by Sandy Barker
Chapter 7
Goodbyes are hard. They are the single most excruciating thing about being a traveller. Forget jet lag and lost luggage and having your wallet stolen. Saying goodbye to loved ones is hands-down the worst part. And there’s always that tipping point, just over halfway into a trip when the time to say goodbye starts to loom ahead.
My time in London was coming to an end, and the thought of saying goodbye to Cat was eating me up inside. I knew when I was back home in Sydney, the distance between us would start to feel less acute, but there would be weeks, maybe even months before it would hurt less. The hardest part was not knowing when we would be together next.
And even though my sister was my number one person, the person I loved more than anyone, I felt almost as rotten at the thought of saying goodbye to James.
After the sleepover, we made plans to see each other one more time before I flew home. But when the invitation came on Thursday morning, I was torn. Saying “yes” would mean less time with Cat.
Surprisingly, Cat insisted I go. “We have today, tonight and tomorrow, then we’ll have the whole of Saturday together—and Sunday morning before I take you to the airport.” The word “airport” made me nauseous.
“Are you sure? This is my Cat time. Who knows when you’ll be in Sydney next, and I’m not sure when I can get back to the UK.”
“With how things are going with James, you’ll probably be back here before you know it. Ooh, you might even move here!”
As much as I loved Cat’s enthusiasm, she’d made a giant leap into the improbable and I’d have to rein her in. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“Oh, bollocks to that. That’s something old Sarah would say. You’re new Sarah now. And new Sarah is falling in love with a sexy millionaire, and she’s gunna move to London and live in that gorgeous house in Paddington and I’ll see her all the time.” She punctuated her fantasy-fuelled diatribe by doing a little dance.
I rolled my eyes and tutted at her.
“So, you’re going to see him, right?” I re-read James’s message on my phone, even though I’d already read it enough times to have it memorised.
Hello, beautiful. Please say I can steal you away from your sister tomorrow evening. I promise I’ll have you back first thing on Saturday morning. I want to say goodbye properly. Jx
I looked at Cat, who was staring at me expectantly. “Oh, fuck it,” I said. I sent this reply:
I’d love that.
Short, simple, and to the point.
Perfect. I’ll pick you up at 7. Looking forward to it. I missed you next to me last night. X
I sighed, half in resignation at saying goodbye, and half in anticipation of the “properly” part of his text. James may have used that word a lot, but he never threw it away. He always meant it.
Cat looked smug. “You can stop that right now,” I said in my big-sisterly voice.
She replied with a grin and waggled her eyebrows at me.
“Oh, crap.” I realised I had no idea where we were going or what to wear. So many wardrobe considerations in one week!
“What?”
“Dress code.”
“Ahh, yes, very important.”
I shot off another text—so much for short, simple, and to the point.
Hi—me again—just wondering what the plan is for tomorrow night—and the dress code.
The reply zinged back in almost an instant.
The plan is a secret, but dress code is casual.
Casual? Did that mean the same thing to him as it did to me?
Jeans okay?
Perfect. See you then. And bring your toothbrush. X
I laughed out loud. “What? What did he say?” My sister—so nosy!
“Never you mind.”
“Hey! No fair.”
“He told me to bring my toothbrush.”
She nodded in approval. “I like his style.”
“Oh, and I get to wear jeans.”
“Jeans? Really? How intriguing.” I completely agreed.
*
Cat and I spent Thursday and Friday doing touristy London things from Cat’s list of “Things I Never Do Unless Sarah is Visiting”. She always makes out like I drag her along, but she has as much fun as I do. Besides, Madame Tussaud’s really is amazing, even the third time, and who would pass up last-minute twenty-pound tickets to see Benedict Cumberbatch and David Tennant onstage? Yes, really! Although, it was Waiting for Godot and I don’t really like that play—absurdism was never my favourite—but again, Cumberbatch, Tennant, and twenty-pound tickets.
