FIC: A Dream That Could Not Last 2 of 12 (Ryan/Simon, Amanda/Carly, Kimberley/Anwar, PG)
Author: Clio
Title: A Dream That Could Not Last Chapter 2 of 12: Adam's Rib
Pairing: American Idol: Ryan Seacrest/Simon Cowell, Amanda Overmyer/Carly Smithson, Kimberley Locke/Anwar Robinson
Chapter Rating: PG
Chapter Summary: The ladies arrive.
Chapter Length: 8500 words
Disclaimer: People sort of own themselves, don't they? Which means this is a work of fiction.
Notes: A Dream That Could Not Last is an AU romantic comedy set in 1939 London, when everyone knew war was on the horizon but no one was sure when or how it would arrive-which made love of all kinds that much more important. Follow a year in the life of three groups of (mostly) Americans: pilots who joined the RAF, singers and dancers in a swing music revue, and reporters for BBC Radio. As usual there will be plenty of songs along the way to set the mood.
This was a big undertaking, and needed a team. If I was the writer/director, then locumtenens was my editor, lillijulianne, musicforcylons and evil_erato my producers, dana_kujan the actually helpful studio executive; and ali_wildgoose my executive producer who kept the train on the tracks in ways so numerous I cannot list them here.
Prologue | 1: The Lady Eve
Chapter Two: Adam's Rib
7 November 1939
Kimberley Locke looked out over the railing of the balcony, past the garden at the buildings beyond, and couldn't quite believe that she was in London. London, of all places! New York had been strange enough, or really Harlem, with its brick buildings so close together, hubbub on 125th street even late at night. But London was quieter-even the people seemed to all be whispering. Kim had never been out of the country before, but now she had a passport with a work visa and a steamer trunk with a sticker on it that said "Queen Mary, Southampton."
They'd only been in the country for two weeks, having done most of their rehearsals in New York. Kim had been living in Harlem for two years, building a pretty good career singing jingles on the radio and in the chorus at some second-rate nightclubs. She lived cheap, in a boarding house, to save as much money as she could. The other girls thought she was sending her pennies home to Tennessee, and she let them think it. Few knew that her family had always been comfortable, that her daddy was a doctor in Nashville, and that she'd gone to college; the money was being secreted away for law school. But she loved singing, and it was more lucrative and more exciting than teaching school. Her young uncle lived in Harlem working as a reporter for the Amsterdam News and Kim was sure that otherwise her parents would never have let their baby go off and sing. But he knew everyone in town and he was good for a meal once a week or so. He also pulled her into his political activities, a subtle reminder of what her family expected of her once her singing adventure was over, particularly in matters of marriage.
It was her uncle who'd heard about this new show that Miss Abdul and Mr. Jackson-who'd quickly become Paula and Randy to her-were going to put on in London. The multiracial cast made a lot of girls, black and white, skittish, as did heading to England when so many thought there would be war soon. But the show simply couldn't go up in New York, or Chicago, or probably anywhere in America. Kim finally had a lead in a revue, so she was determined to go, war or no war.
The three lead singers shared the large, sunny room with its tiny balcony on the second floor of the house Paula Abdul had rented for the ladies of the company. Like many London townhouses, the kitchen was in what Kim would call the cellar, though it had a separate entrance in the front and a doorway to the back garden. The Studdards had their rooms "below stairs," as did the seamstress and the vocal coach for the company. The first floor had a dining room, a study, and a large living room with a piano. Paula had a large bedroom at the other end of the hall from Kim's, and the dancers shared smaller rooms on the second and third floors. Randy and the band had rooms in a house nearby, though before each show they all had dinner together around the large kitchen table downstairs.
Kim sat back in the chaise and lit a cigarette, and listened to Jen and Kat talking as they came out to join her.
"I thought it was lovely of him to sit and talk to us like that. Such good advice!"
"I thought he was an ass."
"Jen! Language!"
"Please, Kat. I've never seen anyone so full of themselves. He talked to us because he likes to hear the sound of his own voice."
"Kim? What did you think of Mr. Cowell?"
Kim rested her bare feet on the balcony railing. "I thought he was just another critic," she said. "You know, he was fine, he had things to say, some of it was smart, some of it not. Just take what sounds right, forget the rest, and remember what Paula says."
"Hold on to your magic," Kat and Jen said in unison.
"Last night was fun, after the show," Kim said.
"Wasn't it?" Kat replied, and she and Jen were off on a new, less emotional topic.
Not that Kim could dismiss Simon Cowell so easily, either-the man got under your skin. But she preferred to remember him not from when he held court backstage, but when he sat in the after hours club, laughing with them, and applauding one of Kim's songs. He'd left with that other reporter fellow in tow, and Kim wondered if he was that kind. She wouldn't be surprised; it would explain why he was less of a lech than the usual.
"What do you think of the boys in the band, Kim?" Kat was saying.
"Me? Oh, they're all right I guess," she said.
"All right?" Jen asked. "Some of them are damn good looking. I just wish the band was bigger."
"They have a big sound," Kat said loyally.
"Oh, I know you don't care, Kat, because the band is all colored, but a bigger band means more men!"
"And that means more trouble," Kim said. "Especially with the dancers."
"I can handle myself," Jen said, shaking her shoulders.
"I know you can, honey, but what about that little Camile who was all over Corey?"
Jen made a dismissive "hmph" and said, "Trumpet players are always bad news. The fun kind of bad news, which makes him even worse. I have been there, and I am not going back."
