P is for Paris

“Paris,” said Janette with longing in her voice.  “To see new fashions that don’t involve cheap cloth and skimpy skirts.  A new Paris season … that’s what I want from peace.”

Nick stifled a look of contempt.  LaCroix was lounging in the other room; and a temper tantrum from Janette would certainly catch his interest.  “They’re dancing in the streets,” was all he said.  “I don’t think it’s for fancy clothes.”

“Don’t you believe it.”

There was no polite answer to this; or, at least, none that Nick could think of.  He had a suspicion that, if he said the wrong thing, her next retort would be something along the lines of “no man would understand”.  Which might even be true.  On the other hand, whether because he was a man or not, he had a rather different perspective on the war against the Nazis.  And it wasn’t the view espoused by their master, either, which had more to do with the availability of easy meals.

Nick had, of course, taken his unfair share of untimely deaths.  Between the Blitz, occupied Europe, and—more recently—the bloody fields of the invasion, the three of them had all dined well.  When a man is half-blown up, no one performs an autopsy to determine the reason for two little holes in the throat.  They just bury the evidence.

That evening, when it was safely dark, he joined Katherine Barrington.  Gordon was overseas; so it was just the two of them.  He suggested drinks; she suggested the still-ongoing party outside.  Out in the street, he quickly realized that, in a way, they both were slumming it:  most of the joyful horde spoke some variant of Cockney.  Yet Nick also recognized that Katherine had been right.  The victory celebration was, indeed, the place to be.  Even when a total stranger in uniform swept her into his arms and bussed her cheek, Katherine didn’t haul off and slap him:  she laughed back.  And then the crowd swept them off, down the street; and Nick lost sight of the man who had accosted her.

“War is over!” she cried, and flung her hat in the air.

Nick caught and returned it; and she put it demurely on.  Some time later, they returned to her flat.

“Oh, my!” she said, a little breathless, taking the hat off properly and hanging it up.  “Victory.  It’s quite a heady sensation, isn’t it?”

He could only agree.

Some time later, as he feigned to sip, she asked what he looked forward to now that peace was finally here.

“I’ll be moving on,” he replied.  It was, after all, a fair bet.

“Gordon will be home,” she said, with longing in her voice.  “They’ll all be demobbed, won't they?  I can hardly wait.  It’s been so long.”

“Do you,” he asked on sudden impulse, “want things back the way they were before the war?  Someone I know—a woman—said she missed fashionable clothes.”

“Well, we all miss peacetime,” said Katherine sensibly.  “Fashion?  I suppose.  I wouldn’t mind some decent lipstick.”

“It seems…,” Nick hesitated, not wishing to offend, “…trivial.  If that’s not rude.”

“I dare say you’d like a good cigar,” she retorted.  “Or is your vice single malt?  Or simply the freedom to go where you wish and do what you want?  We all miss something.”

“And you miss Gordon,” said Nick thoughtfully.  “That, at least, I do get.”  After a moment, since she didn’t reply, he added, “I may not be here when he gets back.  I can’t tell.”

“We’ll meet again,” Katherine said.  And got up to put on the record.