by Sandy Barker
Quite simply, James was a wonderful surprise.
*
“You got a private tour of the British Museum?!” asked Cat, obviously impressed.
I was bustling around her kitchen making a frittata for our dinner. With toast being her biggest contribution to the culinary world, she was sitting at the breakfast bar, keeping out of my way. We were both sipping wine—not a stunning bottle from the Loire Valley, but a cheap and cheerful chardonnay she’d picked up at Sainsbury’s on the way home.
“Not the whole museum—that could take a week.”
“True.”
“But she did walk us through the Acropolis exhibit. Cat, she’s amazing. She’s brilliant for a start. She gave us the most incredible insight into—”
“Enough about the gorgeous Italian woman,” Cat waved her hand at me impatiently. “I want to hear more about your date with the silver fox.”
“But Valentina is an important part of my date.” She rolled her eyes, so I skipped ahead to the Reading Room and the kiss on the stairs. Cat’s mouth popped open.
“No way,” she said after a moment of incredulity.
“Way,” I replied mock-seriously.
“You have the most incredible fucking life,” she said, a generous measure of jealousy in her tone.
“You say that like this sort of thing happens to me all the time.” She made a little noise in the back of her throat. I read it as, “it does—you lucky, lucky cow.” “It doesn’t! You know that better than anyone. My love life has been a parade of cheating dickheads for years now, and just because I go on one date with James, doesn’t mean my whole life has changed.” I punctuated my point by expertly cracking an egg onto the edge of the bowl.
“But it’s not just the date with James, though, is it? There’s the hot American too. Maybe this is a turning point for you, for your love life.” I continued cracking eggs while she gave me a dose of her “I know you better than anyone” rhetoric. “And anyway, history with men aside, you do have an incredible life. You travel, you have a good job, you live in Sydney where there’s actual sunshine more than four days a year—”
It was my turn to cut her off. “True, yes, all true. And, I do need to focus more on the positive, but this whole trip—meeting Josh and James—that’s all new. That’s not me having ‘an incredible fucking life’ as you put it.”
“You’re right.” Who was this woman and what had she done with my sister? “I’m a little jealous, that’s all.” I whisked the eggs and eyed her suspiciously. Cat didn’t typically tout her shortcomings.
“It’s just that I wouldn’t mind a handsome millionaire schlepping me about London in his fancy car and adoring me.”
“Hang on …” I stopped whisking—seriously, who was this woman? “Did I just hear Cat Parsons say she wouldn’t mind having a boyfriend?”
I could see the gears turning behind her eyes as she realised what she’d said. Because Cat didn’t do boyfriends. She didn’t do dating, casual or otherwise, and she certainly didn’t do “adoring men”.
Cat was anti love. Full stop.
“You know what I mean,” she back-pedalled. “I could go for a handsome millionaire lover, is all.”
“Cat, he’s not my lover.” Yet. I didn’t voice that last part. I rarely won arguments with my sister, and I wasn’t about to lose on a technicality.
“Well, he’s something—and there’s Josh—two hot lovers, Sez. They’re gunna make you hand in your sisterhood card.” She punctuated her point with one of her looks. Crap, she was going to win this one.
“Okay,” I conceded, “I get what you’re saying. But really, this thing with James, it’s just a bit of fun, like a karmic reward for all the crap Neil put me through. And if I spend more than five minutes thinking about it … well, it’s just bizarre, like it’s not even real,” I added before going back to the eggs.
“Well, of course! That stuff in the museum, that’s soppy romance-novel stuff. That’s a frigging Nicholas Sparks novel. Julia Roberts will probably play you in the film.” She got me laughing with that.
“Julia Roberts is a bit too old to play me. Maybe Emilia Clarke.”
“Oh, she’s fab.”
“She is. I bet she could do an Aussie accent, too.”
“Definitely. So, who’d play the silver fox?”
“James? Well, I told you he reminds me of Richard Armitage.”
“Oh, I love him. Ocean’s Eight—I mean, he’s so delicious in that, even though he’s the baddy.”
