“Harry Westwood, I do not even know you,” she said, feigning annoyance, though she was enjoying every minute.
“That’s why I sent you the letters, darling,” he said. “So you could get to know me and I can get to know you. Did you even take a moment to read them?”
“I was too busy,” she said, winking at him.
“Ah, now you definitely owe me a dance. I’m hurt,” he said, clearly amused.
“Is there even a dance floor tonight, Dottie?” I asked. We were finally through the front doors and headed to the main auditorium.
“Oh yes, right in front of the stage,” she said. “We’re sitting on the right-hand side of it.”
“Brilliant,” Harry said, flashing a beautiful smile. “Very well, then, I will come find you, Viviana.” And then he disappeared into the crowd.
“He is really gorgeous, honestly,” Dottie said. “At least dance with him, Viv.”
“You’ve got to admire his persistence,” I said to Viv. “And why didn’t you read his letters?”
“Because I knew it would drive him mad,” she said with a self-satisfied grin “Because look at him. I’m sure he has women all over the UK falling all over themselves to get his attention.”
“But why don’t you at least give him a chance?” I said.
“Maybe I will,” Viv said, and I noticed she looked like she was actually blushing. “It’s that accent that gets me every time he opens his mouth. But then, like Dottie said, everyone is always leaving. What’s the point really?”
“I think the point is to dance with a handsome Englishman and have fun,” I said. “Maybe there doesn’t need to be any other point.”
“Maybe,” Viv said, looking at me, seriously now. “And maybe, Fi? You should think about taking your own advice on that front.”
I was about to ask what exactly she meant by that when we entered the auditorium and let out a collective gasp. It was a gorgeous space, with a curved, wood-paneled ceiling several hundred feet above us and burgundy seats on tiered balconies up to the rafters.
A red velvet curtain hung in front of the enormous stage. At the orchestra level, in front of the stage, was a dance floor with several more rows of seats on either side of it.
I barely recognized Liz Anderson waving us over to our seats. She looked so pretty, wearing a conservative eggplant-colored dress, her bobbed hair styled in shiny curls. We sat down with her and several teams of Clubmobile girls that we hadn’t seen in a while, including Ruthie and Helen, the talkers from North Dakota, and Doris, ChiChi, and Rosie—a notoriously funny Clubmobile crew that we hadn’t seen since London. We all shared stories of our adventures over the past several weeks. I wished once again that Blanche, Frankie, and Martha were still here with us. I missed our happy group of six.
When it looked like the auditorium was nearly filled to capacity, the lights flashed three times and people started clapping and whistling. Dottie was laughing and smiling a huge dimpled smile.
“Dottie, I can’t wait,” I said, hooking arms with her. “This is so exciting.”
The lights in the hallway dimmed, and the audience started clapping as a slight man in a dark-brown suit and bow tie walked in front of the velvet curtain to the center of the stage in front of a large microphone.
“To all of the American soldiers and US Red Cross personnel here tonight, good evening and welcome to De Montfort Hall,” he said. He sounded like one of the broadcasters we listened to on Mrs. Tibbetts’s wireless. “My name is Arthur Kimball, and here in Leicester I’m known as ‘the promotor who brings you the stars.’” He grinned and waited a beat as the audience started clapping again.
“In the interest of military security, we had to keep this concert top secret. Now . . . are you ready to see who’s here to perform a concert tonight in your honor?”
The GIs in the audience started cheering and clapping. “Let’s go!” someone yelled.
“All right, all right!” Arthur Kimball laughed. “Without further ado, introducing Major Glenn Miller and the American Band of the Allied Expeditionary Forces!”
Collective gasps could be heard throughout the hall. A couple of the Clubmobile girls near us actually started to cry tears of joy. Viv and I had our mouths hanging open; we could not believe the most popular bandleader in America had come all the way to Leicester. Dottie looked at us, laughing, enjoying our reaction.
“I told you!” she said. “Amazing, isn’t it? The best surprise. Can you believe he’s actually here?”
The velvet curtain started to rise as the first notes of Miller’s signature hit, “Moonlight Serenade,” rang out. By the time the curtain revealed Miller’s forty-five-piece orchestra, the energy in the auditorium was pure electricity, and the entire audience was on its feet in a standing ovation, clapping and cheering.
Glenn Miller was standing in the middle of the stage, playing his trombone and looking very serious. A good-looking man in his late thirties, he was dressed in his military uniform and wearing the signature round, metal-framed glasses that made him look professorial.
The rest of the band couldn’t hide how delighted they were at the crowd’s reaction. When the song ended, we were all still on our feet, and I could barely hear myself think over the thundering applause.
“It’s an honor to be here to play for you tonight. Thank you for your service,” Glenn Miller said into the microphone at the front of the stage. “As I’ve said before, America means freedom, and there’s no expression of freedom quite so sincere as music.”
The soldiers were swelling with patriotic enthusiasm as they cheered for the American icon. “Now we’re going to turn it up a notch. Does anyone here know how to jitterbug?”
The crowd roared as the band started to play “One O’Clock Jump.” Soldiers started coming over to our group, asking us to dance, and though I couldn’t jitterbug as well as some of the eighteen-year-old GIs, I had improved thanks to all the dancing I’d done at the camps and some lessons from Martha.
“Come on, Fiona. I know you want to dance.” Tommy Doyle held out his hand to me, and I couldn’t say no.
The dance floor in front of the stage filled up with couples fast, and the celebratory, party atmosphere continued as the band played more of their hit songs.
After dancing with several eager partners, I had to take a break from the hot, crowded dance floor and get a drink at one of the bars just outside the main hall. I noticed Viv was dancing and laughing with Harry Westwood, but I didn’t see Dottie anywhere. I got three cold Cokes and started to make my way back to my seat, where Viv met me and accepted one with gratitude.
“We’re going to take a quick break. Glenn Miller and his band will be back in fifteen,” the emcee said at the end of “In the Mood” as the curtain closed.
“How’s Harry Westwood?” I asked.
“Handsome,” she said. “Can’t deny that. And he has nice hands.” Sweat was dripping down the side of her face, and she was breathless. “And he’s smart, interesting, was a lawyer before the war. Maybe he’s not the wolf I thought he was. Where the heck is Dottie?”
“No idea,” I said, scanning the hall. We drank our Cokes and chatted with some of the girls sitting near us. And then the lights flashed three times, and people started to settle down into their seats.
Arthur Kimball took center stage again and tapped the microphone.
“For our first song in the second half of the show, we’ve got a special treat for you,” he said. “We have a very talented female vocalist who is going to perform. She’s working here as a Red Cross Doughnut Dolly, but once you hear her, I think you’ll agree that she has a music career in her future.”
All the Clubmobile girls were giving each other looks, whispering about who it could possibly be. I clutched Viv’s hand and looked at her.
“Absolutely not possible,” she said, shaking her head.
“No. No way. She would never,” I said.
“A music teacher from her hometown of Boston, Massachusetts,” said emcee Arthur, “introducing . . . Miss Dottie Sousa!”
Our whole Red Cross section jumped out of their seats and started to cheer and clap wildly. Viv and I stood there, staring at the stage and holding on to each other as the curtain rose to reveal our dear, sweet, shy Dottie, looking beautiful in her cream-colored dress, standing in front of a microphone with Glenn Miller’s band.
“What the hell is happening?” I said in Viv’s ear. “And why isn’t she wearing her glasses?”
“Oh my God. Is she drunk? What if she’s drunk?” Viv asked. “I think she had more champagne than we did. Fi, I’m about to throw up.”
“Me too.”