She blanched, not sure what to say. ‘Well, it is rather sexist. You’ve admitted that yourself. And the minister’s an idiot.’
‘Have some respect, Miranda. While you’re taking advantage of the organization, maybe it’s best not to completely obliterate them. Or is that another little goal of yours? To make the British monarchy and all its employees look feeble, outdated, or just plain evil? What about your friends, like Betty and Caroline, the others who love their jobs? What about the dresser, Miss MacDonald, who has given her life to remain by the queen’s side? What will you say about her? Because the way this article is going to read, it’ll be like you’re slapping her face, belittling her for not being as foolishly independent as you.’
‘Foolishly independent? Did I move into a canal boat because a woman left me and I wasn’t being sent to Rome?’
‘Don’t mock me, Miranda. I might not have lost my spouse, but if you plan to spend your life demonstrating that your grievances are worse than everyone else’s, you’re going to live a very sad existence.’
‘Unlike you,’ she snapped ironically.
His voice was slow, measured. ‘I laid my heart open to you, Miranda, and I thought you were being open with me, too.’
‘Iwasopen! Do you have any idea how much it took to talk about Jack?’
He scrunched his face in confusion. ‘But you left out a whole part of who you are, of what you’re doing here. You’re a journalist, here to dissect us for the world to see.’
There was a desperation in her voice as she pleaded, ‘Yes, I came here to write about the coronation, but that was all, just a series of simple articles, nothing underhand.’
‘In here it’s described as an undercover exposé behind the scenes in the palace.’ He snapped the book shut. ‘Are you so busy being a dispassionate journalist that you’ve become detached about your whole life? Do you have feelings for anything other than your work?’ He tapped the notebook. ‘It’s all written down, Miranda. You took notes about the palace, about your friends, and about me, too.’
She shivered at the thought of what he’d read. The last thing she wanted was for him, Sinclair, to repeat it back to her, especially the things she’d written when she’d just arrived, fresh off the plane. Never had she felt so misunderstood.
But Miranda was made of stern stuff, and she couldn’t bear it when someone challenged her.
‘After all we’ve been through, Sinclair, you should know better than to make me feel bad about exposing the truth. I’m a survivor, a warrior.’
He shook his head. ‘More like a coward and a traitor to your friends. I thought so much more of you.’
Suddenly, rage took over, and she stood up, grabbing the notebook off the table. ‘How dare you think you know me at all!’
And fighting back more tears, she stormed out of the café, not even looking back as she banged the door closed behind her.
His accusations had stabbed her like glass. How could she get him to see that women had to fight, widows more than anyone. She’d wanted to explain, but he’d never given her the chance.
But as she strode down the street, she couldn’t bear to think of him, that look of hurt on his face, and she banished it from her mind. How could she have let any of this happen?
Knowing rumours of her treachery would spread fast, she decided not to go back to the palace, striding to the Underground instead, desperate to put it all behind her.
It was too much to bear, the disgrace, the judgements, and somewhere deep inside, the shame that she’d taken all these people for a ride.
Why should she sit around waiting for such a humiliating end?
As for O’Hara, he’d have to make do with the details she already had. She might miss the coronation itself, but didn’t she have enough dirt to fulfil her obligation?
‘I just want to get back to New York,’ she murmured under her breath. A last-minute change to her return ticket might cost her a few bucks, but it would be worth every penny.
Once she reached Camden, she called the airline, who told her that there were seats available on a flight that afternoon. She was to go to the airport and arrange it there.
At home, she ran upstairs to her room and began throwing her things into her suitcase.
Then a voice came from the passage. ‘Miranda, is that you?’
With a groan, Miranda remembered that Betty had swapped shifts.
‘I forgot something!’ she called back, hoping that her probing aunt wouldn’t come in.
However, it wasn’t long before Betty opened the door, and when she saw the look on Miranda’s face, she hurried over to her. ‘Is everything all right, dear?’
But before Miranda could answer, Betty’s eyes locked onto something on the bed behind Miranda. The suitcase was there, open with clothes thrown inside.
