London Tides

by Carla Laureano

  “Of course. But that was the reason for the text message. I need your shopping expertise. I have to find a dress.”

  “Say no more.” Asha gripped Grace’s shoulder with mock seriousness. “I knew this day would come. My little girl has become a woman.”

  Grace snorted, but Asha’s enthusiasm warmed her. No questions about what it meant that Ian was bringing her to a function where his mother would be present. No prodding about what this indicated about their relationship.

  “So . . . does that mean you’re going to have to play nice with his mum?”

  Spoke too soon. Grace shrugged, unwilling to let the matter dampen her spirits. “He didn’t seem to care, so I’m not going to worry about it.”

  “I’d say that’s a big step. After she kicked you off of her property that time, the fact he’s willing to risk her ire says he’s serious.”

  Her tea again served as an excuse not to answer, even though she’d thought the same thing. Ian was nothing if not a dutiful son, though to his credit, he’d not stood by and allowed his mother to insult Grace. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to be the reason for more family discord.

  Why not? You’re the one who broke up your own family.

  She discarded the thought before it could take root and poison her mind. She was not responsible for the actions and reactions of others. “So. Dress. Where are we going?”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ve got you taken care of. Wear comfortable shoes.”

  In retrospect, Grace should have known what the glint in Asha’s eye meant, but four stores and six hours on Oxford Street later, she wondered if she should have gone to Marks & Spencer and picked the first black dress she could find.

  Now, as she shimmied the twentieth option over her head, she was beginning to think Asha was torturing her on purpose.

  “Let’s see it, then,” Asha called from outside the dressing cubicle.

  Grace walked slowly from the tiny space to the full-length mirror. The dress was a pretty color—a vibrant royal blue—and the long sleeves covered both arms to the wrist. But when she turned to view the plunging back in the mirror, she immediately swiveled back toward the cubicle.

  “Where are you going? It’s perfect!”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “But it shows off your tattoo so beautifully! When did you get this one?”

  Grace twisted to look over her shoulder. The V-shaped opening exposed her back almost to the waist, revealing most of the Celtic Tree of Life inked there, its roots and branches braided into an endless circle. She’d gotten it shortly after she’d left London, when she’d finished her first assignment and she was so homesick for Ian that she’d nearly hopped the first plane home. At the time, it had symbolized the interconnectedness of humanity, one person’s responsibility to another, but now she wondered if she’d just been trying to justify choosing her career over Ian. She ignored Asha’s question. “Trust me, this is not the kind of attention I want at James’s wedding.”

  Asha looked unconvinced, but she flopped back down in the upholstered chair to wait while Grace went back to try the next option. Her voice followed Grace into the cubicle.

  “You know, sweetie, have you ever thought that maybe the things you’re so afraid will draw attention are the things that Ian likes about you? Lord knows all the proper English businesswomen have never had a shot with him.”

  Grace paused with the dress halfway over her head. Ian had always been fascinated with her tattoos. But this wasn’t about Ian or her. The day was supposed to celebrate James and his new wife. There was no reason to draw attention to herself when all eyes should be on the bride and groom.

  But she underestimated Asha’s persuasiveness. When they headed up to John Lewis’s third floor café for a late lunch, she was in possession of both the blue dress and a pair of coordinating heels. Unfortunately she also had the niggling sense that what she had seen as a straightforward trip to Scotland might be fraught with more drama than she was ready to handle. Ian’s family—at least the Scottish side—were good people. They didn’t need the turmoil that Grace would bring into their family, whether it was for a weekend or longer.

  Yet when her phone rang, she scrambled for it like a teenager waiting for an invitation to prom.

  “Hello, beautiful.” Ian’s low, quiet voice sent shivers straight down to her toes.

  “Hi. I’m having lunch with Asha. Can I ring you back?”

  “No need. Chris invited us to a film tonight. Do you want to go?”

  Us? There was already an us, that his best mate would assume she should be invited? “Do you want to go?”