“I love him from the Vicar of Dibley. Remember when he asks Geraldine to marry him—”
“Oh, yes, yes, that’s right and she thinks he means to perform the ceremony to another woman—and then she realises that he’s proposing—”
“—and she starts making those burbling noises.” Cat and I made the noises, then laughed so hard, I stopped frittata-ing and she stopped drinking. I still can’t imagine how Dawn French got through that scene. “God, that was funny,” I said when I’d recovered my ability to speak.
Cat sighed one of those loud sighs you do after a good laugh and I got back to the frittata mixture, pouring it into a pan and sliding it into the oven. “Okay, that should take about twenty minutes.”
“Top-up?” she asked rhetorically as she leapt off her stool and retrieved the wine from the fridge. I pushed my glass towards her.
“So, when are you seeing him again?” she asked.
I took a sip of wine—Dutch courage. “Well, that’s the thing. It turns out that Tuesday is good for him. In fact, he wants to take me to a gallery opening in SoHo.” I took another sip of wine, knowing this could go either way.
“You should go,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Really? But what about the pub quiz? And your friends?”
“We can go out with them on Wednesday, or maybe Thursday. We’ll grab drinks after they finish work, or something.”
“But the quiz …” I trailed off. I didn’t want to leave her in the lurch.
“Sarah, we win nearly every week—without you. I think we’ll be fine.”
I put my glass down, ran around the other side of the kitchen island, and scooped her up in a huge hug. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you!”
“You’re welcome.” I stepped back, a massive grin on my face. “Now,” she said, “what are you going to wear?”
Oh, crap. I hadn’t thought about that.
Chapter 4
Two wardrobe emergencies in one week! Well, maybe “emergency” was too dramatic. It was only Friday and I had until Tuesday to figure out what to wear to the gallery opening.
“Show me what you’ve got,” said Cat.
“I’ve got sailing clothes. You know—shorts, bikinis, sarongs.”
“And clothes for this week, yes, for booting about London?” She was leaning against the doorframe of her room, watching me rummage around in my backpack.
“Well, yes, but that’s just skinny jeans and tops.”
“Hmm. Besides the Alannah Hill, I don’t have anything that’s going to fit you and you can’t wear it again. Or, can you?” I threw her a look that said, “no”.
Then I remembered the dress—the dress. The one Josh bought for me in that boutique on Mykonos, right before the end of the trip.
“Hang on,” I said, digging into a pocket of the backpack. I pulled out the dress and held it up.
“That’s not skinny jeans,” said Cat dryly.
“No, definitely not skinny jeans.” I hugged the dress to me, remembering Josh’s expression when he saw me in it for the first time. “Josh bought it for me,” I added quietly. When I met Cat’s eyes, her face was unreadable. “What does that look mean? Don’t you like it?”
“Uh, hello, it’s gorgeous. Put it on.” I quickly undressed, stepped into the dress, and pulled the straps up over my shoulders. I turned away from Cat so she could zip it up and when I turned back around, I stood silently chewing on my lip.
“Well, it looks amazing.”
/> “It does?” I looked down at the dress again. It was long and hugged my body, with slits up both sides, and it was all the colours of a sunset, an ombre of yellow, orange, pink, and red.
“Sez, c’mon, you know it does.”
“But …” I hesitated.
“But, what? You have to wear that dress.” Didn’t she understand that Josh bought me the dress, and I couldn’t wear it on a date with James?
Or could I? While I contemplated my mini moral dilemma, a more pressing thought popped into my head. “Crap. I don’t have any shoes and I can’t wear it to a gallery opening with my sandals—they’re flats.”
“You’re right. We’ll go shopping tomorrow.”
I stepped in front of Cat’s full-length mirror. I really did look good in the dress. “Hair up or down?” I asked, pulling my hair into a loose knot on top of my head.
“Up, definitely.” Cat stood behind me and looked at me in the mirror. “I can help if you like. Oh, and I have an evening bag that will look great with the dress.”
“Oh, thank you, Cat.” Feeling my excitement mount, I threw my arms around her.
