by Heidi Rice
‘Ah. So you were interested in me?’ He nodded. ‘Pleased that we got that misunderstanding cleared up. And l am glad you were. Otherwise we would never have met face to face. Your emails were … interesting. Intriguing, even. I enjoyed reading them.’
Andy flicked her tongue out and licked her upper lip and suddenly the late-afternoon sunshine got a lot brighter. ‘People don’t realise just how much of themselves they reveal in these emails. I … was expecting someone different. More executive and less …’ she flicked her fingers towards him ‘… athletic, I suppose.’
‘Right back at you, girl. Maybe I was expecting someone different as well. And we both made a mistake. So here is an idea. Why don’t we call a truce? And it’s Miles, remember?’
‘A truce?’ she replied, her gaze scanning his face much longer than he had expected. Whatever she was looking for, she must have found it, because slowly, hesitantly, she nodded. ‘If I say yes, will you stop stalking me, because I really do have a business meeting to go to? And it’s important to me.’
‘Say yes, and I promise not to stalk you. Okay?’
She exhaled slowly, then stuck out her hand and they shook on it. ‘Truce it is. Now. Have a lovely day, Miles. See you around.’
And then she was off—practically skipping ahead.
But he was in luck—the traffic lights turned to green just as she tried to cross the road. Giving him the chance to catch up.
But then his luck ran out. Because driving down the small London street was a vintage English sports car, which looked so familiar it took his breath away in shock.
He closed his eyes for a second and he was back inside his beloved little red sports car. His dad had bought it second-hand from a friend in Cornwall, and the two of them had worked hard to restore it with loving care in the family’s tiny draughty wooden garage just in time for his seventeenth birthday. He had done the heavy lifting and his dad had supplied the technical knowhow.
It had been his first real motor and the envy of every other boy in the school. Even Jason, who had never shown any interest in cars and opted for a home computer for his seventeenth instead.
He had loved that car. Loved just taking off to the beach for the day, during the school holidays or a family picnic on a summer Sunday.
It had taken him three days to drive it down to Spain and take the ferry across to Tenerife—but it had been worth it to have his own car. Sunshine. Top down. Classic.
And it had never let him down. Not once. And then he’d had to listen to every sound it made as it was crushed and wrecked beyond repair by a drunken truck driver. With him still inside. Together to the end.
He could recall every aspect of that morning in full colour.
The car radio had been playing classic songs from the sixties. The sun was shining. The road was clear. In the dream memory, the unreal Miles knows that something is about to happen, and even though the next few minutes have played themselves over and over again in the past months Miles still cannot avoid the inevitable. He is powerless to do anything to change it. He becomes a passive observer, just watching, as the traffic lights change to green and he engages first gear and moves slowly forward before changing into second.
And then the soundtrack changes. Metal being crushed. Bags and loose papers and sports kit flying around from side to side, the horizon spinning around, over and under the car before it stops rolling and smashes back down to rest on its side.
He remembered leaning, half suspended from his seat belt, his lower body trapped below the hips. And someone was screaming. And was still screaming when the ambulance and police arrived and he realised that he was the one doing the screaming.
Miles forced open his eyes into the real world that was London in November.
He knew what would happen next. He had to control his breathing. Come on, he knew the routine. Deep breaths right down to the abdomen.
Forget the fact he couldn’t even drive. And seeing that car killed him all over again.
Time to wake up and live. Wasn’t that what all of those doctors had told him to do? Focus on the positive. Focus on the fact that most of him was still functioning and by some fluke and good safety belts he had escaped a head injury?
Miles glanced around and took his bearings. Andy was still standing at the pavement.
She was as good a place to start as any. He had a new goal.
‘Not so fast, girl. I’m not used to being turned down, so I have to wonder. What was the real reason you decided to turn up in the place of your boss the other night? Just curious. Not stalking. Curious.’
‘Curious?’ she replied as they walked across into a wide piazza in front of an impressive stone building, but he could hear a supressed smile in her voice. ‘Well. What a coincidence.’
‘Isn’t it? My biggest failing. Can’t help it. Was it just for the money? Or were you wondering what I looked like? In the flesh, as it were.’
She stopped and scowled at him. ‘Yes and maybe. But mostly I did not like the idea of you just sitting there on your own waiting for a girl who is never going to show up because she is in Brazil and has changed her mind. And you. Are an incorrigible pest. Do you know that?’
‘Hey. Flattery. I am a businessman,’ Miles replied, then stopped and gave her a small nod. ‘Thanks for taking the time to turn up. It was sweet. But you need not have worried. I don’t wait for girls. And I will not be thwarted. That dinner invitation still stands.’
Her reply was to sigh low in her throat and walk towards a huge arched stone portico that formed the entrance to the building. She gestured to a large marble plaque on the entrance with the words ‘The Harcourt Collection’ engraved onto the surface in gold lettering.
‘Far too busy. Busy, busy, busy.’
‘I’ll wait. Where are we headed?’