  “If you do. We’re supposed to meet at that old Indian place in Piccadilly at half past six if we’re joining them.”

  “Sure. Meet you there?”

  “No, I’ll pick you up at Asha’s place.” His voice dropped another octave, which meant he was calling from work. “I can’t wait to see you.”

  “Me too.” She clicked off and dropped her phone back in her pocket, then scowled at Asha’s searching expression. “What?”

  “That was Ian.” Her eyes widened as if she’d suddenly worked out a puzzle. “You’re in love with him.”

  Grace swallowed but said nothing.

  “I don’t mean you still love him, like you always have. I mean you’ve fallen for him all over again.”

  Her heart gave a brutal twist. She couldn’t deny Asha was right. But what was she supposed to say? That in the space of a couple of weeks, she couldn’t imagine being without him? That he was never far from her mind? That at times she wanted him so badly she couldn’t breathe? It was all true, but it made her sound pathetic and obsessive, so instead she settled for a noncommittal answer. “He makes me happy, but I’m being cautious.”

  “Just don’t ‘cautious’ yourself into another decade of misery because it scares you. There’s a reason why neither of you settled with anyone else. I pray you both figure it out before one of you gets stupid again.”

  “Well, in the meantime, we’re going to the cinema with one of his mates tonight, so you will have to do with Jake for company.”

  “Good. Grace, I want you to be happy. No one deserves it more.”

  Grace smiled in response, but Asha’s words left her feeling unsettled. She wanted to believe it was true, needed to believe it was possible. But for the first time, it wasn’t Ian’s heart she feared for. It was her own.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ASHA LEFT THE FLAT FIRST, giving Grace enough time to wash and change before Ian arrived. Tonight, she’d made an effort to dress nicely in new jeans, metallic sandals that showed off her polka-dotted pedicure, and a light mesh sweater. She was putting on a coat of mascara when the downstairs buzzer rang.

  A minute later, she opened the door to find Ian equally casually dressed in his typical chinos and fine-gauge pullover. She barely had the door closed behind them before he lifted her around the middle and gave her a hello kiss that made her glad she wasn’t standing on her own feet.

  “Hi,” she said, breathless.

  He set her down with a grin that was almost as devastating to her balance as the kiss. “I’ve been wanting to do that all day. Are you ready to go?”

  “Let me get my bag.” She found her much-neglected shoulder bag, into which she loaded her keys, her wallet, and her tiny digital camera.

  “You’re bringing a camera?” he asked as she looked up. “Don’t you have one on your mobile?”

  “It doesn’t take great photos in low light. You never know what you’re going to come across.”

  They descended the stairs to the foyer, and Ian held open the front door. “I like that way of approaching life.”

  “Which way? Always be prepared? Like the Boy Scouts?”

  “No, with anticipation of something new and worth remembering.”

  That was unexpected. What had gotten into him tonight? “Had you given up on spontaneity?”

  “Maybe I just didn’t have anyone
to appreciate it with.” He squeezed her hand, then flagged down a passing taxi when they reached the corner.

  Grace’s enthusiasm waned the closer they got to Piccadilly Circus, the irony of which was not lost on her. Dinner with Ian’s friends was the least frightening thing she’d done in a decade, including seeing him again. He seemed to pick up on her mood and pulled her aside before they entered the building.

  “Grace, relax. You’ll like Sarah. You already know Chris.”

  “I’m fine. Really. I’ll be on my best behavior.”

  Ian gave her a little nudge, and his grin surfaced. “I certainly hope not. What fun would that be?”

  They climbed the narrow staircase to the restaurant a floor up, an open space with the spare formality that seemed to characterize Indian restaurants. They waved off the host and crossed the room to where Chris waited at a window table for four, his hulking form standing out in a roomful of normal-size people.

  “Ian.” He greeted his friend first, then turned to Grace, his smile widening. “Grace. It’s been donkey’s years! You look great! How are you?”