"They say that the devil is a charming man," Kat said.
"But those Smith cousins, now, those are some men."
"What about you, Kat?" Kim asked.
"Oh, maybe I'll get carried away by an earl, or a lord, or a duke, or a baronet."
"Isn't that what's on the end of a gun?" Jen asked, winking at Kim.
"That's a bayonette and you know what I meant Jennifer Hudson!" Kat said, hitting the girl on the calf with one of the small pillows from her chaise. "I wish there were some princes around. I'd love to be Queen."
"The Queen of England can't be a Catholic, Kat, so it's just as well." Kim stubbed out her cigarette. "I'm gonna to go wash up. Cast dinner in an hour, you'll see the Smiths again then."
"The nice thing about being in a show and dating the band," Jen said, adjusting her hair net, "is that your hair is always done."
Sgt. Amanda Overmyer fidgeted in her seat. Her dark brown hair was pulled back and tucked under her cap, her dress uniform perfectly pressed, her pumps polished to a high gloss, but she wore it all with the discomfort of the confirmed tomboy. Oh, she knew how to behave like a lady, even if she hadn't been called upon to do so in years; she'd been very well trained at a young age. But that didn't mean she liked it much, and she couldn't wait to get to the base and change into boots and coveralls.
"Sit still," said Pilot-Officer Chris Richardson, who sat opposite her. He looked comfortable enough in his dress uniform, but then, Chris was the sort of fellow-tall, slim, broad-shouldered, handsome in that all-American way-who looked comfortable in anything.
Amanda scowled, though she was too cute, with her round cheeks and bright blue eyes, for it to have much effect. Usually she would take advantage of folks' underestimation of her, but Chris had been ignoring her scowls for most of their lives; she'd have to try another tactic. "So do I call you Lord Richardson, now that we're in England?"
"C'mon, Amanda," Chris said.
"What's this now?" asked his smaller, blonder buddy, Pilot-Officer Blake Lewis.
She grinned; this might make up for having to wear stockings with her dress uniform on this train trip from the harbor to the airfield. "Your mom said your dad has a title but he only uses it when he comes home to England. So shouldn't you have one?"
Blake let out a low whistle. "Man, you've been holding out on me? I've been pals with a lord?"
"No, no!" Chris sighed. "So, my grandfather is a duke. There, happy Amanda?"
"And that makes you a lord?" Blake asked.
"No, that makes me fuck-all, because my father is a second son."
"But he's a lord," Amanda said. "Lord Richardson. And your mother is Lady Richardson."
"Yeah, but I'm not anything."
Blake cocked his head. "That doesn't seem fair."
Chris shrugged. "And they only got called that when we were here for holidays."
"So if your dad were the first son?"
"Well," Chris said, "he might not have married my mother since she's American, but I would have grown up here and not in Virginia, and I wouldn't have met you. I'd like to think I'd still be flying. So now it all comes out even."
"But your dad would still be Lord Richardson."
Chris blushed a little. "No, he'd be Earl of Inverness."
"And you'd be?"
"Well, I'd be Baron Arklow."
"Where's the Richardson?"
"It's our last name, not the name of the title. So I wouldn't be Richardson, I'd be Arklow."
Blake sat back on the bench. "That's just confusing."
"Yeah," Chris said, rubbing the back of his neck.
"But you know it all by heart?"
"Well, my grandmother-"
"The Duchess?"
"-yeah, she used to quiz us. She was worried we wouldn't know our family, living in America and all. Man, Amanda, why'd you start this?"
Amanda laughed. "Because it's a real scream."
"I don't want to be your friend anymore."
"You've been saying that since we were three."
"This time I mean it."
"You've been saying that since we were ten."
"I can't imagine why your parents wanted you two to get married," Blake said.
"Fat chance of that," Amanda replied.
"Hey! I'm a good catch!" Chris objected.
"Yeah, but you're not really my type. I'm looking for something a little more-" she made an hourglass shape with her hands. "Not that you aren't shapely yourself, Lewis."
"Well, thank you kindly, ma'am," Blake said in an exaggerated cowboy accent. "Also, if you laid a finger on Richardson, here, I'm afraid there'd be a duel." The others started laughing, and Blake said, "What?"
"She could take you," Chris said.
"Nice loyalty!" Blake replied.
"Nothing to do with loyalty," Chris said. "She can take me."
There was a tap at the compartment door, and Amanda saw Blake quickly slide away from Chris-just two inches, but that tiny difference that made all the difference, and she sighed. When she and Chris had been out barnstorming together, he'd had a man in every town. Not that difficult, as he was downright dashing in his flying kit, scarf and goggles and all. She'd pulled her share of pretty girls, intrigued by the lady mechanic; they'd come around the plane, shyly, half the time not sure what brought them there, giggly and flirting as if she were a boy. She'd leave telling them to move to Chicago, New York, some big city where they could find a lot more girls in trousers. It was harder for Chris, because the women wanted him. The men rarely dared to approach Amanda, and that was fine with her.
But when the war started and they'd decided to head for Calgary and join up with the RCAF-which Chris was doing for Amanda's sake; he could have joined the RAF at any point-Chris met the Boeing test pilot from Seattle who could do as many tricks as he could, if not more, and immediately fell into what could have been an inconvenient crush. But Chris had always been a lucky sort of fellow, and his feelings were returned. It was odd, as Blake and Chris were seen by the other pilots as best buddies, inseparable good friends-apparently since they were big manly pilots no one suspected anything else, which was all to the good. Everyone liked Chris anyway, which helped ease Amanda's acceptance by the other pilots. After all, if a pilot like Chris insisted that only Amanda service his plane, she must have the stuff.