And even though I was soaking up as many moments with my sister as I could, Friday evening rolled around before I knew it.
I was in Cat’s room and she watched while I put the finishing touches on my “natural looking but actually took me twenty-five minutes to apply” makeup. “You look great,” she said as I smoothed on some coral-coloured lipstick.
I turned to her and smiled. “Thanks!”
“So, because there’s no pretence and you’re definitely staying over, you can take an actual overnight bag, right?”
“I guess so. I mean, I don’t want to look like I’ve decided to move in or anything, but I think I’ll at least pack a nightie and my facial cleanser this time.”
“I’ve got just the thing,” she said, standing on her tippy-toes and reaching into her wardrobe.
“Do you want help?” I expected a “no”. Cat was quick to remind people that she was “just little” when it suited her, but she hated having to ask for help.
“Yes, please.” One for the record books!
“What am I looking for?”
“Leather tote bag. Somewhere up there.” She pointed to the top shelf of her wardrobe, which was reasonably well-organised, but tiny. I commiserated with her. My wardrobe in Sydney was four times the size. I thought I could see the handle of the bag she meant. I gave it a good tug and we stood helpless under a cascade of bags.
I looked at her. “Sorry,” I said. “Avalanche.”
“Bagalanche,” she replied, deadpan. We fell about laughing as we gathered no fewer than thirteen bags from her bedroom floor.
“You have a lot of bags.”
“Kettle? This is pot. You’re black.”
“True, but mine don’t fall on my head every time I open my wardrobe.”
“I need a bigger wardrobe.”
“Or fewer bags.”
She threw me a look. It meant, “you did not just say that”.
“Sorry. Forgot who I was talking to.”
“Here.” She handed me the tan tote in baby-soft leather, and I lost the ability to speak. It was stunning. I wondered if A) she’d miss it, and B) if it would fit in my luggage.
“You can’t have it.”
Bugger, she’d read my mind.
“But you can borrow it.”
I gave her a quick hug. “Thank you!”
James was due in less than twenty minutes, so I had to get a move on. I unzipped my backpack and pulled out the only other decent (and clean) pair of knickers I had besides the ones I was wearing. Then I found a nightie—the sort-of sexy one with spaghetti straps, not the one with a cat drinking coffee on the front—and a cute top I could wear the next day with the jeans I had on. I had already packed a small toiletries bag with the basics and some makeup. I just needed my phone charger and my wallet, and I was all set.
I was wearing a pair of dark denim, super-comfortable skinny jeans and a floaty blue and white tie-dyed top which looked like I’d picked it up from a street vendor in Greece, but I’d actually bought from a boutique on Oxford Street in Sydney for a mint. My hair was half-up, half-down and a few loose curls framed my face. On my feet were my strappy flat sandals.
“Do you need a wrap, or a cardigan, or something? What if you’re going somewhere outdoors?” I hadn’t thought about that.
“Is it going to get cold tonight?”
“Not cold, but definitely cooler, probably below twenty.”
“
Oh, right. Have you got something I can borrow?” She looked at me like I was a complete idiot. Of course she had something, and of course it was perfect. It was a pashmina, the same blue as the swirls on my top. I folded it up and put it in the tote, then had a final look in the mirror. I fingered a wayward curl, but quickly gave up trying to make it behave. “I think I’m going to wait for James downstairs.”
“Nervous?” She knows me so well.
“A little.”
She reached up and gave me a big hug. “Have the most amazing time.”
I hugged her back tightly. “I will.”
“And if he proposes, say yes!”
I broke the hug so I could give her a chastising look, which she brushed off by laughing. She clearly thought she was hilarious.
“Go!” She pushed me out of her bedroom into the hallway. “Go pace in the lobby.”
“I will then!” I said with faux indignation.
“Love you,” she called as I went out the door.
“Love you back!” I replied over my shoulder. I shook my head as I waited for the elevator. I adore my mad little sister.
