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shoot so I plastered a huge smile on my face and pretended I’d just walked into the room.

      ‘Hi guys,’ I said. ‘Are we ready for the next lot of photos?’

      Patrick stood up.

      ‘Amy,’ he said. ‘Great. Let’s get cracking.’

      Doing our photo shoot together was strange. We weren’t dancing, obviously – our rehearsals hadn’t started yet. Instead, we just posed as though we were. I quite enjoyed looking like I knew what I was doing, even when I clearly didn’t have a clue. But what I didn’t enjoy was being so close to Patrick. The feel of his tight muscles under my hands, the smell of his skin and the rasp of his stubble against my face brought back lots of memories of the night we’d spent together. Memories that were really too nice …

      ‘Stop it, Amy,’ I told myself sternly, smiling at the camera as Patrick lifted me up in his strong (stop it), ripped (seriously, enough) arms. ‘No more stories for the PostOnline.’

      When we had a break I wandered over to get some water and checked my phone to see if Matty had replied to the photo I sent, but there was nothing. I scrolled through the pictures, intending to resend it.

      Patrick followed me.

      ‘Who are you messaging with such a serious look on your face?’ he asked.

      ‘My boyfriend,’ I said without thinking. Patrick’s smile slipped just a little bit.

      ‘You’re back together?’ he said.

      ‘Oh, well, no,’ I said. ‘I just thought …’ Feeling silly to have been ‘caught’ messaging the man who cheated on me, I pressed ‘send’ firmly, then looked up at Patrick from under my eyelashes, the way I made Betsy do when she was apologizing for something. Like murdering the pub’s sleazy landlord or sleeping with her best friend’s bloke. Anyway, I channelled my inner Betsy and focused on Patrick.

      ‘Listen,’ I said softly. ‘I had a really great time with you the other night. But things are complicated with me right now and I don’t want this …’ – I waved my arm wildly, taking in me, Patrick, the camera crew, everything – ‘… this thing to get in the way. We’re professionals, right? We can do this.’

      For a second Patrick gave me a look like I’d kicked his puppy. Then he straightened up and gave me a smile. The kind of smile I recognized because I’d used it myself so often. A fake it until you make it smile.

      ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘You’re not really my type anyway.’

      I narrowed my eyes.

      ‘What is your type?’

      ‘Oh, you know. Bit more wholesome. Less concerned with appearance and more about what’s inside.’

      I stared at him. I hadn’t really expected a character assassination.

      ‘More real,’ Patrick said. ‘More like a human being.’

      My phone beeped with a message and I leapt on it, grateful for the distraction.

      It was from Matty. Finally. My heart thumping, I swiped to open the message.

      ‘Who is this?’ it said.

      I burst into tears.

       Chapter 12

       Cora

       1945

      I tugged at the top button of my uniform skirt. No. There was no way that was going to do up. I’d have to pin it. Trying not to think about what my swelling shape meant, I rooted around in my sewing box for some safety pins and secured my skirt. Thankfully my jacket was long enough to cover it for now, but I couldn’t keep doing this. Plus my costumes had very little give in them and the seams on one outfit were already stretched to their maximum.

      I threw myself onto the narrow bed and stared at the ceiling, trying to muster up the energy to go to rehearsal. I glanced at the clock on the wall. I still had half an hour, thank goodness. I could lie here for a few minutes longer …

      ‘Cora, wake up.’ Audrey shook me gently by the shoulder. ‘Rehearsal in five minutes.’

      I blinked wearily. Audrey was sitting on my bed, while Fat Joan – the other occupant of our cramped attic bedroom in the boarding house that was our home for now – leaned against the door. She wasn’t fat, Joan. In fact she looked like a film star, with long blonde hair and deep brown eyes. Now she narrowed those eyes at me.

      ‘Have you been sick again?’ she said. ‘I heard you this morning.’

      I sat up.

      ‘I think it was last night’s tea,’ I said. ‘Corned beef has never agreed with me.’

      Fat Joan tossed her hair over her shoulder, looking decidedly lacking in concern for my innards.

      ‘Want me to tell Henry that you’re ill?’ she said.

      I shook my head.

      ‘No, I feel better now,’ I said. ‘Could you just say I’ll be there in five minutes and apologize?’

      Languidly Joan straightened up.

      ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Make sure it is only five minutes.’

      I forced a smile.

      ‘I’ll be right there,’ I said.

      As soon as Joan’s footsteps died away, Audrey jumped off the bed and locked the door; then she turned on me.

      ‘What is going on?’ she hissed. ‘Are you ill?’

      ‘No,’ I said slowly. ‘Not ill.’

      Audrey looked at me, realization growing in her grey eyes.

      ‘Oh, Cora,’ she said. ‘Oh, Cora.’

      ‘Do not breathe a word of this to anyone,’ I said.

      ‘Have you told Donnie?’

      I swung my legs off the bed and stood up.

      ‘No,’ I said in horror. ‘Of course not. I can’t tell him in a letter – Dear Donnie, I’m pregnant, Yours, Cora.’

      Audrey shrugged.

      ‘Can’t imagine it’ll be less of shock to hear it out loud,’ she pointed out.

      ‘I’ll tell him when he comes to London,’ I said. ‘He’ll be here soon.’

      As planned, Donnie’s division was off to France and they had some time in London before they left for the coast. We’d planned to meet up as soon as we could and Donnie was still talking about getting married if we could arrange it.

      Audrey came over to me and helped me arrange my hat on my head.

      ‘So what are you going to do?’

      I closed my eyes.

      ‘I have no idea,’ I admitted. ‘I’m not going to Africa with the rest of you, that’s for sure.’

      A glimmer of a smile crossed Audrey’s face.

      ‘Well, that will please your mum,’ she said.

      She was right. My mum had been desperate to keep me at home in Worthing, dancing in the end-of-the-pier show and teaching toddlers. But I’d been equally desperate to join up, to see the world, and as soon as I’d turned eighteen I’d been off. So far we’d only done the rounds of the bases in Britain with a short trip over the sea to France, but we were scheduled to leave for North Africa in the summer, when our time in London was done. I had been giddily excited at the prospect – until I met Donnie. And now this.

      ‘How

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