Amanda opened the door. "Grigsby!"
"Overmyer!" Sgt. Charles Grigsby gave Amanda a firm handshake. "Sister, I have never been so glad to be on dry land! Room for three more in here?"
"Of course, come on in. Yeah, I hate ships; don't like being on anything that has an engine too big for me to get my hands around."
"Ain't that the truth," he said, flinging his bag up onto the shelf above them. Brandon Rogers and Anwar Robinson followed him into the compartment. They were the only colored men who hadn't washed out of training-Rogers and Robinson were pilots-and since there were so few of them they weren't segregated into their own squadron, much to the dismay of some of the white pilots. Not that it was easy at first for Chris either; he'd confided to Amanda that he'd never have thought Negroes could fly until he'd seen Rogers and Robinson for himself. Once he had, though, he was firm and outspoken advocate for their inclusion-after all, this was war.
Grigsby didn't have the same problems; it was much odder to see a white woman like Amanda with grease on her hands than a colored man. The two took to each other instantly, and Amanda was grateful that he was colored, as even if he did make any advances they'd be easy to turn down without revealing her secret. But he never did, just treated her like another pal.
"Itchin' to get in the air?" Rogers asked, sitting down on the other side of Grigsby.
"Man, between the train to Halifax, and the crossing, and this trip, I haven't spent this much time not flying since I learned how!" Blake said.
Robinson, seated next to Blake, stretched out his legs. "I expect," he said, "that soon enough we'll be flying even more than we'd like."
It was drizzling by noontime, so Ryan wore a trench coat and a hat like the stereotypical foreign correspondent in the movies, which was helpful for confidence. As he walked from the Tube, he focused his mind on the interview he was doing later that afternoon, getting himself into that post-preparation zone where he was all instinct and reaction. So he wasn't thinking much when he walked into the door of Broadcast House and let his feet take him straight into Simon's office.
"Can I … help you?" Simon asked, barely looking up from his desk.
"Have a minute?" Ryan asked, closing the office door.
"I reckon," Simon said, slowly standing up and perching on the corner of his desk.
Ryan walked across the room and took Simon's head in his hands. He hesitated for a moment, looking into his eyes, and then leaned in for a kiss. It was oddly comfortable, softer than he would have expected, and not perfect-their tongues sort of flopped about before settling into a good place. Simon slid his hands behind Ryan's shoulders, and he found himself standing between Simon's legs. He pulled back, and was a little short of breath.
"Your hands are cold," Simon whispered.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Ryan said, smiling.
"No, I like it," Simon replied, and moved in for another kiss, slipping off Ryan's hat for better access. After a bit he added, "Don't you have some work to do?"
"Interview around 2:30," Ryan said, barely lifting his lips from Simon's.
"Dinner on Sunday?"
"I'd like that." Silence again, and then Ryan said, "New rule-do not kiss Simon during business hours."
"Why not?"
"Can't seem to stop."
One more kiss, and Simon pulled back. "I appreciate that you're a man of your word-"
"Of course."
"-but you need to do your interview."
"You're right. Yes." Ryan smoothed his hair. "How do I look?"
"Ravished." Simon smiled. "Here, your tie's askew." He pulled it into place, the back of his fingers brushing against Ryan's chest, and he could feel it rising and falling, his heart beating so fast. "Oh hell," he said, using the tie to get himself a last kiss. "Go, before something happens."
"Going," Ryan said, walking backwards. He stumbled over one of the chairs-"Whoops!"-and tried to push the door open instead of pull it-"Oh, other way"-before finally walking out the door with a last wave.
Simon sat down in his chair and licked his lips. He felt giddy, like he hadn't since-like a girl, one of those teenage girls who scream over Valentino or Clark Gable. Ryan had left his hat on Simon's desk and he put it on, marveling at how small Ryan's head was.
There was a knock at the door, and Carly walked in, closing it behind her. "Whose hat is that?" Carly asked, sitting down at her own table. "Doesn't fit you."
"What? Oh, um, Ry-Seacrest's. It's Seacrest's hat, he left it in here just now."
Carly narrowed her eyes. "Why? What have you two been-heavens, your lips are all puffy."
"Are they?" Simon asked, running his fingers across them.
Carly shook her head. There was a knock at the door, and in came Joel McHale. He nodded. "Cowell."
"McHale," Simon replied.
McHale shut the door behind him, turned to Carly, and put his hand out, palm up.
Carly scowled as she reached for her handbag, pulled a fiver out of her wallet, and handed it over.
"Thank you," McHale said, and let himself out.
Simon turned to Carly. "All right, what was the over-under?"
"A week," Carly said, turning back to her work.
As soon as they arrived they were ordered to put their gear in their bunks, change out of their dress uniforms, and assemble in the briefing room. Amanda was surprised that the ground crews were also being asked to join the briefing; after all, they weren't classified as officers, even though with her college education she was qualified to be one. She sat with Grigsby as far in the back corner as was possible in the small room. Robinson and Rogers had been called away, and Amanda was concerned that they'd be denied at this last minute. Taylor Hicks and Bucky Covington, the mechanic who'd followed Hicks around like a well-leashed puppy since the first day in Calgary, hadn't stopped pushing for a segregated squadron since the decision had been made, on the grounds of "camaraderie." Amanda had sympathy for the airmen who were uncomfortable with colored pilots and ground crew; she'd been raised in Virginia, lived in a house with colored servants, had the usual beloved colored nursemaid. But Hicks reminded her of the county sheriff her daddy had helped push out of office when she was a girl, a man who'd used race to increase his own power. It wasn't about a true belief in the inferiority of the Negro, which Amanda's family didn't share but didn't fight; it was, as her daddy had said at the time, "the same old divide and conquer."