‘This is one of the finest museums in London, and my favourite place in the whole world. I also happen to work here at weekends. So the staff know me and I would be mightily miffed if someone—’ and she lifted her eyebrows high ‘—was to diss me once we get through these doors. So if you can’t agree, maybe we should say our goodbyes here.’
Miles blinked at the plaque a few times. A museum? She worked in a museum? Well, this got more bizarre and intriguing by the minute. Maybe she was as multitalented as she claimed.
Andy turned to go but he stepped in front of her.
‘Not so fast. I don’t get to London very often. I didn’t even know this place existed. It would be a shame to miss the chance to see what it looks like on the inside. In fact, seeing as you know the museum so well, how about a guided tour?’
‘A tour? No. Sorry. I have to plan my sales pitch before the meeting and calm down on my own. I need this quiet time to myself. But if you ask at the information desk I am sure that you could join the next tour. Tourists are always welcome.’
Miles growled at her through narrowed eyes. ‘Nice try. Not going to work. But you mentioned those magical two words, sales and pitch. Why didn’t you say so? You act as my guide and I’ll write your pitch for you. Deal?’
She glanced from side to side and swallowed before stepping closer to him so that she could reply in a harsh whisper. ‘I don’t mean to offend you, but I am an illustrator and I want to persuade the museum to sell my hand-crafted greetings cards through their shop.’
She lifted her right hand, palm up, and stared at it. ‘Sporting goods.’ Then she did the same thing with her left hand. ‘Illustrated greetings cards.’ She stared at one hand, and then back to the other. ‘Note the difference.’
Then she dropped both hands and stared up at the imposing entrance. ‘This is me sticking my neck out and taking a chance and I am rather nervous so thank you but no. I need a moment on my own.’
Her long dark eyelashes fluttered close to her smooth pale cheek as she dropped her head, eyes closed, her chest rising and falling below her jacket as she took several calming breaths.
And every cell of his body twanged to attention.
Either this girl was an extraordinary actress or his instincts had been right and she was someone worth getting to know.
Time to switch up a gear and clinch his date for the night.
Miles chuckled and grabbed her hand. ‘You haven’t heard my pitch yet. Take the risk. You won’t regret it.’ And in one smooth motion he flung open the heavy embossed door and stepped inside, dragging Andy with him, complaining loudly all the way.
‘And you really think that I can ask that much for each card?’ Andy asked as they strolled out of the collection of eastern jade and porcelain.
‘Absolutely,’ Miles replied, his eyes focused on one of the Christmas card samples that Andy had brought with her. ‘You haven’t taken account of your hourly rate. This is excellent work and beautifully painted. Offer the museum the cut I suggested and you both benefit—but don’t undervalue your workmanship. People pay for quality—I know I do. And you have already customised it for this outlet.’
‘I hadn’t thought of it that way. But the inspiration did come from this museum.’
Andy pointed to the central gold-and-blue design on the card he was holding. ‘Each central motif is based on a letter from a medieval illuminated manuscript, which are so wonderful it is hard to put into words.’
She paused, gave a quick nod and pointed to a room just down the corridor and flashed him a grin that made him blink. ‘Actually it’s easier to show you than try to describe it. The books and documents are in here.’
Miles followed on as fast as he could but he had been on his pinned and dodgy legs for way too long so that Andy was already crouched over a long glass display cabinet when he joined her.
And then she looked up at him.
And the transformation on her face was so miraculous that he was taken aback by it.
Her whole body seemed to have come alive, so that her eyes sparkled with life and energy and when she spoke her voice was completely different.
It was as if something had flicked a switch inside this girl.
This version of Andy was bursting with enthusiasm and excitement and joy.
He knew that look. He had seen it before.
It was the look of someone with the fire in their belly that burned hot with the passion of doing the one thing they loved most in the world.
A passion that nothing else in life could replace or come close to matching.
And he knew exactly what that felt like.
A cold hand clasped around his heart.
Would he ever feel that passion again? That glow that beamed out from Andy’s face at that moment when she looked at these books with the coloured pages?
He envied her that. More than he could say.
Bitter bile at the injustice of what had happened to him roiled deep inside, but he pushed it away. Not her fault. It was his job to deal with the fact that his world had shifted.
There was a good chance that he would never stand on a surfboard again or feel the rush of a kite lifting his body high above the waves. Not if he wanted to walk or live his life without wheelchairs or canes.
One thing was certain.
This kind of passion could never be faked or copied.
She was the real deal.
Not an actress or someone out to con him—but someone who was as passionate about these handwritten and decorated books as he had been about his sport.
Was this what he had glimpsed between the lines of those few emails that she had sent him? He had certainly sensed that there was something special about her, but passion like this? No. This was a bonus.
But it was more than that. The Andy he had met in the café was pretty and sassy, but this Andy was transformed by her happiness and joy into a very remarkable woman who was intent on telling him all about the royal families who had commissioned these hand-painted books in a world before the printing press had been invented. Her expertise and knowledge streamed out of her.
