Spare Brides by Adele Parks Page A

there were just a few, worn by the overzealous or the desperate. Then there had been many, too many, the streets turned khaki as swathes and swathes of young men marched through, towards the stations and ports. Then there were too few again. The uniforms that did come home were shabby, tucked up to hide a lost bough, or trailing a sleeve, a ghost of a limb.
    Now uniforms were few and far between again. Worn mostly by poor, damned men, begging for food or casual work, hoping to kick-start some common decency or at least guilt. But this one was worn by a man with ramrod posture, a man with an air of resilience and triumph. His strength and masculinity oozed out and engulfed the entire room; Lydia noticed that Sarah was watching him too. Every woman in the room was. Some were doing so carefully, from under their lashes or out of the corner of their eyes; others were brasher, and practically allowed their jaws to openly hit the table. Lydia stared. She was incapable of not doing so, even though somewhere, on some level, she realised it was unacceptable.
    It was habit too to wait, to see if they could stand, if both arms were in place, if when they turned they might be scarred, burned beyond recognition. But this man turned and he was perfection. It was his absolute perfection that struck her. During the Great War they’d said they were fighting for the women and children, for the farms and the fields. Lydia had never quite believed this, even though she knew she ought. It was hard to swallow when so many women had been left broken-hearted, when so many children had lost a father. Now, suddenly, she understood why they had fought. They had fought for this man. Not men like him; this man alone, in all his perfection.
    ‘Are you all right, Lydia? Do you know him?’ Sarah asked.
    ‘Know who?’
    ‘The man you are staring at.’
    ‘No, certainly not.’
    ‘Gosh, what a shame. He’s divine. Beatrice would love an introduction.’ Sarah sat down, smiled at the waitress and began to look around the room, sizing up the other customers’ plates, trying to decide which cake seemed the most appetising.
    Lydia had forgotten how to sit down. She’d simply forgotten, as she realised that her breasts were aching, actually aching with longing. She glanced at the man again and felt nothing other than a terrible confusion as she understood that what she was experiencing was extreme desire. In the instant she understood as much, she was ashamed to admit that she had never felt anything similar with Lawrence. Flustered, she dropped like a sandbag into her chair. She made an effort to behave as she should, as she usually did. She tugged on the fingers of her gloves and took them off, set them aside. She picked up the menu and tried to focus, but the words swam in front of her, morphing and misbehaving. Sarah commented that she might have a teacake or perhaps a macaroon, for a change. ‘I wonder what the Russian pastries are like, exactly.’
    Lydia found it impossible to do anything other than smile weakly; although she had tried the Russian pastries only last week and had found them overly sweet and a little heavy, she simply couldn’t impart this wisdom. She began to play with the tablecloth, all the while strangely aware that he was in the room. Then she blurted, ‘Should we look at the leaflet?’ Somehow, illogically, the two things seemed related. The perfect man and the exotic sexual positions.
    ‘Not here, Lydia.’ Sarah coloured.
    ‘I need a cigarette.’ Lydia offered one to Sarah, who refused; although practically everyone smoked in public, Sarah and Bea were still resistant. Lydia inhaled deeply and tried to think about the menu.
    ‘Excuse me, is this yours?’
    The perfection was talking to her. He was right by her side, just behind the cigarette. His nostrils flared as he took in her smoke. She felt queer that her breath was now inside him. Moved. Up close, he was more beautiful than she had believed possible. His skin