There was a rustling and Amanda looked up to see a man she hadn't seen before walk in; he moved as though he expected their respect and had a no-nonsense air about him with the hint of a scowl. The two regular RCAF pilots who'd helped train them back in Calgary, David Cook and Matthew Rogers, followed him. Everyone stood at attention as the man walked to the small podium at the front of the room. Amanda noted that Robinson had reappeared, in the front row, next to Josh Gracin.
"As you were, men," he said in a broad accent Amanda couldn't place. "I'm Group Captain Michael Johns, and as you can hear, I'm Royal Australian Air Force. I'll be heading up your group as well as some other groups as part of the overall Commonwealth forces, and I would say I want to welcome you Yanks to the effort, except I've been told that some of you won't answer to that term." After a bit of laughter, Johns goes on. "Well, the southerners will have to get used to it; outside of the States Yanks is what you all are. I've looked over all of your records over the last week and talked just now to the Flight Lieutenants"-which he pronounced "lef-tenant", confusing Amanda for a moment-"about the organization of this group and we've decided to divide you into two squadrons of three flights, each flight with three aircraft, three pilots, and one mechanic. David Cook and Matthew Rogers have been promoted to your Squadron Leaders. I want to emphasize that flight leader is an in-air designation only; you will all remain Pilot-Officers. Working in Squadron 12 under Lieutenant Rogers as flight leaders will be Joshua Gracin and Justin Guarini; in Squadron 15 under Lieutenant Cook will be Phil Stacey and Anwar Robinson." Johns held up his hand. "I understand from Cook and Rogers that this decision will be controversial for some of you, but it's final. Welcome to the war, gentlemen."
As Johns began to call out the names of pilots and mechanics, they arranged themselves into their two squadrons. To Amanda's relief, she, Chris and Blake were with Lt. Cook in Squadron 15, while Hicks and Covington were in Lt. Rogers's squadron.
"One last thing," Johns announced. "We'll dine tonight as one team. We don't much hold to the segregation of pilots and grounds crew in the RAAF or the RCAF, and we won't do that here either, even if we are in England. Now, I'll leave you to it." Everyone stood again as Captain Johns left the room.
"All right, men," Lieutenant Cook started, looking serious, though even when he was stern he had an air of friendliness that inspired loyalty in his pilots. "Oh, and lady," he added, nodding at Amanda.
"I'll answer to 'man', sir," Amanda said.
Cook nodded. "Now, if any of you do have a problem with Robinson…"
"If I can interrupt, sir?" asked Daughtry.
"Please."
"Speaking for myself, after seeing Robinson fly during training, I'd be proud to serve in a flight with him."
"So would I," said Young.
"Me too, sir," added Bice.
Cook smiled then. "Well, that makes our jobs easier. As Richardson and Lewis are already on record, I'm putting Daughtry and Richardson under Robinson, Young and Bice with Stacey, and Rogers and Lewis with me. Sergeants, you have back up; we have a few Canadian ground crews already here, and they're waiting to show you around. Pilots, come with me and I'll brief you further, and we'll all reconnect at dinner."
Grigsby and Amanda walked outside, young Jason Castro in tow, where they were joined by the mechanics for squadron 12, Sergeants J.P. Lewis, Scott Savol and Covington.
"Nice," Covington said, "the black, the baby and the -"
"I wouldn't, friend," Sgt. Lewis said, his hands in his pockets.
"Oh? You're gonna stop me?"
"I'd try," he replied. "It's at least three against two, and 'sides, just 'cause you can't hit her don't mean she won't hit you."
"Yeah, well, if she hits me," Covington said, "then she ain't a lady."
"Never said I was," Amanda replied, walking away in the direction of the airfield.
The orientation from the Canadians, who'd been there about a month, was fairly simple: the equipment in London wasn't much different than in Calgary, and they'd already learned the Hurricane and Spitfire fighters inside and out during training. Now that the Americans had arrived, they'd be learning upkeep on the bombers, to back up the crews on the bomber squadrons, and they got books of specs to read on their own time. Still, when they got to the large mess hall the pilots were already there, so the three mechanics joined their squadron at a long table.
Amanda sat down next to Chris, who leaned in to whisper, "Any trouble?"
"Nothing I couldn't handle. Your end?"
"I don't think anyone would make trouble in front of Cook and Rogers," he replied, "but it's hard to tell. We're all on the same side anyway, right?"
"Sure. Speaking of which, how are you two-"
"Pretty dire for the duration," he said, his voice going even lower. "Like one of those novels your mother was always reading."
"Star-crossed lovers kept apart by fate? Sounds like that book you lent me."
"Amanda, that book was about the brave men who fought in the Spanish Civil War, not lovers," he said with a wink. "Just like a woman, seeing romance in everything."
"That's me," Amanda replied. "Girly to the core."
After her shower Kim dressed and went to the kitchen to help Mrs. Studdard with cast dinner. Mandisa Studdard and her husband Ruben had been brought over by Paula to look after the girls and keep things respectable. The girls had a firm curfew unless they were with Paula or Randy as they had been the night before; Kim felt like she was back on sorority row at Spelman with Mandisa as housemother, even though she was only a few years older than Kim.