  Grace accepted his awkward, side-arm hug, chuckling at the effusive greeting. “Nice to see you, Chris. You haven’t changed a bit.”

  “And you are as good a liar as you ever were. This is my girlfriend, Sarah.”

  Grace shook her hand while they exchanged the expected pleasantries, and she took the seat Ian held for her. Sarah was not the kind of woman Grace had anticipated. She was pretty in a natural, accessible way, with a shoulder-length brown bob and almost no makeup—nothing like the overly styled groupies Chris had dated in his British Team days. When Sarah smiled, her dark eyes sparkled merrily. Grace instantly liked her.

  “I have to say, Grace, you are not at all what I expected.”

  “Oh? How’s that?”

  “When Chris said you were a war photographer, I didn’t expect anyone so . . . well, pretty.”

  Grace felt a surprise flush rise to her cheeks. She’d been called many things by other women, but pretty usually wasn’t one of them. “I’ll admit, after knowing Chris years ago, I didn’t expect you to be—”

  Sarah grinned. “Normal? Trust me, I know.”

  “Hey!” Chris protested.

  Grace stifled a laugh and flipped open the heavy cardboard menu to scan the listings. The banter flowing around her lifted her spirits. Despite her earlier reservations, the normalcy of the evening was irresistible. She was accustomed to being crowded around a table with a group of journalists, their cameras within easy reach. No need to listen for air raid sirens or wonder if the slam of a lorry’s cargo door was an RPG hitting a nearby building.

  She could actually relax.

  After they placed their order, Grace folded her hands atop the table. “So, Sarah, I know Chris is an investment analyst. What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a bookkeeper for an office-cleaning firm.” Sarah’s freckled nose scrunched up. “Sounds dead dull, doesn’t it?”

  It did, but Grace could hardly say that. “Not necessarily. Do you like it?”

  Sarah shrugged. “It’s all right. Chris and I live together, so it’s for mad money, really. Pays for the trips back to see the folks and take holidays and all that. Besides, with all the time he spends at work and at the club, I’ve got to do something with my time.”

  Grace smiled, though inwardly, Sarah’s attitude fascinated her. She really had no problem with her live-in boyfriend paying the expenses or working a boring job to pass the time? “Do you have any hobbies?”

  Sarah leaned forward, a conspiratorial look on her face. “I tap-dance.”

  “You . . . tap-dance?”

  “I do. It’s brilliant fun, even if I have two left feet at times. You should try it, Grace. You might like it.”

  “Well, I—” She glanced at Ian, who was watching them with an amused expression. Clearly he wanted to see how she’d get out of this gracefully. “Why not? Maybe it would be fun.”

  Chris and Ian exchanged a look, then simultaneously burst out laughing.

  “What?” Grace and Sarah demanded in unison, which only made them laugh harder.

  “Sorry,” Ian said. “The idea of you in tights and tap shoes with little bows on them—”

  Sarah gave the men a mock scowl. “Philistines. No appreciation for the arts.”

  “The arts?” Chris choked out, spurring on another round of laughter and earning him an elbow in the side from Sarah.

  Grace settled back in her chair, her grin making her cheeks ache. Chris and Sarah were good-natured, fun-loving people. Normal people. Their easy inclusion of her made her heart swell. Ian slipped an arm around her and pressed a quick kiss to the top of her head, which only added to the warm feeling in her chest.

  “But really, Grace, tell us about your work. It must be fascinating.” Sarah seemed enthralled by the very idea of her career.

  “It’s not nearly as glamorous as it sounds,” Grace said, shaking her head. “I spend loads of time bored in a hotel waiting for something to happen.”

  “Go on,” Ian murmured, giving her a little nudge. Their expectant looks said she wasn’t getting out of it anytime soon.

  For every bad memory she had, there was at least one good story, like the one she’d been telling Ian at the Basque pop-up restaurant. Her experiences sounded exciting and breathless in the retelling, even when in reality they had been boring or terrifying. She told stories of interviewing and photographing families while local militia were pounding down doors in villages. Going inside modern-day harems where no men would ever be allowed. And then she decided to tell them a story she’d not told anyone.