Just then, she popped her head out of her front door.
“And get a photo this time!”
I take that back. My sister is a massive pain in the bum.
*
“Hello, you,” said a very handsome silver fox. He took my tote from me with one hand and pulled me in for a kiss with the other. It was a lovely kiss.
“Hello to you,” I said, smiling dreamily. He opened the car door for me and while I got settled and seat-belted, put my tote in the boot. When he climbed into the car, I checked him out properly and he looked good. It was that Ralph Lauren model look again. Black jeans, slim fit—not skinny—and a light-blue dress shirt, untucked, with the second button undone and the sleeves rolled up to show his tanned forearms. Wowser.
When we pulled away from the kerb, I couldn’t contain my curiosity any further. “So, where are we headed?”
“Well, I’ve actually planned an evening in,” he said, and then added, “sort of.”
“Now I’m really intrigued.”
“I’d prefer to keep the details a surprise.” He glanced at me and returned his eyes to the road. “Would that be all right—the surprise part?”
“Absolutely.” I had already started to reassess my dislike of surprises, mainly because James was so good at them. My excitement built as I watched London pass by my window.
Could I live here again? I wondered. London was an incredible city, and Cat was there. And James, of course. A life with James … It was one thing to fantasise about Sunday mornings and window seats, but what would real life with the silver fox even be like? When we were in Greece, James had said he was looking for that, for something real, but that didn’t mean he wanted it with me. And even if he did, could I give up my life in Sydney? My home?
James reached over and took my hand and I squeezed it in return. Then a niggling thought taunted me from the back of my mind. If I allowed myself to fall for James, if I did pursue something more serious and long-term with him, where did that leave me and Josh?
Josh and I had said all those things when we were on Mykonos—almost a pact. Off the boat and away from the others, we’d had a lengthy heart-to-heart, promising each other that our friendship—even if that was all it turned out to be—would stay intact for the rest of our lives. We were important to each other. There was love there, maybe not the kind of love you build a relationship on, but real, tangible love.
But I knew that no matter what Josh and I had told each other, or how much we had meant it at the time, there was no way we could remain friends if James and I were together.
Please don’t see that guy, James. That’s what Josh had said to me on our last day together in Greece. And yet, there I was, sitting in James’s car, holding James’s hand, and very much looking forward to the evening ahead.
Did I feel guilty? Yes and no.
No, because—and I realise this is going to sound very Disney princess of me—I needed to be true to myself and what I was feeling. And what I was feeling was that I was falling for an incredible man, a man who hadn’t hesitated at all about expressing his feelings for me, a man who made me feel desired and perhaps even hopeful.
And, yes. Because I cared about Josh, and I’d put him off that week. I’d had to, mostly for my own sanity, but by the time I’d got back to Cat’s the morning after my sleepover with James, Josh had texted a third time.
Hi Sarah, I hope everything’s okay. Would love to hear from you and maybe to FaceTime later. I miss you. Josh xxx
He’d gone from a casual, “miss ya” in the first two texts, to “I miss you”. He’d even added two extra kisses.
Cat had watched me agonise over my reply for nearly fifteen minutes, as I typed and deleted and typed and deleted a response. When I threw my head back with an exasperated sigh, she offered her help.
“Let me see,” she said, signalling for me to hand her the phone. I did and she read his three texts quickly. “He’s keen, I’ll give him that. Do you want to FaceTime him?”
I chewed on my lip. “I don’t know.” She threw me a look. “Well, I don’t.”
“Do you miss him?”
“Honestly, no, but only because you and I’ve had such a great time together—”
“And you and James have had a great time together.”
“Right. That too. It’s just that there hasn’t really been any time to miss Josh. But, when I’m back home, and I don’t have you, or James, or Josh … well, I’ll miss him then.”
I couldn’t read her face, but I figured she was digesting what I’d just said. I kept chewing on my lip. You’re going to wear it away at this rate, Sarah.