Andy was not just pretty. This Andy looked stunningly beautiful.
And right there and then, he made the decision.
I want you to look at me with that passion in your eyes. I want you to warm my cold disappointment at the fire of your passion while I have the chance.
This one. I choose this one.
Heart thumping, he could barely drag his gaze from her face to the pages she was describing.
Andy leant her elbows on the frame around the glass case and sighed in wonder at the pages of the book on display.
‘Isn’t it astonishing?’ she said and her shoulders seemed to drop several inches as she grinned up at him, her eyes sparkling with fire and happiness and delight.
Her joy was so contagious that Miles could not help but grin back and move closer, so that they could look down at the exhibit together.
His hand seemed to move to her waist all on its own and, judging by the instant flash of a grin she gave him, the lady was not complaining. She was having way too much fun.
While Andy’s gaze was totally locked onto the beautiful manuscript, Miles took the time to look at her close up. In the natural light her hair was not brown but a blend of every shade of gold and brown with copper and russet blended in. Lori used to spend the cost of a new surfboard on having her hair coloured and it had never even been close to this fabulous.
It hurt him to think that Andy had no clue about how very naturally beautiful and gifted she was.
He moved closer and pointed to the left page where a giant bird in the shape of the letter P had been covered with the most intricate and startling of ancient circles and birds and flowers and animals.
‘Tell me about how they made those colours. And is that real gold?’
‘The colours?’ she replied, blinking up at him and clearly delighted that he was showing any interest at all. ‘Oh, yes. This is real gold. This set of gospels was meant to be a royal gift so the monks had the very best of everything. The blue is azurite and lapis lazuli from Afghanistan rather than native indigo and that fresh green colour is most likely malachite. It truly is a masterpiece. And I love it so much. I could look at it all day.’
All day?
His leg was already complaining about walking about for an hour and he had just about reached his limit on his other knee.
He might have to ask the guard if he could borrow his chair.
Luckily he did not have to, because just as he was about to reply the sound of a herd of baby elephants echoed up from the stone staircase. He took a tighter hold of Andy and they both turned to see what all the noise was about—just in time to see an entire junior school of jostling, jabbering, running, curious and mega-excited children burst into the exhibition space. All desperate to be the first ones to see the books and all competing in decibels to get the attention of their already harried teachers.
Andy stepped back from her precious book with a sigh, looked up at Miles and shrugged.
‘I have a suggestion.’
She glanced from side to side around the room. The way into the café area was blocked by the second wave of children, who all wanted drinks at that very minute, and they would have to fight their way back to the main exit. Time for Plan B.
‘What would you say if I told you that I knew a secret exit onto the dome and we could escape the school party and read the guide book in peace?’
Miles replied by taking what was a surprisingly firm hold around her waist, which made her gasp, before he whispered, ‘I would tell you that I will follow you to the ends of the earth. But make it fast. The teacher is heading this way. And she has a clipboard.’
‘Okay, now I am intrigued,’ Miles whispered as they stood at the railing and looked out through the curved glass at the busy London street below. Above their heads was the curved dome of the ceiling of the museum, which was a masterpiece of metal and stone and arched beams, inset with decorated panels of stars and mythological creatures.
The walkway they were standing on ran the complete circle of the dome of the building and was a hidden gem, offering a com
plete three-hundred-and-sixty degree view over the entire city of London in all directions through the row of heavy glass wall panels.
The sound of clinking glasses and children’s chatter and the noise from the buses and taxi cabs outside filtered into the space and yet they were quite alone. Separate.
‘How on earth did you know about that secret staircase leading up from the exhibition?’
Andy looked up at him and her lips curled into a smirk before she replied. ‘Oh, I have explored most of these corridors and they haven’t changed at all. In fact …’ and at this she paused. ‘They are exactly the same as I remember them.’
Then Andy took pity on his confusion and she smiled and leant forward before adding, as casually as she could, ‘I grew up in a house not very far from here. So you see, I have been coming to this museum all of my life.’
She stopped suddenly, dropped her shoulders back and pointed towards the ceiling. ‘When I was little I had a copy of that zodiac in the ceiling of my bedroom so that I could lie in bed at night and watch them and dream about what they all meant. It was magical!’
‘Your parents must have loved bringing you here,’ he replied.
‘My parents? Not exactly,’ she answered with a shrug. ‘They both worked in the city and they didn’t have a lot of free time, even at weekends.’
Andy tilted her head and was grateful that his gaze was fixed on the window glass so that he could not see the glint in her eyes. Talking about those sad times still hurt.
‘I had a series of au pairs and nannies who soon found out that they could take off to the café to chat and leave me to explore the exhibits.’ Andy waved one hand, then let it fall as she turned back to face him. ‘So when they weren’t looking I took off to explore on my own. The curators and security guards soon got to know me and I never made a mess or got into trouble. This was my personal playground.’
