alone?”
“Life.”
“Just life?”
“War paints life in very frightening colors.”
“I imagine so.” Justine scanned her notes while typing something on her computer. “You and your sister were sent out of the city during the London bombings.”
“In August of 1939. I was barely seven years old. Peg was eight. We were put on a train and sent to live with a family in the country. My father was a pilot in the RAF and my mother worked with the signal corp. I was terrified to leave them. Convinced I’d never see them again.”
“And did you?”
“Not my mother, no. Because Peg and I were so young, Papá thought it best we not attend her funeral. He came after the fact to tell us Mamá was safe in heaven and when he flew through the clouds, she’d be with him.”
Justine glanced up, regarding Colette, then whispered, “I can’t imagine.”
“No, it’s nothing to imagine.”
“So you stayed on with your host family?”
“Papá didn’t want to disrupt our life. And there was really nowhere else to go. Our grandparents were not able and Mamá’s sister lived here, in America. We did get to see Papá over the years. He came out to the farm whenever possible.” Colette smiled. “Oh, those were happy times.”
“And when did he die?” Justine tapped on her computer.
“The Battle of Berlin. In ’44. Shot down.”
Justine shook her head, then stared toward the window. “You hear history, you read history, you watch it in movies or on TV, but you never understand how it impacts people until you encounter someone who was there.” She returned her attention to Colette. “How did you find out? I mean, that your father had died? A telegram? And how did you feel? Scared? Alone?”
“Our host family told us. And yes, we, I, felt very much alone. Terrified.”
“Who was your host family?”
“The Morleys. Farmers in Carmarthenshire.”
“They were childless?”
“They had a son. Nigel.” Colette shifted in her chair. She never cared for him.
Justine smiled. “This is good stuff, but we’re just scratching the surface, getting into the life of the great Colette Greer.”
“The great Colette Greer was nothing more than a silly girl who became a silly actress, playing the same silly woman on TV for sixty years.” Sixty years. Was she more Vivica than Colette? Or was Vivica simply the light side of Colette?
If Justine was smart—Colette suspected she was—she’d eventually see the truth. Colette hadn’t been a girl looking for adventure or for her name to be in white lights. She’d been a girl looking for a place to hide.
“What about boyfriends, lovers? You said nothing happened between you and Spice, but you were, are , a beautiful woman. You must’ve had your share of suitors.”
“Are you married, Justine?”
She sighed. “No, I’m not.”
“What happened to the boy you moved here for?”
“We broke up.”
“Do you have a boyfriend now?”
She rubbed her forehead with the edge of her thumb. “I work too much.”
“So you understand, then. Sometimes life takes you on a path that never leads to love.”
“That’s a morbid thought. I want to get married, maybe move to Long Island and have a couple of kids.”
“Sometimes it’s not in the cards,” Colette said, straightening her stiff back and motioning to her penthouse walls. “This is where my life took me and I’m quite pleased with it.”
“But you had lovers, right? Just not husbands.”
Colette pressed her finger to her lips. “Shh, darling. A lady never tells.”
“Really? ’Cause I got a contract that tells me I’m to get your entire life story.” Justine narrowed her gaze at Colette. “What are you not telling me? Being evasive speaks to me of ‘the one that got away.’ ”
Colette squeezed the silver lighter into her palm.
“Colette, was there one that got away?”
“Perhaps. Or maybe I came to my senses and let him go.”
S EPTEMBER 1948
A FTER F RIDAY NIGHT UNDER THE
“Life.”
“Just life?”
“War paints life in very frightening colors.”
“I imagine so.” Justine scanned her notes while typing something on her computer. “You and your sister were sent out of the city during the London bombings.”
“In August of 1939. I was barely seven years old. Peg was eight. We were put on a train and sent to live with a family in the country. My father was a pilot in the RAF and my mother worked with the signal corp. I was terrified to leave them. Convinced I’d never see them again.”
“And did you?”
“Not my mother, no. Because Peg and I were so young, Papá thought it best we not attend her funeral. He came after the fact to tell us Mamá was safe in heaven and when he flew through the clouds, she’d be with him.”
Justine glanced up, regarding Colette, then whispered, “I can’t imagine.”
“No, it’s nothing to imagine.”
“So you stayed on with your host family?”
“Papá didn’t want to disrupt our life. And there was really nowhere else to go. Our grandparents were not able and Mamá’s sister lived here, in America. We did get to see Papá over the years. He came out to the farm whenever possible.” Colette smiled. “Oh, those were happy times.”
“And when did he die?” Justine tapped on her computer.
“The Battle of Berlin. In ’44. Shot down.”
Justine shook her head, then stared toward the window. “You hear history, you read history, you watch it in movies or on TV, but you never understand how it impacts people until you encounter someone who was there.” She returned her attention to Colette. “How did you find out? I mean, that your father had died? A telegram? And how did you feel? Scared? Alone?”
“Our host family told us. And yes, we, I, felt very much alone. Terrified.”
“Who was your host family?”
“The Morleys. Farmers in Carmarthenshire.”
“They were childless?”
“They had a son. Nigel.” Colette shifted in her chair. She never cared for him.
Justine smiled. “This is good stuff, but we’re just scratching the surface, getting into the life of the great Colette Greer.”
“The great Colette Greer was nothing more than a silly girl who became a silly actress, playing the same silly woman on TV for sixty years.” Sixty years. Was she more Vivica than Colette? Or was Vivica simply the light side of Colette?
If Justine was smart—Colette suspected she was—she’d eventually see the truth. Colette hadn’t been a girl looking for adventure or for her name to be in white lights. She’d been a girl looking for a place to hide.
“What about boyfriends, lovers? You said nothing happened between you and Spice, but you were, are , a beautiful woman. You must’ve had your share of suitors.”
“Are you married, Justine?”
She sighed. “No, I’m not.”
“What happened to the boy you moved here for?”
“We broke up.”
“Do you have a boyfriend now?”
She rubbed her forehead with the edge of her thumb. “I work too much.”
“So you understand, then. Sometimes life takes you on a path that never leads to love.”
“That’s a morbid thought. I want to get married, maybe move to Long Island and have a couple of kids.”
“Sometimes it’s not in the cards,” Colette said, straightening her stiff back and motioning to her penthouse walls. “This is where my life took me and I’m quite pleased with it.”
“But you had lovers, right? Just not husbands.”
Colette pressed her finger to her lips. “Shh, darling. A lady never tells.”
“Really? ’Cause I got a contract that tells me I’m to get your entire life story.” Justine narrowed her gaze at Colette. “What are you not telling me? Being evasive speaks to me of ‘the one that got away.’ ”
Colette squeezed the silver lighter into her palm.
“Colette, was there one that got away?”
“Perhaps. Or maybe I came to my senses and let him go.”
S EPTEMBER 1948
A FTER F RIDAY NIGHT UNDER THE
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