“You know,” she said, her voice muffled by my hug, “that evening bag is rather roomy. You can even fit a toothbrush and a clean pair of knickers in it.”
My sister is hilarious.
*
Cat and I had a fantastic weekend. We mooched about Portobello Market, had a tipsy sing-along to an Ed Sheeran cover artist in the local pub, enjoyed a couple of chatty dinners in cheap and cheerful cafés, and when we weren’t out and about, we hung out at Cat’s place solving the problems of the world while downing copious amounts of tea and chocolate digestives.
I met Cat’s bestie, Mich—such a darling—and her lovely flatmate, Jane, who joined us at the pub on Saturday afternoon. Cat’s other flatmate, Alex, had gone to Scotland for a long weekend and I still hadn’t met him. In truth, I was beginning to wonder if he actually existed. Still, with him away, I had three nights of sleeping in a real bed and not on the pull-out. Thank you, Alex, whoever you are!
Most importantly, though, I got to do one of my favourite things—spend time with my sister.
She is one of the very few people on the planet who I can be myself with—completely myself. Sometimes I’m brilliant, funny, and brave, but mostly I’m a bit of a dork who loves photos of cats sleeping in weird places and can tie a cherry stem in a knot with my tongue. That last thing is a party trick I cultivated at uni, and it’s never failed to impress my audience, especially if it’s an audience of one. I’ll just leave it at that.
We went shoe shopping on the Saturday morning, and I found a gorgeous pair for my date with James. They were cherry-red, suede heeled sandals with a fringe across the top of the foot, and I’d hit the jackpot. They were beautiful and I could walk in them. They also matched the red hues of my sunset dress. Cat’s evening bag was a large fuchsia clutch and she was right, it completed the look perfectly.
She was also right about the toothbrush and knickers part. I had no idea how the night with James was going to end, but why not be prepared, right? I borrowed a small makeup bag from Cat and packed it with a G-string, my toothbrush, some moisturiser, concealer, and lip balm. I tucked it into the corner of the clutch and added the usual going-out paraphernalia—lipstick, tissues, my phone, and a credit card.
Before she left for the pub quiz, Cat came through with a very sexy up-do. Magically, it looked like I’d scooped up my curls and piled them on top of my head, then pinned them with a single hairpin—implying that my up-do could be undone and shaken loose in one fell swoop, just like in old Hollywood films. She’s clever like that.
I, however, was not the sort of woman who could pull off a move like that. Also, my hair actually had twenty-five hairpins in it, so even if I tried to shake it free, I’d end up looking like Tippy Hedren in The Birds.
James was sending a car for me at 8:00pm, another reminder that he was wealthy and sophisticated, and I was about to step, once again, into an unfamiliar world.
At ten minutes to eight, I locked up Cat’s flat and took the elevator to the lobby. The driver was supposed to call when he arrived, but I was so nervous, I’d been pacing a hole in the carpet of Cat’s hallway since 7:40. I figured a change of scenery was in order and, if needed, that the lobby was long enough for some advanced pacing.
The nerves were nothing new to me. I was prone to bouts of nervousness, but sometimes the nerves became full-blown anxiety. It was that tipping point I was hoping to avoid by heading to the lobby. Being nervous was one thing, but when you’re having an anxiety attack, it doesn’t matter that your mind knows there’s no real reason for your survival instincts to be activated. You’re in it and you have to ride it out.
Of course, being nervous was understandable. Until I met Josh and James, my romantic history was a series of train wrecks. No doubt, some part of my unconscious mind was bleating, “Run away! Run away!” like King Arthur in Monty Python and the Holy Grail.
At exactly 8:00pm, a black town car pulled up in front of the building and my phone rang inside my clutch. I didn’t bother answering it. Instead, I walked outside and when the driver climbed out of the car, I called out, “Hello, it’s me.” He looked confused, so I started waving. “Hi, I’m Sarah. You’re here for me.” Okay, calm down, Sarah. You’re not going to the Oscars.
