MIRANDA #2
He raised an eyebrow. ‘You never attended my boarding school. That was akin to the Middle Ages. I ran away to my grandmother’s house once, and thankfully my parents saw sense after that.’
She laughed, charmed, but then, to her annoyance, he stopped by her desk, waiting for her to leave, and she had no choice but to join him. Her plan to sneak into the minister’s office would have to be jettisoned.
The corridors were quiet, the night staff silently getting on with their work. The first chefs and maids would start to arrive at three or four, and the whole machine would be back in action by six, like a great aging galleon forever ploughing forward through the ocean.
Sinclair smiled at her as they headed out of the staff door onto the street. ‘You really are very different from British girls, you know, especially the ones here in Buckingham Palace.’
Miranda thought of her dull married friends in New York. ‘I’m a bit of an oddity in New York, too.’
‘What was your old job like?’ Sinclair asked as they fell into step leaving the palace and walked towards the Underground station. ‘Why did you leave?’
Miranda already had her story prepared. ‘It was a paper company in Manhattan – office paper and stationery. My boss had to fire a few people, so he got rid of the women.’ She let out an exasperated groan.
‘I’m surprised he didn’t want you to stay. You’re obviously a keen worker.’
‘The trouble is that I’m not as good at being subservient. I can’t stay in my place and be grateful.’ She pursed her lips. ‘I’m no good at buying ties and making coffee.’
Sinclair chuckled. ‘You don’t strike me as the kind of person who would stand for any nonsense.’
‘It’s different for you, a man. I bet you never had to work your way up from being an office junior.’
‘Yes, I’m lucky in that respect. The diplomatic corps recruited me straight from university.’
‘That’s not bad! Men like you are systematically promoted. You must be quite high up by now.’
He shrugged. ‘I’m more interested in foreign postings than promotion. The trouble is, they always need a free translator who’s good with handling tricky situations.’ Almost to himself, he murmured, ‘Liaising, picking up leads, things I picked up during the war.’
Intrigued, she asked, ‘What kind of war work did you do?’
Perhaps Sinclair also had something to hide, as he sped his pace.
‘It was far away from Westminster, that’s for sure.
’ He chuckled, looking up into the clear night sky.
‘Funny, the reason I joined the diplomatic corps was to see the world, see how the stars look from the other side of the planet. But here I am, stuck in London.’
‘The stars,’ Miranda murmured, transported for a moment back to Connecticut. ‘I watched them during the war, too.’
After Jack left for the war, she’d gone back to college to finish her degree – that’s when she’d thrown herself into writing for the college newspaper. If Jack had to fight, then she would join the battle by writing about it.
Every night she’d gaze at the distant stars, wondering if Jack could see them from the Pacific Ocean, wondering if he was thinking of her, too.
He wrote sporadically, and even though his letters were censored, between the lines she could sense him gradually unravelling.
He was a law scholar, not a naval officer.
And then the telegram arrived. A man on a motorbike delivered it like it was a ticking bomb, running as fast as he could from the door before she could read the words, her life exploding into a thousand tiny particles, like stars themselves, fragments of a life destroyed expanding into the universe.
The following days had been a blur, blending into weeks before something inside her knew she couldn’t carry on with this grief.
She had to get out, get away from Connecticut, where every street corner, every tree, every part of her house reminded her of him.
There were shadows in her bed where he should have been, a place set for him at the dining table. How could she live with these ghosts?
Packing his photograph away, she moved to New York, buying new clothes, redirecting her energies into her career. Journalism would save her. She took Jack with her, of course, inside her heart. If she couldn’t have Jack, she didn’t want anyone.
Something was caught in her eye. She wiped it dismissively, annoyed that she’d exposed herself, let her guard down.
‘Miranda, what’s wrong?’ Sinclair caught her arm. ‘Here, come and sit down. Let me get you a cup of tea.’
She glared at his hand on her arm. ‘Tea? You British people think a cup of tea will solve everything!’ She laughed, but her voice was taut, and with a final glance back at him, she pulled away and darted down into the station.
Quickly, she lost him in the crowds, but she could hear him calling her name, blending into the cacophony of people hurrying home, a busker on a mouth organ, young men joking after a few drinks.
On the northbound platform, she found a space on a bench and sank into it.
What had come over her?
And more to the point, how had she let herself be caught off guard?
From now onward, she’d have to double her work efforts, gather more stories for O’Hara, make sure her mind was far too preoccupied for unsavoury emotions.