  “Syria, about three years ago. Usually, journalists are careful not to go out early in the morning because that’s when most kidnappings happen.”

  “Why early morning?” Chris asked.

  “Easiest time to grab someone off the street, and there’s less chance of getting stuck in traffic on the getaway.”

  “Really,” Ian murmured. “I wouldn’t have thought.”

  “Mostly, they’re opportunists looking for ransom,” Grace said. “Until recently, there were more kidnappings for money and political bargaining power than ideological statements. So on this particular day, I had a meeting with a source, a little earlier than I’d usually be out. But things had been quiet, and my fixer had gone to quite a bit of trouble to set it up.”

  Grace fell silent for a moment, her heart thudding heavily as she recalled that morning. “It’s not required or even common for women to cover their heads in Syria, especially not Damascus. But I’d been warned that my contact was a conservative, older Muslim, so I’d decided to wear a hijab for the meeting.

  “I was walking out of the hotel, and my driver was parked down the street. I was halfway to the car when one of the pins popped out of the fabric and fell onto the pavement. When I bent over to pick it up, I saw another car pull up at the curb behind me, and two men jumped out of the backseat.”

  “What did you do?” Sarah asked, her eyes wide.

  “I ran. And they ran. Just before I reached the door of the hotel, one of them caught up to me and grabbed me.” She paused. “All he caught was the loose hijab—which wouldn’t have been loose had I not lost the pin—and I got away.”

  “That’s some story,” Ian said, his tone low. He squeezed her hand under the table.

  “The thing is, I’ve pinned a headscarf hundreds of times. There’s no reason that pin should have come out on its own. The only thing I can think is that God intervened directly.”

  “Couldn’t it have been a coincidence?” Chris asked.

  Grace had asked herself that very thing. At the time, she hadn’t truly believed that God manifested Himself so distinctly in anyone’s life. If He did, why wouldn’t He have stepped in and made Himself known in any number of other horrible situations?

  And yet somewhere, deep down inside her, she’d known it wasn’t mere luck or coincidence. She’d been saved for some re
ason, even if she was still trying to figure out why.

  But none of that she could say aloud. She shrugged. “I never made it to my appointment, and the next day bombs started going off around the city. Where would I have been if I’d been kidnapped? I guess I’ll never know.”

  The food arrived at the table, pulling everyone out of the story.

  “Either way, it’s a bloody good yarn, Grace.” Chris lifted a glass to her, clearly not convinced. But from the way Sarah watched her, Grace could tell she was mulling the possibilities.

  Her heart still thumping from the recollection, Grace reached for the bowl of rice. She’d not been paying attention to what they’d ordered beyond her tandoori masala, so as the conversation turned to other topics, she spooned a little of each dish onto her plate.

  Lamb vindaloo, she decided when she tasted the first one. The second, tandoori masala, was unmistakable. But when she tasted the third one, she froze. “What is this?”

  Ian peered at her plate. “That’s the karahi beef. It’s—”

  “Pakistani, I know.”

  “You don’t like it? I’ll eat yours if you don’t.”

  Grace couldn’t answer. Her heart, which had already been beating hard from the adrenaline of her memories, felt like it would burst out of her chest. Sweat broke out on her forehead. She set her fork down firmly before they could notice her hands were shaking. “Will you excuse me for a moment?”

  She threw her napkin on the table and raced to the toilet cubicle at the front of the restaurant. It took all her control not to slam the door behind her, but she managed to shut and lock it before the trembling in her knees got too bad to stay upright.

  She collapsed on the stool by the little tower holding toilet tissue and air freshener. It was good that she noticed that. Usually if she were heading for a flashback, she wouldn’t notice anything but the narrowing of her vision.

  A run-of-the-mill panic attack, then.

  She pushed herself up from the stool, flicked the faucet on, then splashed cold water on her face. She’d never had a food trigger an episode. This was new.