Page 54 of The Lost Story of Sofia Castello

53

LISBON, 1941

I’d never understood why sex was called ‘making love’ until that night with Trafalgar. Prior to that, I’d always thought that it would be more accurate to call it ‘making believe’ or ‘making awkward shapes with my body’, or, in the case of that terrible night with Bing, ‘making a damn fool of myself’! But that night, as Trafalgar and I gave ourselves to each other, I could feel the love being made between us. Everything that had happened in London was the prelude – the conversations, the laughter, the fear as we faced death together, and the bath where he caressed the life back into me; now, finally, we had the chance to pull all those moments into their natural crescendo. And as we came to rest, we looked at each other and, in perfect synchronicity, both said, ‘I love you.’

‘And now I have to leave you!’ he said, looking at the clock and instantly ruining the moment.

‘No!’ I cried, clinging to his arm.

‘But I’ll be back.’ He took my hand and held it tight. ‘I promise. As soon as I can, and for longer. And if you ever come back to London to do another show…’

I nodded eagerly. In that moment, I didn’t care one bit about the bombs or the danger. All I could think was that I couldn’t spend another four months longing for him until it hurt.

He got out of bed and picked his clothes up off the floor. ‘I hate this,’ he sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling on his trousers. ‘I hate leaving you.’

Then don’t, I wanted to say, but obviously I couldn’t. It would have been different if he had an ordinary job, but there was no way I would expect the SOE to say it was fine for him to abandon his work for the Allies to stay with his lover.

‘Did you achieve what you came here for?’ I asked, remembering what Emilio had told me.

He looked a little startled. ‘Here?’ he said, pointing to the bed.

I laughed. ‘No, here in Lisbon.’ I leaned closer. ‘I know about it,’ I whispered.

He looked even more confused.

‘One of my contacts here told me – about the member of the British aristocracy.’

He continued staring at me bewildered, and I wondered if he was pretending not to know because he’d been sworn to secrecy. But surely he knew he could trust me, given how we first met.

‘Well, I hope you caught him,’ I said.

‘Oh, right, yes,’ he said quickly, and I realised that I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t want him scared that I’d blab about it to anyone else.

‘I’m really going to miss you – especially now,’ I said, eager to change the subject.

‘Me too.’ He leaned down and kissed me. ‘Is there any way I can call you, once I’m back in London?’

‘Of course! I’m living at the Hotel Aviz.’

‘The Hotel Aviz,’ he echoed as if committing it to memory. His expression became grave. ‘God, I hate this war,’ he muttered before standing up and putting on his shirt.

‘Me too.’

He came and sat beside me. ‘When this is all over, I hope fate brings us together for longer. I hope it brings us together for…’

I looked at him questioningly. ‘For what?’

‘Forever?’ he said, but as if asking my permission.

‘I hope that too,’ I whispered, and we kissed again.

After he’d gone, I lay there for about an hour, trying to relive every moment of our all too brief time together.

When I heard the birds beginning their dawn chorus outside, I had a bath and got dressed, whistling along with them. I don’t think I’d ever felt so full of joy.

By the time Emilio arrived, I was ready to go. But as soon as I opened the door to him, I did a double take. He looked even more dishevelled than before, with his shirt untucked and half unbuttoned and no sign of his tie.

‘Are you all right?’ I asked as he strode into my room.

‘It’s been a very long night,’ he said, making his way straight over to the drinks table.

‘And clearly it isn’t over yet,’ I remarked as he poured himself a large Scotch.

He turned back to me. ‘So, did your mystery suitor turn up?’

‘He did. How about you? Did the aristocrat turn up? Did they meet with the Gestapo?’

‘Yes, but then he managed to give us the slip.’ Emilio sighed. ‘I’ve spent all night searching high and low, but it’s as if he vanished into thin air.’ He plonked down in one of the armchairs by the fireplace.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, perching on the arm of the chair opposite him, trying to rein in my joyous spirit in sympathy.

‘It’s OK. At least we know who he is now, so we can keep tabs on him. Hopefully next time he meets with the Gestapo, the SOE will catch him red-handed.’

‘Who is it? Am I allowed to know?’

‘The Earl of Beaumont.’

I pictured a ruddy-faced earl puffing on a cigar and drinking a glass of port.

‘You’ve actually met him.’ Emilio looked at me over his glass.

‘I have?’ I stared at him, confused. ‘When?’

‘When you were in London.’

I immediately thought of the ruddy-faced cigar-puffing Bertrand. ‘Does this Earl of Beaumont own a record label by any chance?’

‘No. He’s a member of the SOE.’

‘He’s in the SOE and I’ve met him?’ I said faintly. The room seemed to tilt on its axis.

Emilio nodded, grim-faced. ‘He’s the contact you gave the sheet music to. The one code-named Trafalgar.’