China Blue (The Dudley Sisters Saga Book 3) by Madalyn Morgan (top 100 novels of all time TXT) 📕

‘Yes. It isn’t a patch on the coffee Édith makes, I’m afraid.’

‘I’m not here for the coffee, China,’ he said, dropping his shoulder bag and gas mask on the floor and sitting down.

Her heart began to pound with excitement, and she felt her cheeks flush. It had been three months since they were in France together and she had thought of him every day; wondered where he was, how he was. She sat down and picked up her cup. The tea was cold; she didn’t care. ‘What have you been up to since we got back?’ she asked.

‘I’ve been putting young British women through their paces down in Hampshire. You?’

Claire felt a stab of jealousy. ‘I spent a couple of weeks in the north east with my French professor friend and his family. I promised his son, again, if I was ever in Paris I’d look his mother up.’ Claire saw Mitch tense. ‘Don’t worry, he’s just a boy who is missing his mum. He has no idea what I do.’ Claire wasn’t sure that was true. Although they had never spoken about her work, the professor probably knew – and Éric was a bright boy. She decided she had said enough about the professor and his son. ‘But for most of the time, I’ve been mentoring new recruits at Coltishall. I went to a couple of dances with Eddie. And I didn’t get into any fights.’ They both laughed. ‘Eddie has finally cracked French grammar. She is hoping to take the fluency exam soon, so we had to speak French whenever we were alone. It was good for me, too, in case the colonel wants me to go back into the field,’ she whispered.

Mitch leaned towards her. ‘What do you want to do, China?’

‘Go back to France, of course. I’m hoping that’s why I’ve been called back to London.’

‘In the meantime,’ Mitch said, ‘let’s see some of this wonderful city while there is some of it left to see.’

Claire picked up her bag and gas mask and followed Mitch out into the fading sunshine. After buttoning her coat she caught hold of his outstretched hand and together they strolled through Piccadilly, past the theatres on the Haymarket and down to Trafalgar Square, where Mitch bought some stale bread from a shabbily-dressed boy of about twelve who was leaning on a sign that said Do Not Feed the Pigeons.

‘My baby sister, Aimée, made me promise to do two things while I was in London. One was feed the birds in Trafalgar Square, and the other was send her a photograph of me doing it. Come on,’ Mitch said, taking Claire by the hand and running across the square to a lion. As if she was a feather, Mitch lifted her onto the plinth. ‘Stand close to the lion. I want to get you both in the picture.’ Claire leant into the lion and looked over her shoulder. ‘Perfect. Now turn and face me. Keep still and… smile! Okay! Now you take one of me.’ As he lifted her down, Mitch held her close. She felt his warm breath on her face when he said, ‘Did I tell you I’ve missed you, China?’

‘Yes. But I don’t mind you telling me again,’ Claire purred.

Mitch kissed her. ‘Okay, my turn.’ He took the camera from around his neck and gave it to Claire. He leapt onto the plinth and again onto the back of the lion. ‘It’s a great view from up here,’ he shouted, surveying the square.

‘Sit still or the photograph will be blurred.’ Mitch put his hand up to his brow, as if he was Admiral Nelson looking out to sea. He held the pose and Claire took the photograph.

‘Boy, it’s cold when the sun goes in,’ he said, jumping down. ‘When does the British summer begin?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Let’s go.’ They ran through Trafalgar Square, scattering the pigeons. Claire let go of Mitch’s hand and, as he turned, she took a snap. ‘Aimée will love that,’ he said, ‘with all the pigeons flying around.’

Leaving the lions and pigeons behind, Mitch and Claire crossed the road to the National Gallery, walked for a few minutes, and turned onto the Strand. Near the top, a little before the Aldwych, they came to the Prince Albert Theatre. Either the windows were boarded up to protect them from bomb damage, or they had already been damaged, Claire couldn’t tell. ‘My sister works here,’ she said. ‘She started as an usherette, learned the songs and dances and when there was an opening, got a part in the chorus. I’d love to see her on stage, but…’

‘But what?’

‘She took over from a girl whose boyfriend was a Nazi sympathiser. He’d been a member of the BUF, or something, so…’

‘So it’s a scenario the colonel wouldn’t want you to be involved in?’

‘Something like that.’

Mitch put his arm round her shoulder. ‘Tell you what, China. When this damn war’s over, I’ll take you to see your sister in the show.’

‘Promise?’

‘Promise! Hey, you’re shivering.’ Mitch pulled her closer. ‘Are you hungry, China?’

‘A little.’

‘Okay,’ Mitch beamed, ‘I’ve got eggs and ham and bread, beer and-- All sorts of stuff at my place. Let’s go back and have a feast. I’ll make you my special omelette.’ He put his fingers up to his lips and kissed the air. ‘Or we could go to a restaurant if you’d rather?’

‘No.’ Claire laughed. ‘I’d rather sample your culinary delights.’

Leaving the Strand, Mitch and Claire walked through Covent Garden to St Giles Circus, on to Tottenham Court Road and along Oxford Street towards Marble Arch. ‘Is you’re apartment actually in Portman Square?’ Claire asked, as they turned into Orchard Street.

‘Corner