Miranda
The invitation had been cemented only a few days ago, Sinclair suggesting dinner on his canal boat. She couldn’t wait, curious to see it for herself: Sinclair in his water-bound home.
And, of course, there was that other matter.
‘Physical attraction can be so very base,’ she muttered, pushing it out of her mind.
With the coronation only days away, she’d be heading back to New York soon, and all of this would drift into memory, that peculiar time she’d had in London.
A lone Italian guitar played from a café as she ventured onto the towpath, and there, standing by the boats, was Sinclair, his mouth lifting into a smile as he saw her. He looked relaxed in casual clothes, his usual ironic manner replaced with a genuine pleasure at seeing her.
And with a sudden whoosh, she felt on top of the world. It was one of those special moments, the boats on the still water, the soft lilting music, and the man taking her hand so that she could step onto the boat.
‘Welcome to Nessy!’ he said. ‘I hope you find her shipshape.’
Instead of the shabby old boat she’d been expecting, Nessy was gleaming, from the polished burgundy woodwork to the cushioned seats around the edge of the deck.
‘She’s beautiful!’ she said, walking to the hatch to peer inside.
‘Let me show you the living area,’ he said, leading the way down into the body of the wood-panelled cabin.
The smell of Italian herbs and tomatoes came from a small stove, beside it a fully laid table, crystal glasses glimmering in the dapple of a single candle.
‘How enchanting,’ she said.
‘They design these boats to get the most out of them. This table lowers, and I can make this into a double bed if I have visitors.’
She laughed. ‘And do many people want to stay?’
‘No. One of my sisters came once, but on seeing this, she found a local hotel.’ He grinned.
‘You never mentioned any sisters. Are they as warm and friendly as you?’ she joked, walking through to a living room area with a built-in sofa lit with coloured wall lights, the tiny panes in blue and green.
‘My elder sister? She’s a laugh a minute,’ he said ironically.
‘She came down after the wedding that didn’t happen, telling me that I had to buy a proper house in the suburbs.
She said it would put down roots for my future.
’ He gave something in the oven a quick check.
‘Roots are the last thing I want! Why did I join the diplomatic corps if I wanted to be a good boy and settle down?’
‘Hence the canal boat.’
‘At least here I can pretend I’m somewhere exotic.’ He gestured for her to take a seat, and then took a large, bubbling dish from the oven. ‘Do you like tortellini?’
‘Wonderful! I’m impressed.’
‘Alas, a cook I am not!’ He took out a bottle of red wine. ‘Mrs Marino from the café made it for me. I’m one of her favourite customers, Italian being one of my languages.’
‘I bet you charm all the foreign ladies around here.’
He laughed as the cork came out with a small pop.
‘I think they see me more as an errant son who needs feeding up.’ He poured wine into two glasses, the pungent, fruity aroma mingling with the smell of the rich sauce as he began to spoon it onto their plates.
‘And they like to help with the messy business of romance, too. I’ve lost count of the number of girls who’ve been introduced to me by various café and shop owners. ’
‘And none of them appeal?’
‘Not for now. Once the coronation is over, perhaps. I’ve been promised Rome, at long last.’ He raised his glass.
As she watched him, she felt a sudden jolt that she’d miss his company, their convivial banter. But more than that. She’d miss him.
His eyes lingered on hers, and she couldn’t help wondering if he were thinking the same thing.
But then he seemed to shake himself and asked, ‘What about you, Miranda? The palace will want to move you into the planning office, I’d say, for the queen’s Coronation Tour.
It’s an organizational behemoth, apparently, twelve countries in six months, from the Caribbean to Africa and the Far East. It’ll be right up your street. ’
Miranda thought of her flight home to New York, the phone calls to her friends to find her next guest room to stay in. Would she lose touch with her London friends? She’d have to if they found out she was J. Marshall.
She put on a smile. ‘Ah, but would they let a mere woman be entrusted with the Coronation Tour?’
‘I can only imagine the fresh nerves you could shred in that department.’ He laughed.
After dinner, he offered her a tour of the boat. ‘There isn’t a lot to see, but it’s not every day you find yourself on a canal barge, especially one as luxurious as Nessy.’
Beyond the living room area, a narrow corridor led to the bedroom, a double bed covered with a thick yellow-gold quilt. ‘I bought it in Katmandu.’
‘You were in Nepal?’
His eyes lit up. ‘Up in the Himalayas, one of the most spectacular places I’ve been.’
Miranda had always thought her own life brave and adventurous, taking the New York journalism scene by storm. But this, this was the rest of the world. ‘It must be fascinating seeing different cultures.’
‘It helps me try to unravel why human beings are the way we are.’ He took down a photograph, and there he was, smiling on a mountain pass with two Nepalese men. ‘Underneath, we’re all the same.’
There was a pause, and then she asked, ‘Have you ever been to Borneo?’
‘No.’ He watched her. ‘That’s where your husband died, isn’t it?’ He took a step closer. ‘You must miss him.’
She realized that something had shifted inside of her. That darkness, the frustration and anger, had been replaced by a sadness.
Slowly, she lowered herself onto the bed.
‘I know it’s a long time ago, but it’s just so hard to get used to it.
Jack had always been there, my neighbour, the guy who’d climb onto the garage roof to get into my bedroom for a late-night chat.
His death changed me.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m a different person now. ’
‘You know, you don’t need to be alone, Miranda.
’ He sat down beside her. ‘You keep pushing people away because you can’t bear the thought of having your heart broken again – believe me, I know the feeling!
But we can’t go through our entire lives being alone, can we? Not when there’s a better option.’
‘What kind of a better option?’ she asked, her eyes on his.
There was a moment when it could have gone either way, him looking into her eyes, the intensity in them. But there was something else, too. A sense of both of them being afraid and unsure, that a lot was on the line, more than just their hearts, something deeper.
Slowly, he leaned forward and touched his lips to hers, barely more than a moment of connection.
‘Are we doing the right thing?’ she whispered, gently moving forward to kiss him again. Something about the sensation made her yearn for human contact, the warm intimacy of skin against skin, and if she were honest, for him.
And between their gentle kisses, he whispered back, ‘I don’t know, but I’d torture myself forever if I let this moment go.’
Even though she wasn’t entirely sure she should carry on, she couldn’t seem to stop, her hands travelling down his shoulders, her fingers moving under his sweater to feel the soft skin on his stomach. Unable to stop herself, she peeled it off, gaping at his broad, tanned chest.
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ Sinclair said, pulling away, looking at her with a tenderness she’d never seen in him before. ‘Miranda, I don’t want to rush anything.’
As her eyes travelled down his shoulders and torso, she knew that she couldn’t tear herself away. ‘We’re not rushing, though, are we? We know each other. We’re friends.’ She let her hands drift over his chest, and she found herself pulled inexorably into him.
And as they leaned back onto the bed, the quilt shifting with their movements, neither of them noticed Miranda’s handbag toppling to the floor, the contents spilling out, her notebook skidding underneath the bed.