Being Henry Applebee. Celia Reynolds

self-preservation. Being a waitress wasn’t something she’d aspired to, she told him, but it paid the rent, and it was better than doing the exact same thing for less in Sheffield where she grew up.

      ‘I always knew I’d like to try my luck somewhere new,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘And Blackpool seemed as good a place to me as any. Plus –’ she added with well-appointed irony – ‘at least here I can get a bit of sea air.’

      The wind whistles through the railings and flies under the skirt of her coat, sending swathes of powder-blue fabric fanning like an accordion around her legs. Francine screams and grabs hold of Henry’s arm with one hand, while with the other she tries frantically to preserve her modesty by wedging a fistful of pleats between her knees.

      ‘Anyhow, you needn’t have worried,’ she says when she’s composed herself. ‘Getting time off wasn’t a problem. February’s off season. If it weren’t for the Americans and the lads like you visiting from Kirkham, Blackpool would be a ghost town at this time of year.’

      Henry scrunches his empty chip paper into a ball and looks around for a waste bin. On the roof of the Pavilion Theatre immediately behind them, a turbo-sized gull stretches its wings and follows his movements with immense, twitching eyes. Henry slips a protective arm around Francine’s shoulders, and with a forced air of nonchalance says, ‘The Americans have always had more money to throw around than we have. I suppose here’s the obvious place for them to spend it.’

      Francine stares evenly at the horizon. In the daylight, away from the twilight shadows of the Tower Ballroom, her skin appears even more radiant, even smoother and more unblemished than he’d recalled. And there’s a freckle, he sees now; a small brown beauty spot nestled just below her jawline at the side of her neck. Henry manages to stop himself from leaning in and kissing it. Instead, he tries to intuit what she’s thinking, what unknown visions are unfolding behind her eyes. He doesn’t want to think about all the other servicemen who’ve passed through the town as he is doing, least of all now, when his own uniform is due to be handed back in in just twenty-four hours’ time.

      He leans his torso against the railings, swivels his head to catch her eye. ‘You look very pretty today, by the way.’

      ‘Thank you! It’s a new coat.’ She smoothes the fine, woollen fabric over her hips and smiles. ‘I’ve been saving up for it for ages. Mam says I like to kid myself I’m Rita Hayworth.’

      ‘Oh, Rita’s a bombshell all right,’ Henry shoots back, ‘but she doesn’t have your eyes.’ He sees the look of delight on her face and laughs. ‘I’m not sure where that came from… I mean I meant it, obviously – but I’ve never said anything smooth before in my life.’

      ‘Come on, I don’t believe it!’ she cries. ‘I’ve never met an airman yet who didn’t have a ready line, though that was a particularly flattering one, I’ll be honest.’

      Henry shakes his head. ‘I’m serious! Despite all my brother’s efforts to educate me, I can guarantee that any smooth-talking genes in our family went exclusively to him.’

      A small wound, calloused over the years, briefly makes its presence felt in Henry’s chest. It’s ingrained in him by now – this terrible ache of being in thrall to someone he looks up to so much, and yet can never match, never live up to, no matter how hard he tries. Devlin has always had such a seductive charm about him. Obstacles – be they romantic or otherwise – just seem to disintegrate in his path. Never in a million years could he know the agony, or inevitability, of always feeling second-best.

      ‘Well,’ Francine assures him with a smile, ‘I think you’re sweet.’ She throws him a long, penetrating gaze. ‘Henry? Can I ask you something?’

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘What time do you have to be back at your billet?’

      All at once, her smile wavers. Henry catches her by the hand and pulls her towards him. ‘Not for hours and hours yet. Let’s not worry about that now. But we should get inside out of the cold. Your hands are freezing.’

      They walk arm-in-arm along the pier towards the promenade, the pleats of Francine’s coat brushing against the side of Henry’s leg as she moves. On the beach below them a cocker spaniel races along the shoreline, pawing at the water, sending flecks of surf cartwheeling into the air. Francine turns to watch it, and the same lock of hair which slipped loose from her bun the day before tumbles against her cheek. It flutters momentarily in the breeze before whipping round and catching on her lipstick.

      Henry grins.

      ‘Hey! What’s so funny?’ She digs him in the ribs, plucks the strand of hair from her mouth, and with the same relaxed ease clips it back behind her ear.

      ‘Have you ever had your tea leaves read?’ she asks, as they approach the entrance to the pier. Directly ahead of them is an elaborately painted sign advertising the clairvoyant skills of a woman with the rather dubious name of Madame Futuro. ‘A girl at work read mine the other day – just for fun. I didn’t believe what she told me, though.’

      ‘Why not?’ Henry replies. ‘Did she tell you that you were going to meet a handsome stranger?’

      Francine draws to a stop. ‘Yes. One who would change my life. How did you know that?’

      ‘I don’t know…’ He clears his throat. ‘I mean, honestly, I was just kidding. Isn’t that what they tell everyone?’

      ‘Probably.’ Francine rolls her eyes. ‘She said I was going to meet a man in uniform. Which in this part of the world doesn’t exactly narrow it down… And then she said something about a farm, and that part made no sense to me at all. I just kept nodding. No way was I going to let on what I was thinking, and then –’ She breaks off, squeezes Henry’s arm.

      ‘And then what?’

      ‘Nothing I choose to believe in. I’m sure she was making it all up as she went along. Anyway, you’re from London, aren’t you?’

      ‘Yes,’ he replies. I’ve lived my entire life in a neighbourhood called Chalk Farm.

      ‘So I was right! It was all nonsense.’

      ‘Why?’ Henry asks, his curiosity getting the better of him. ‘What else did she say?’

      For a second, the light in Francine’s eyes dims. She steps towards him and kisses him on the cheek. ‘I’m just really happy to see you.’ Her voice is so unexpectedly tender, it sends shivers along Henry’s spine. ‘Forget I mentioned it. It was silly of me to bring it up.’

      They pull away from each other, and holding hands, leave the entrance to the pier. Henry weighs the silence – the first one he’s been conscious of since they met. He glances sidelong at Francine. Her gaze is fixed straight in front of her, her features composed, but Henry senses that whatever she’s left unsaid is lingering, still, between them.

      ‘Million-dollar question,’ he says, in an effort to lighten the mood. ‘You find a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. There’s a card attached with your name on it. What do you do?’

      ‘Anything?’ Francine says at once.

      ‘Anything.’

      ‘That’s easy. I’d open a dance school. I’d hire someone to teach me, then I’d run classes of my own. I’d be the Ginger Rogers of the North. I’d be in heaven, Henry! No one would even recognise me back home. Either that, or I’d give it all away and join the circus.’

      Her delivery is so deadpan that Henry doesn’t dare ask her if she’s being serious.

      ‘I don’t see either one happening, though,’ she adds with a touch of sadness. ‘But the dreams themselves cost nothing, do they? What about you? What will you do when you leave the RAF?’

      Her question, natural as it is, catches Henry off-guard. ‘I haven’t decided