He smiled politely and walked around the car to open the back door for me. I got in by sitting on the seat and swinging my legs around—a trick I’d seen on TV—and settled back against the dark leather seat. The car was immaculate and smelled of new car and fancy air freshener. I hadn’t expected anything less.
“Would you care for some bottled water?” asked the driver, as he pulled away from the kerb. If I had been in an Uber on the way to dinner with my girlfriends, I would have said yes. But I was nervous. If I said yes, I would either A) spill the water down the front of me, or B) successfully drink the water without spilling a drop, but have to pee the moment I arrived at the gallery. I wasn’t chancing either.
“Uh, no thank you.”
“We will arrive at the gallery before 8:40pm, madam.” Madam? Isn’t “madam” reserved for older ladies? I’m only thirty-six, for crying out loud.
“Is there a type of music you would prefer to listen to?” he asked. I hadn’t realised I would have so many decisions to make during a forty-minute car ride.
“Um, sure. How about Adele?” Now I was asking him, as though we had to come to some sort of consensus. I silently thanked him for having the good manners not to make me feel like more of an idiot. Adele started singing at a moderate volume and I took a deep breath.
Geez, Sarah. Anyone would think you’ve been living under a rock. You’ve been in a limo before—twice!—and those are way fancier.
It was cute how I was tricking myself into believing that the car ride was making me nervous.
I looked out the side window, focusing on the beauty of London at night. I know Paris is considered the City of Lights, but London is a close second in my mind. When we drove past the Houses of Parliament, they reflected their twinkling, golden lights onto the Thames.
It was a calm, still night, without a cloud in the sky—another rarity in London—and I hoped to steal some of that calm for myself. I knew I just needed to be myself—but the brilliant, funny, and brave Sarah, rather than the dork who loved cat photos.
I saw the driver discreetly text someone as we pulled up outside the gallery and when he opened my door, James was waiting for me on the footpath, offering me his hand. I took it and as I stepped out of the town car, the slit of my dress revealed my recently tanned thigh.
I saw James’s eyes flick down to my thigh, then back to my eyes, the flash of lust obvious. He leant in to kiss my cheek, the most unchaste cheek kiss I’d ever received. Between that and his lusty look, my nethers were on high alert.
“You’re breathtaking,” he whispered in that honey-gravel voice. I surprised myself by keeping my cool and
leaning into the kiss.
“Thank you,” I half-whispered back.
Keeping my hand in his, James led us up two steps, through what looked like someone’s front door, and into the gallery. The first room was filled with people, many sipping bubbles or drinking a bright red cocktail from martini glasses. There was a general hubbub echoing off the wooden floorboards, but no distinctively loud voices.
Until I heard a loud, throaty laugh coming from the next room.
“That’s Valentina,” said James. Valentina! My girl crush from the museum! “Come with me,” he added as he manoeuvred us through the artsy crowd with ease. He stopped to take a flute of bubbles from a passing waiter, handed it to me, then took one for himself, all while holding my hand. When we stepped through the doorway into the next room, there she was.
As soon as she laid eyes on me and James, she excused herself from the woman she was talking to and made a beeline for us. Or rather, for me. “Sarah!” she called enthusiastically, as she kissed me on both cheeks. “You look divine!”
I smiled back at her brightly, “Thank you, and so do you.” She did, trust me.
You know those women who can pull off tight leather pants and a flimsy, almost see-through blouse and look totally incredible and not at all like a tragic fashion victim? That was Valentina. Her hair fell down her back in a slick sheet, like Cher circa 1975, only blonde. I was in love.
She turned to James and gave him a quick kiss. “Marcus is in there.” She pointed to the next room. “He can’t get away from Sir Percy. Can you please rescue him, bello?”
James looked at me questioningly. “Go, I’ll be fine. Anyway, I want to meet Marcus, so you’d better go get him.” He disappeared into the crowd and then it was just me and Valentina, who was staring at my shoes.
“Mi amore, where did you get those?” she asked. I pointed a toe and turned my ankle from side to side.
“You like them?” I asked, knowing the answer. If two women both love shoes, it’s enough to build a friendship on.
“They are simply gorgeous,” she said, still staring.