"Mrs. Studdard, it smells wonderful," Paula said as she walked into the kitchen, a little ahead of the crowd as usual.
"Why thank you, Miss Abdul," Mandisa replied. "Here, I have your dinner keeping warm," she continued, pulling a plate off the far back of the stove and setting it on the kitchen table. "Absolutely ham-free."
"You are so good to me, Mrs. Studdard," Paula said, getting out her utensils before sitting down. Kim thought it was sweet, the way that Paula and Mandisa treated each other so formally, as if they were both the ladies of the house. "I see you've put Kim to work again."
"She's a lot of help," Mandisa said. "More than most of these show girls."
"I like it," Kim said. "Keeps my feet on the ground." She was slicing crackling cornbread when the boys in the band started wandering in. "Y'all hoot and holler so you'd think there was seventeen of you."
"We want you girls to know we're here," said Chik Easy, tapping at the table in the subconscious way of the drummer.
"I'm sure you do," Kim said.
And in truth it didn't take long for nearly all the dancers to come rushing down the stairs, adding their squeaks to the general din. Kim had slipped off her apron and settled down next to Paula, watching as the girls flirted and the boys teased. Jennifer had settled herself very happily between Ricky and Nicky Smith, cousins and saxophone players, and Kim admired how well she kept the attention of both of them, particularly given the male-to-female ratio at the table. Most of the other members of the band had their choice of dancers willing to get them more beans, more cornbread. The faster white girls-like Kellie, Jessica, or the odd one who'd decided to rename herself "Ryan"-were happy to flirt with, even have a fling with the boys in the band. But most of them kept a friendly but firm distance, gathering at the far end of the table. After all, it was one thing to live with colored folks, work with them, eat their food, but another thing entirely to date them. Like Kat, they were hoping for sugar daddies, but would settle in the meantime for stage door Johnnies.
Paula leaned over and asked, "Why aren't you joining in, Kim?"
"Oh," Kim said, "I've been with musicians before. They love the music, sure, but they don't have anything else to talk about."
"Like what?"
"Well, they aren't trying to get ahead, or don't know how. I just-I want a man who thinks about more than how quickly he can spend this week's paycheck."
"That's right," Mandisa chimed in. "When I was a girl, I knew I didn't want to marry some 'cropper, so I went with my brother to Chicago, and I met Ruben. And you're a college girl! Don't you settle."
Paula shrugged. "It can get lonely, not settling. Not a lot of men around that come up to that standard. I'm not saying compromise-just be prepared for what life is like when you don't." She smiled, taking Kim's hand and squeezing it.
"But Paula, you always have acres of beaux," Kim said.
"I do," Paula replied, "but I haven't found that one, and I've even married three of them! Trust me, dogs are better-though that quarantine will be the death of me! I won't see mine for another few months!"
"Well, you have us until then," Kim said loyally. "And maybe you'll have me for even longer. We can be single ladies together. Maybe even start a club."
"Single ladies with standards! That's the ticket! But before that, before anything else, comes work." She looked up at the clock. "Oh my goodness. Randy, Randy, the radio!"
Randy, who was sitting on the other side of Mandisa, talking to Ruben, leaned over to switch on the set, fiddle with the tuning a bit, until he found a male voice, English-accented with impossibly round tones that Kim hadn't heard actually come out of anyone's mouth, saying something about the British Navy contracting for battleships under the new Lend-Lease laws.
"Aww, we don't wanna listen to that war jazz," Nicky Smith called out.
"You'll wish you had when America goes to war and you have to fight," Kim said.
"FDR's gonna keep us out of this war, you'll see," Chik Easy replied.
Kat, further down the table, shook her head. "You probably don't even know who's fighting, or what for!"
"Don't know, don't need to know, don't wanna know," Ricky Smith said.
"Hey now," Randy said, waving his hands to calm them down. "We're not listening for that anyway."
After a brief musical interlude, an announcer said, "And now, our own Simon Cowell, with the goings-on about town."
"Last night I attended the new revue at the Pyramid Club," he started, and Kim thought how different his voice sounded on the radio than in person. The dancers got excited at the mention and Randy waved his hands to shush. "Don't let the controversy keep you away from this stylish and inventive show. Hot jazz from colored Americans has been a hit in London for some years now and this revue of Duke Ellington songs should be no exception. Paula Abdul's dancing girls are delightful, as are the performances from the three featured girl singers. Be sure to stay after the floorshow, so you can dance with your sweetheart to the small but powerful band led by Randy Jackson. And if you need more convincing, tune into my show this Tuesday evening, which will feature some of the singers from the Pyramid Club."
The announcer came back: "Well, a rare rave from Simon Cowell …" but he was soon drowned out by the cheering of the show people gathered around the table.
"All right, all right," Randy said. "It's good news, but we've gotta stay focused. One good show isn't enough. You gotta bring it every day like it was the first day, because there ain't no second chances. You feelin' me?"
The kids nodded.
"I said, are you feelin' me?"
"Yeah!" they shouted.
Paula stood up as well. "All right ladies, gentlemen, we have a show to do."
The interview had gone off without a hitch, and better than that, had sent a signal to his fellow broadcasters that despite being new in town Ryan would be able to give them a run for their money. The actor had taken to small David, and they'd even had a brief conversation on mike about Spain, which David urged Ryan to include in the interview. On the one hand, Ryan hated to feel that he was using the kid, but on the other hand, David was more than happy to be used for his cause.
