‘More like a stubborn old relative. She’s always leaking, and the motor continually jams.’ He laughed. ‘But it’s a fine life, out on the canal. You meet a lot of people, and travelling through the locks of London is one of the best ways to see it.’
‘Isn’t it a little cramped?’
He nodded with a smile. ‘It certainly is that, especially with my collections from around the world.’
‘What kinds of things?’
‘Oh, the usual ornaments and textiles, and also...’ He coloured, adding more quietly, ‘musical instruments.’
Unstoppably, a laugh tumbled out of her. ‘Are you serious?’
‘They’re nothing special, a sitar and a zither, a mugo drum, that sort of thing.’
He was blushing.
‘Do you play them?’
‘I try – some of them aren’t exactly the sweetest sound you’ll ever hear. But they tell a story about the place, about the people. That’s what matters to me. I like the idea that the world is made up of all these different cultures, that we’re not stuck in the strict rules of just one place.’
She watched him, thinking how quirky he was. How quick she’d been to judge him. ‘Have you ever been to the States?’
‘Several times, mostly to Washington, DC, and New York, butI’ve been to Chicago and LA, too. I’d love to go to New Orleans. You must have been there.’
There was a week in 1949 when she’d reported on women storming the men-only Sazerac Bar, demanding that they be served. But she couldn’t let Sinclair know that she was a journalist, so instead she said, ‘I’ve visited once or twice. How do you like New York?’ She had a sudden urge to talk about her home, the place where she’d struggled and survived. It felt a million miles away.
‘Last year I spent Thanksgiving with an American diplomat’s family on the Upper West Side. I think he felt sorry for me, spending Thanksgiving on my own.’
Nodding, she grinned. ‘That must have been an experience. It’s like an eating contest.’
‘And here’s me thinking it was about family. It was interesting to see a different side of New York.’
She laughed. ‘The city is the only bearable place to be.’ His openness encouraged her to tell him the things she usually kept buried. She presumed it was his diplomatic career, but inside she knew it was more than that. She hadn’t had conversations like these for so long, those teasing, tentative chats where everything was said, and nothing.
‘Do you come from there?’
‘No, I’m from Connecticut, but I don’t spend much time there. My mum was in a car accident when I was ten, and we looked after her for a few years until she died. My father remarried, and it’s fine really. Rae is a polite and good person, but I’ve never been part of their family. When I go home, all they’re interested in is trying to marry me off to a neighbour’s son or the new teacher in town. I told them I’m not interested in dating, but it’s awkward, complicated.’
‘You’re not interested in dating?’ Sinclair’s eyes looked into hers before flickering down to the wedding ring she had on her left hand. ‘What I don’t understand is why you use the title Miss and yet you wear a wedding ring?’
Her hand flew to the ring, and she drew back defensively. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
She could imagine the thoughts that were going through his mind:Poor her, she must be devastated by a divorce, or maybe she lost someone – what happened to him?More than anything, she couldn’t bear people’s pity.
He must have sensed her pulling away from him, as he skilfully tracked back to talking about people trying to matchmake. ‘For me, it’s my neighbours who are always introducing me to nieces and so forth.’ He put on a comical lady’s voice. ‘“It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.”’
Miranda laughed. ‘And are you in possession of a good fortune?’
‘Not a fortune, but I like to think I have enough for a good life.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t need a grand mansion or a yacht. Just put me in a Tuscan villa with a few Dickenses and Tolstoys, maybe some Proust, and I’d be happy.’
‘Are you in search of lost time?’ she mused, charmed.
‘Well, aren’t we all when we must go to these interminable meetings?’ He smiled.
She looked outside into the gathering mist – or was it minuscule molecules of barely visible rain? ‘I have to say that a villa in Tuscany sounds perfect. I hope you’d add a swimming pool, too, a few sun loungers for good measure.’
He laughed. ‘And perhaps a table laid for a simple dinner of ripe tomatoes and local cheese, fresh bread, and a bottle of Chianti. The sun would be setting, the afternoon heat still in the air, the sound of crickets from the field of sunflowers.’
‘That would be quite a life,’ she murmured, settling back in her seat as she pictured the scene, imagined the sun on her and the lingering scent of summer. ‘Who needs all the chaos when you can live for the day?’
