The Very Thought of You by Mary Fitzgerald Page A

Frances, ‘but that would be good. I wish you would.’
    â€˜I won’t.’ Opaline looked at Frances through the mirror. Her elegant face was as hard as stone when she said, ‘The bastard’s cooked his goose this time.’
    Frances felt sick. This was horrible, and not for the first time, she wished that Hugo was here. He’d always got on better with Opaline than she had. But he wasn’t and she would have to deal with it on her own. Growing up, she’d always known that her parents had a rocky relationship, but something had tipped her mother over the edge. Surely it couldn’t only be the black-market petrol; it had to be more. For a moment, she considered asking her, but what would be the point? Instead, she said, ‘I’m going back to London in the morning, so I’ve come to say goodbye.’
    Opaline looked up from her nails. ‘Are you still staying with Beau Bennett?’
    Frances nodded. ‘I’ve got a room in his flat.’
    â€˜I wouldn’t hold out any hopes there, honey.’ Opaline gave a short, sour laugh. ‘He sure ain’t a lady’s man, you know. Not like his father.’
    Frances thought about that last remark as she sat on the train back to London. She had guessed that Beau preferred men, but that was beside the point. Had her mother had an affair with Rolly Bennett, Beau’s father? That brought further thoughts about the reason her mother appeared to be leaving Parnell Hall. Could it be that she had a boyfriend in London, a lover?
    â€˜God, I’m glad to see you,’ said Beau, when she walked into the flat.
    â€˜That’s nice,’ she grinned, taking off her coat.
    â€˜Here’ – he went to the sideboard – ‘have a drink.’ He poured a large measure of gin into a glass and a minuscule amount of Angostura bitters. ‘How were the folks?’
    For a moment, Frances was tempted to tell him, but only for a moment. ‘Alright,’ she said lightly. ‘The same as ever.’
    â€˜Good. Now, let’s get down to business.’
    The Bennett Players’ travel plans had been finalised. ‘We get a troop transport ferry from Gosport,’ Beau said. ‘That’ll take us to Arromanches, and then you’ll drive the bus to our first venue. It’s a field hospital and transit camp near Bayeux. They’ll be glad to see us; at least, I hope they will.’
    â€˜Have you told everybody?’ Frances asked. ‘They all think they’ve got another four or five days off.’
    â€˜Not all of them. I sent a telegram to Colin Brown in Glasgow and he’s coming to London tomorrow. I phoned Godfrey and had to speak to that dreadful wife for five agonising minutes before she let him on the line.’
    Frances laughed. ‘What about the girls?’ she asked.
    â€˜I’m leaving that up to you. I’ve got their addresses. I did phone Catherine’s house, but her mother answered and we didn’t understand each other at all. She seemed to think that Catherine was away performing with the Players. So perhaps you can go round there first thing in the morning. As for Della, she hasn’t answered my phone calls either.’
    â€˜She did say once that the phone was in the hallway of her digs and that she didn’t always hear it. I’ll go round.’ Frances took a gulp of her drink. ‘And Tommy?’
    â€˜Got him. I went to the Criterion the other night and he was playing with the band, so he knows.’
    â€˜And that leaves the hateful Eric Baxter,’ sighed Frances. ‘Can’t we just forget to tell him and go to France without him? Everyone would thank you.’
    â€˜No, we can’t.’ Beau’s face lost its normal pleasant expression. ‘Don’t worry about him. I’ll do it.’ He cleared his throat and then said, ‘By the way, we’re having a liaison officer. He’ll be meeting