It was nearing dinnertime and Ryan was sitting in his office working on a script; Giuliana had brought him a final cup of coffee before she left for the day. Joel had gone on another training excursion with Carly, and small David had left right after the interview to meet up with his school chums. He could hear music playing in Cowell's office next door and wondered why the man was still in the office rather than out on the town, though to be fair it wasn't that late. He rubbed his fingers across his lips, remembering the kiss. His other affairs had been much slower to start, and more about Ryan charming his way into the good graces of a golden boy: the former child actor turned musical comedy star, the ace tennis player who brought him to Spain in the first place, the charismatic leader trying to save his country. But this Simon Cowell-Ryan tried to ignore it, but it was different. He felt confident, at ease, no need to try that hard. He looked at the man and thought, he's mine.
Well, why wait? He got up from this desk and packed his case-he could finish the script at home, or in the morning-slipped on his overcoat but where was his hat? He looked behind Joel's desk, in his own desk drawers, and finally perched on the edge of his desk to retrace his steps. He was wearing his hat when he walked into Simon's office and then-
Oh. That's right.
He got up and opened his door, and there was Simon, leaning against his own doorjamb smoking a cigarette, Ryan's hat perched on his other hand. Music drifted out of his open door, the new Bing Crosby hit: "wrap your troubles in dreams and dream your troubles away…"
He took a puff, then asked, "Looking for this?"
"Yeah," Ryan said, taking the hat from him and putting it on.
"You have a very small head," Simon said.
Ryan shrugged. "I'm a small man. Say, I was thinking-"
"Why wait?" Simon asked.
"Yeah," Ryan replied, a little startled. "Why wait?"
Simon nodded. "Let me pack up," he said, and stepped back into his office.
Ryan leaned against the jamb as Simon switched off the gramophone and slid a few things into a leather case.
"I'll take you to my local," he was saying. "They have excellent pie."
"Your local what?" Ryan asked.
"Pub, of course," he replied, slipping on his raincoat and grabbing his umbrella.
"Ah, I see," Ryan said.
"And next time," Simon went on, "we can try yours."
"I'm not sure where it is," Ryan admitted.
Simon shut his office door. "We'll find it, and we'll bring Joel and Carly along, because Joel should know where it is, too."
"Great," Ryan said, and realized Simon had said "next time" like it was just assumed, and wondered if Simon had the same feeling he did.
"What?" Simon asked.
Ryan cocked his head and smiled. "Nothing," he replied. "Lead the way."
Simon lived not far from Broadcast House, so they walked to the Newman Arms, a small old pub with an arched stone passageway. It was a cozy little place with low ceilings and large windows, the menu written on a blackboard above the fireplace. The proprietor nodded as they walked in, and indicated two seats near the back.
"Isn't there some other pub most of the BBC people go to?" Ryan asked.
"Yes, the Fitzroy," Simon replied. "But there's a time and a place for all that see-and-be-seen, and sometimes a man just wants pint and pie in peace."
Ryan leaned in closer and said, low, "Or doesn't want to be seen too often with another man, especially if one or both of them have a certain … reputation."
Simon shrugged. "You'd mark me a fool if I said that didn't cross my mind," he admitted, "but it wasn't the primary motivator. I can't play those games all the time; no one can. Not even you, Mr. Hollywood."
"No," Ryan said.
"Besides," Simon went on, "I like your real voice so much better than that silly radio voice of yours."
Ryan decided to ignore that particular comment. "So it's just pie?" he asked.
"I recommend the beef and Guinness," Simon said, "unless you're a fan of kidneys. Most Americans aren't."
"But there's chicken and leek, that sounds good," Ryan replied.
Simon raised an eyebrow. "I would offer to order for you," he said, "but that would make you even more of a girl than ordering a chicken pie."
Ryan rolled his eyes. "Men do eat chicken."
"Not when given the choice of good British beef they don't," he said as the girl came over.
"The usual, Mr. Cowell?" she asked.
Simon nodded, and then they both looked at Ryan, expectantly.
He sighed. "I'll have the beef and Guinness and a pint of ale." The girl nodded and wandered off.
Simon grinned widely around his cigarette. "You'll find it so much easier," he said, leaning over to light Ryan's, "if you listen to me."
"Somehow I doubt that," Ryan replied.
Amanda found the other girls in the female barracks to be just fine as far as they went, which really wasn't that far. There were eight of them in the smallish building, four to a room in bunk beds like those northern summer camps her Smith classmates went to. They didn't much believe her denials that Chris was her sweetheart, but that was fine as it distracted them from the larger truth of the matter. At the front of their barracks was a recreation room, which the girls said got a lot of sun in the daytime and was very pleasant. The room resembled an old fashioned parlor, with chairs and little tables and a radio in the corner. Several girls had their knitting or embroidery sitting in neat fabric bags in the corners of favorite chairs, and Amanda wondered if she'd pick the habit back up; she was sure her mother would jump at the chance to send Amanda's old crochet hooks. The thought of making Chris a lap rug for his plane made her chuckle, but the truth was she probably wouldn't be able to get enough of the grease out of her hands to do any clean handiwork. But there was a little shelf with books, and a lending library in town, and she supposed that now was as good a time as any to finally read Vanity Fair.
