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gazed out above her audience, the sweet lips and the thick blonde
hair piled on top of her head. He could hardly bear to look at the familiar full breasts with their pert nipples barely concealed by a few sequins, or the seductively curved belly that led down to
her most intimate part . . .
    Without a shadow of a doubt, it was his Greta. He turned and saw Bart gazing hungrily at his fiancée’s body.
    Max knew he was going to throw up. He stood and hurriedly left the auditorium.
    Greta took her third cigarette from the silver case Max had given her and lit it, checking her watch for the umpteenth time. He was over an hour late now. Where on earth was
he? The waiter kept giving her suspicious glances as she sat alone at a table in the cocktail bar. She knew exactly what he was thinking.
    She finished the cigarette and stubbed it out, glancing at her watch once more. If Max hadn’t turned up by midnight, she would go home and wait for him there. He knew where she lived
– he’d collected her from her lodging house on a couple of occasions – and she was sure he’d have a good reason for not showing up.
    Midnight came and went, and the cocktail bar emptied. She stood up slowly and left, too. When she got home, she was disappointed not to see Max waiting for her outside. She let herself in and
put the kettle on the small stove.
    ‘Don’t panic,’ she told herself as she spooned a tiny amount of the precious coffee powder Max had given her into a cup. ‘He’s bound to be here soon.’
    Greta sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, jumping at every tap-tap of footsteps that passed the house and willing them to stop in front of it and mount the steps. She didn’t want to change
or to take off her make-up in case the bell rang. Finally, at three o’clock, shivering with cold and fear, she lay down on the bed, tears coming to her eyes as she gazed at the damp, peeling
wallpaper.
    Panic rose inside her: she had no idea how to contact Max. His ship was sailing from Southampton and she knew he had to report to it by ten o’clock this morning. What if he didn’t
get in touch with her before then? She didn’t even have his address in America. He’d promised to give her all the details of her passage and onward journey over dinner.
    As the stars disappeared with the dawn, so did Greta’s dreams of her new life. She knew now for certain that Max wouldn’t be coming; by now he was surely on his way to Southampton,
ready to sail out of her life forever.
    Greta arrived at the Windmill the following morning, feeling numb and exhausted.
    ‘What’s the matter, love? GI sailed off into the sunset and left poor little you behind?’ cooed Doris.
    ‘Leave me alone!’ cried Greta sharply. ‘Anyway, you know he’s not a GI, he’s an officer.’
    ‘No need to get nasty, I was only asking.’ Doris stared at her, clearly offended. ‘Did Max enjoy the show yesterday?’ she enquired.
    ‘I . . . What do you mean?’
    ‘Your boyfriend was in the audience last night.’ Doris turned away from Greta and concentrated on applying her eyeliner. ‘I presumed you’d invited him,’ she added
pointedly.
    Greta swallowed, torn between wanting to conceal the fact that she hadn’t known Max was there and making sure that what Doris had said was true.
    ‘Yes, I . . . of course I did. But I never look into the audience. Where was he sitting?’
    ‘Oh, on the left-hand side. I noticed him because just after the curtain went up on us
jolies mesdames
he got up and left.’ Doris shrugged. ‘There’s none so
strange as folk, ’specially menfolk.’
    Later that night Greta let herself into her room, knowing with absolute certainty she would never hear from Max Landers again.

3
    Eight weeks later Greta realised that Max had left her a legacy which would mean she was unlikely ever to forget their brief but passionate affair. She was absolutely sure she
was pregnant.
    Miserably, she entered the stage door of the Windmill. She felt