of the night began. As much as I’d been enjoying the group, I was really more of a one-on-one kind of man. I’d spent a little time alone with Andrea these past few weeks and enjoyed our time together more and more, but I still wasn’t sure if things were progressing between us. I liked her a lot, but she was more reserved than I’d first realized, and I wasn’t sure she felt the same way about me. VE Day had made all of us less inhibited than usual, but life was settling into a routine again. I suppose I was waiting for a sign from her.

When I ducked inside, I saw that I wasn’t the only one to arrive early. Olive was already sitting at a table near the back of the pub with what looked like a fresh gin and tonic.

“Hi there,” I said, sliding in next to her. “I guess we’re early.”

“I’m absolutely starved!” she replied. “I’ve ordered a ham sandwich to tide me over until the others arrive.” She took a deep drink from her glass. “I’ve had quite the day at the office, working on a stack of the most boring papers imaginable. I think I could type in my sleep at this stage!”

“Do your hands ever get tired?” I asked, making polite conversation about her job.

“They did at first, but I’m used to it now.”

The bartender arrived with the food and slid the plate in front of her. Olive refused the offer of English mustard. I ordered a pint of ale.

“I see you didn’t want the mustard. You don’t like spice, I take it?” I asked, once the bartender had left.

“Not really. I definitely don’t like mustard.”

“You probably wouldn’t like my cooking then.”

“Are you offering to cook for me?” She grinned playfully.

“If you play your cards right, maybe I will.”

She laughed. “Well, I’m terrible at cards, so that definitely won’t be happening!”

“Maybe I’ll cook for us all. Ryan keeps badgering me to. Seems to think I have a bit of talent. I’ll make something that will set your mouth on fire.”

“I look forward to it.” She sank her teeth into her sandwich. “I heard you were on the hunt for a better job? There’s a new French restaurant looking for chefs. Maison Jerome. I pass it every morning on my way to work. I saw a sign in the window.”

I nodded. “That’s not a bad idea. I’ll take a look. If I work at a proper restaurant, maybe I won’t come home smelling like grease or looking like I crawled out of a dumpster.”

“A dumpster .” She mimicked my accent and laughed. “You couldn’t look that way if you tried.”

“Oh, but I could.” I grinned and ran my hand over my still-damp, rumpled blond hair. And then it hit me that she was complimenting me, flirting a little, perhaps. I couldn’t stop myself from doing the same. “And you look pretty as a peach tonight.”

We talked easily and, before we knew it, an hour had passed. I glanced at the door.

“Where is everyone?” she said.

“You’d think we got the wrong day,” I agreed.

“It’s Thursday. We definitely don’t have the wrong day.”

We realized it at the same time.

Olive hit her forehead with her hand. “Peter said something about The Stag’s Head, didn’t he?”

“Damn. It’s across town.”

“And it’s raining...” We both looked toward the window. The light mist that had persisted for most of the day had turned into a steady, soaking rain.

“It’s awfully cozy in here where it’s dry,” I said.

“And there’s good company,” she added with a smile.

“You said it.” We clinked our glasses against each other.

I thought briefly of Andrea, and then my thoughts turned to Peter.

“Peter will be waiting for you,” I said. “Perhaps we should go?”

“It’s fine. Peter will keep himself busy. He always does.”

I smiled. “I’ve noticed.”

Knowing Peter, he’d probably already set his sights on some other pretty young thing in the pub. He oozed charm and charisma. It was no surprise he’d swept Olive up so quickly, although it didn’t seem as if things were serious between them. With Peter, it was doubtful.

“And what about Andrea?” she asked. “Won’t she be expecting you?”

“She’s with her family tonight,” I said. “Having dinner with her parents and brothers.”

“So, you’re excused then.”

I couldn’t tell if Olive wanted me to say more about the situation between me and Andrea, but the truth was, I, too, wanted to know more—from Andrea herself. Perhaps I needed to be more like Peter, make a move and let the cards fall where they may. At the moment, I had no idea where we stood and if, or when, I should do something about it.

I bought another round of drinks, and, realizing I hadn’t eaten, ordered a meat pie. The next thing I knew, we were several drinks in and couldn’t stop laughing.

“Don’t let anyone ever tell you that you’re boring, Olive Marie Carter,” I said, the beer going to my head a little.

“And don’t let anyone tell you that you aren’t charming, Jackson Devereux.”

I grinned at hearing my full name on her lips. It sounded so different in a proper English accent rather than the thick southern drawl I’d grown up hearing.

“I should probably get home,” she said, when the bartender collected our empty glasses.

I led her to the door, where we stopped to peer out at the sheeting rain.

“It’s really turned nasty,” she said. “Care for a walk, sir?”

“Since the weather is so grand? Sure. Why not! Let me walk you home, miss.”

She took my arm. “That would be nice. A gentleman as well as a handsome and talented chef. You really are full of surprises!”

“My grandpa would’ve had my hide, should I even think of abandoning a woman at night in the city streets. He raised me well.”

We strolled through the neighborhood, across the bridge to Bermondsey, to the flat she was sharing with Rosie. I was struck by how much fun I was having in her company, and I thought back to the night we’d met a few months ago. Olive in that yellow dress. Her ruby lips and big smile. How we’d danced and laughed half the night. And then Peter had stepped in, and I’d met Andrea, and that was the end of that.

Or, perhaps, it wasn’t.

“Do you want to come in?” Mischief danced in her eyes. “I think we could both do with a coffee after that rain.”

I hesitated. “I’m not sure, Olive. I...”

She turned the key in the lock. “I’ll even use the fancy stuff!”

I smiled. “Coffee would be good.”

After coffee, Olive poured us each a brandy, and we fell into another long conversation about our pasts, our friends, our hopes and dreams for our future. She talked excitedly about working for the BBC. I described the restaurant I hoped to own one day.

Some time later, warm with drink, I yawned.

“It’s getting late,” I said, standing to go.

“It is.” Olive rose from her chair, facing me. “That was so much fun.” She hiccupped and covered her mouth. “Too much fun! You’re a bad influence.”

“As are you.”

I looked at her bright inviting eyes, her full lips, and thought again how beautiful she was. I fixated on a thought that had flitted through my head more than once that night. What if I kissed her? Just one kiss, to see if there was as much chemistry between us as I thought.

I moved toward her, pausing briefly to see if she would pull away. When she didn’t, my heart skipped a beat. Just one kiss. Softly, I brushed my lips against hers.

And one kiss it was... at least, that was how it began.