The radio, however, was intensely disappointing. Where were the shows playing real music, rather than this semi-classical nonsense? Amanda had nothing against the long hairs, but she didn't think even they would care for this bizarrely sentimental stuff. There was a fairly good news show, with an "entertainment minute" from some bloke in London who sounded hilarious to Amanda, though the other girls found him generally a bit too pleased with himself. Then it was back to the sap, and the girls were "filling in" Amanda on all the base gossip. Capt. Johns was considered the most magnetic and handsome of the various group captains and apparently had a bit of a roaving eye, and while no one had any evidence that he'd actually strayed from his marriage vows, some of the girls were clearly setting their cap for him. Others were taken by the romance of the flyboys, but all of them were firm about their intention to marry up, and were excited that the war had thrown them into the company of so many upper class, educated men; most of these girls were middle class, and had gone to public universities if they'd gone to school at all.
By the end of the evening Amanda was remembering why she'd been so desperate to leave Virginia. However smart and interesting these ladies were, she felt strange and out of place; seems that something about looking forward to a future as a wife and mother affected the way a girl acted even among other girls. But that wasn't her future, and she'd spent so much time at Smith and then out barnstorming that she'd forgotten how to pretend. She went out to the stoop to stare up at the moon, get some air. She could see the men's recreation room across the way, and wondered how they were getting on, Chris and his Blake, the colored pilots, all of them. Capt. Johns had made it clear that she was welcome in the men's rec room, given that she worked directly with them and had been among them since training back in Calgary and she thought she'd probably spend more time over there, than here. Jeez, none of the girls were even her type, not that she was idiot enough to fool around in her own barracks. That thought made her worry about Chris; he'd always been better than she at hiding his preferences, but he'd never fallen in love before, either. And he didn't have to tell her (though he did); she could see it in his eyes. She hoped Blake could, too, but even more she hoped that everyone else couldn't.
The door to the recreation room swung open and shut as Robinson came outside, seemingly for the same reason she did. He noticed her and walked toward her, meeting her halfway across the dusty street.
"Feelin' a little out of place too, are ya?" he asked.
"Yeah," she said. "Never was much good at being a girl, and I'm an American one on top o'that. How's it in there?"
"You'll be glad to know the poker game is starting up again," he said. "Boys'll be eager to earn back their money from you."
"I won that money fair and square," she said, shaking her head. "So, they giving you any trouble, Robinson?" she asked.
"Not really," he said mildly, and pulled out one of his meticulously self-rolled cigarettes.
"Meaning, yes."
"Meaning nothing I can't handle even on a bad day," he replied, and lit up.
"Those boys sure backed you and Rogers up today," she said, smiling. "I'm glad. You earned it."
Robinson nodded, warily. "Yeah, well, that's in the air."
"Hey now," Amanda said. "I've known Chris Richardson a lot longer than you, it's true, but I tell you, everything he says, he'll back up with his fists if he has to. And so will I, if it comes to that."
Robinson cocked his head. "Well, I'd like to keep it from getting that far. That's no good."
"All right," Amanda said, and searched for a new topic. "Don't suppose there are too many colored girls around here."
"Sgt. Overmyer, are you trying to find me a girl now?" Robinson asked.
Amanda grinned. "Maybe. It's a better project than crocheting a lap robe, let me tell ya."
Happily the confidence boost the cast received from Mr. Cowell's review only served to make the show a bit looser. Everyone was surer of themselves, and could relax and really sell the songs and dances to the audience. Kim always liked a show better when it started settling into itself, though this one was complicated enough that it would probably take a good few weeks before that happened. But the crowds were big and Ruben said that the phone was ringing off the hook, between the BBC and good notices in the Times and other papers.
A few of the dancers were sitting about in the spacious room that the three main singers shared, winding down from that night's show. There were over twenty dancers and like any group of girls they fell into loose groups; the odd part was that all the groups were mixed, colored and white. There was the very serious group, whom Jen labeled the "snobs": girls like Carrie who went to bed promptly after the show, never going to the after-hours club, and who wanted to make the move from this jazz revue to Ziegfeld or the like. There were the faster girls, for whom the show was mostly an excuse to be out late at parties and meet available men, whether in the band or backstage. But the few girls who clustered around Jen, Kat and Kim were looking to become more singers than dancers. Their understudies Kelly Clarkson and Tamyra Gray could sing any part in the show. The show had been one of Kelly's first auditions since arriving from Texas; she was sending every available penny home to her farmer parents who were hard pressed by drought and Depression. Tamyra was quiet, and could often be found scribbling away in a journal, putting down song lyrics. Haley Scarnato and Gina Glocksen were an inseparable pair and shared a room just down the hall; they were more like the faster girls in temperament, but generally kept their distance from the boys in the band and at the after hours clubs. Ever since they'd come to London these girls had gathered in the larger bedroom after the shows and gossiped; on this night, they were talking about the after-hours club and the mysterious Mr. Cowell.
"No offense," Kelly said, pulling her brown hair into a pert ponytail, "but it was nice to just get up and sing."
"None taken," Kim replied. "I liked singing something different, myself."
"And the band!" Gina said. "They know how to wail! A girl can really dance to that kinda music."
"But hot jazz don't bring in the folks like sweet jazz does," Tamyra said, shrugging.
Jen nodded her agreement. "I'm just glad Mr. Cowell knew of a place! I didn't realize how much I missed those clubs until we found one."
"I just don't know how you can go out with those boys in the band, Jen," said Haley. "They're so quick to take advantage."
Kim snickered. "Jen can keep them in line."