“Look, I get it,” she said, and I sighed, relieved. “Do you want to know what I’d do?”
Uh, yes, duh. I signalled for her to get on with it.
“Text him back to say you’re having a great time with me, because you are, and that you want to make the most of the time with your sister, but you miss him too, and you can’t wait to FaceTime when you get back to Sydney next week.” She paused, probably for effect—she was quite dramatic sometimes. “How’s that?”
That was genius. And that is exactly what I did.
Except, as I held hands with James and thought about my reply to Josh, my stomach twanged—and not the good kind of twang, but an angsty one full of guilt.
Please don’t see that guy, James.
Chapter 8
James parked the car out front of his house, and I looked at him quizzically.
“I’m not saying anything to spoil the surprise,” he said, which made me even more intrigued. “I’ll get your bag.”
I let myself out of the car, climbed the steps, and waited for James at his front door. When he joined me, reaching past me to unlock the door, I got a waft of his cologne—god, he smelled delicious. I hoped his surprise included lots of canoodling. “Go on in, but wait just inside,” he said, snapping me from my less-than-pure thoughts. “I’ll put your bag upstairs. Oh, is there anything you need?” He held up the leather tote. “We’ll be outside.”
“Uh, let me just grab one thing,” I said, unzipping it and pulling out Cat’s pashmina.
“All good?”
I nodded, and James took the stairs two at a time. He was back on the main level of the house before I knew it. “Come with me,” he said, taking my hand.
He led me downstairs into the kitchen, out the back door, and into a small courtyard bordered by potted plants. In the centre, sat a small café table and two chairs. I moved towards one of the chairs, but James tugged gently at my hand.
“Not here. This way.” He led me to the corner of the house where a wrought-iron spiral staircase rose to the roof. I smiled. This was becoming quite the adventure.
“After you. Or shall I go first?”
“You go,” I said. “I’ll follow.”
It was too steep and narrow to keep holdi
ng hands, but I followed closely behind James with one hand gripping the railing. When I emerged onto the rooftop, he was smiling down at me mischievously.
Then he stepped aside.
I gasped, my fingertips to my mouth, then I took in every heavenly detail of the rooftop terrace.
Strings of fairy lights ran along the high walls, creating a sparkling rectangle of light and at each corner, potted topiary trees stood proud, dense with twinkling lights. Dotted about were dozens of tealight candles forming tiny tableaux of soft light, and in the centre of the terrace was a large blanket covered with plump cushions. On one corner of the blanket sat an enormous picnic basket—an actual wicker basket with two flip-up lids either side of the handle—and next to it was a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket with two flutes at the ready.
“Oh, James.” I had no other words—it was a rare moment.
It was so pretty, so thoughtful. And even though we hadn’t eaten a thing or tasted the champagne, even before we sat on the blanket, I thought it was the single most romantic moment of my life. I wished I could have taken a photo to show Cat—and everyone else I’d ever met—but I knew it would break the spell.
“Come, sit.” I walked over to the blanket and slipped off my sandals before nestling in, a giant pillow at my back. James busied himself with the bubbles and poured two glasses, handing one to me.
“I actually have a stunning bottle of red in the basket, but I thought we could start with this, and a toast, to celebrate.”
Celebrate? Holy crap, is he proposing? He’s not, right? That would be mad.
“So, what are we celebrating?” I asked as casually as possible for a woman who thinks she may be getting proposed to.
He hesitated, just for a moment, but long enough for a shot of terror to jolt through me.
“We’re celebrating … well, us.” Gulp. “I know it’s only been a few weeks since I first saw you in Santorini, and even less time since I’ve got to know you—properly, I mean—but I do know you’re someone special. You’ve become important to me, Sarah.”
My eyes were locked on his, my heart racing.
“And I don’t say this lightly, because I haven’t felt this way for a very long time. I’m falling in love with you.”