"The band isn't the place to look for Mr. Right," Jen said, "but that isn't where I'm at right now anyway."
"What about the boys at the door?" Tamyra asked.
"So far they're pretty wet," Kat said dismissively. "Only a few have come backstage more than once. I know we just opened, but really." Kat and Jen had both been featured performers in shows before, and Kat was used to a certain level of man taking her to dinners and buying her presents-presents that were generally sold and the cash put in the bank. "And where are those lords and earls and such?"
"There was a bit in the paper about some American pilots coming over to help the RAF," Kelly said. "Maybe they'll find us, since we're playing American music."
"That would be better than the Brit servicemen. They're just as dopey as the rest of these Brits," Gina said.
"Kim, wouldn't it be nice for you if they've brought some colored pilots with them?" Kat said, a little condescending but not unkindly.
"It might be," Kim said. "Being in the service teaches a man to be responsible, which playing music does not. But I bet you'll find your prince if you keep looking."
"If any of us have a chance, it's you, Kat," Haley added. Kim had to struggle not to glance at Jen, or they'd start laughing. Some of the girls looked on Kat as some kind of princess, which Kat encouraged but Kim and Jen found a bit silly.
Kat smiled. "Well, if I find one, I'll be sure to send his brothers your way."
"That's right," Jen said. "We'll get a jazz singer into Buckingham Palace one way or another."
"I think you'd make a good queen, Jen," Tamyra said.
"African queen, maybe, but there ain't many of them," she replied. "I'd settle for Duchess. Or maybe Countess, that sounds nice."
"Well I'd settle for, 'has a job of his own'," Kelly said, and they all laughed.
"All right," Kat said, looking at the clock. "It's midnight, and I need some beauty sleep if I'm going to get that Duke."
As the other girls left and Kim turned down her bed she couldn't help but wonder, what if there really was a man in London for her? She hadn't even considered the possibility before-part of the reason she came to London with the show, other than the opportunity of a featured part, was that she was tired of getting her heart broken and thought London would be "safe." And now, against what she considered good sense, a little bubble of hope rose up in her chest. But a little hope wasn't such a bad thing, was it?
The pie was excellent-a flaky crust that melted into its well-seasoned filling of beef and vegetables-as was the dessert of rhubarb crumble, which Simon kept calling pudding for some reason. Ryan knew that if he ate like this every night he'd soon be as round as he had been when he was ten, and made a mental note to keep plenty of vegetables in the flat and find a gymnasium to get some exercise, both of which would be more difficult here than in sunny, sporty, farm-adjacent Los Angeles. The conversation was excellent-calmer now that they both knew where they stood, less flirtatious as others were in close proximity. Instead they told this-is-who-I-am stories, and while Ryan was sure his were ridiculous, Simon's revealed him to be more sensitive than Ryan would have thought. They moved to the bar after dinner and downed pints until closing time, when they stood awkwardly on the sidewalk.
"Well," Ryan said.
"I'm not far," Simon said. "You should come up for a drink."
Ryan cocked his head, hesitating. He'd lost his earlier confidence somewhere along the way, and was starting to distrust how easy this was, even if Simon himself was prickly and difficult. "I-"
"Did you enjoy your pie?" Simon interrupted.
Ryan scowled at the abrupt change in topic. "Yes, but what-"
"Then listening to me has worked out so far," he said, lighting a cigarette. He looked up at Ryan. "Hasn't it?"
Ryan folded his arms, suddenly irritated. "Or you could ask nicely," he said.
Simon stopped, startled, then looked out into the street, pausing long enough that Ryan wondered if he had overplayed his hand. Then Simon threw up his hands, turned back and smiled-not that self-satisfied smirk, but a real smile that made his eyes sparkle in a way that took Ryan's breath away. "Would you like to come to my flat for a drink?" he asked. Then, much softer so he couldn't be overheard, "Or to see my etchings or whatever the euphemism is these days."
Ryan bit his lip, trying to look serious. "Do you even have etchings?"
"No," Simon said, shaking his head.
"Then I'd love to," Ryan said, and let himself grin.
Chapter Three: His Girl Friday
Notes:
Adam's Rib (dir. George Cukor, 1949) is a romantic comedy starring Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy.
I'm going to save a lot of the notes about where I've deviated from the facts of the time in terms of race and sexuality for the commentary.
Randy, who was sitting on the other side of Mandisa, talking to Ruben, leaned over to switch on the set, fiddle with the tuning a bit, until he found a male voice, English-accented with impossibly round tones that Kim hadn't heard actually come out of anyone's mouth, saying something about the British Navy contracting for battleships under the new Lend-Lease laws.
Lend-Lease was a program instituted by FDR where the US would lend or lease weapons, ships, planes, and the like to the cash-strapped British and the French. FDR famously likened this to lending your neighbor a hose if their house caught fire. Of course, no one really thought that the Brits would be returning the planes and ships after the war was over, but it was a way for the US to help the Allies while staying out of the war.
The radio, however, was intensely disappointing. Where were the shows playing real music, rather than this semi-classical nonsense? Amanda had nothing against the long hairs, but she didn't think even they would care for this bizarrely sentimental stuff.
The BBC, being non-commercial, didn't play much popular music until the 1940s, and even then two audiences moved them: the British servicemen who were sitting around waiting for the Phoney War to end and the shooting war to start, and the American servicemen who were used to hearing popular music on commercial radio stations in the States. A lot of what the BBC would have been playing in 1939 was light classical and other sentimental music.