She was grounded by panic.
Suddenly, she longed to run away, put Sinclair behind her, regardless of her decision to keep him keen. No, she had to move on to the next place, the next guest room in the next city.
Instinctively, she took a step back. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she muttered. ‘It was a mistake, what almost happened in the closet.’ She donned her usual blasé laugh. ‘It was just a little fun, wasn’t it?’
He pulled back, hurt. ‘A little fun?’
She began walking again, continuing to the Underground station. ‘If it was anything at all, which it wasn’t, was it? After all, we barely know each other, and after the coronation, you’ll be in Rome, and I’llbe, well, who knows where I’ll be.’ She chuckled. ‘We’re both independent nomads.’
‘Are we, though?’ He reached for her arm to try to get her to slow down, but she just kept on striding ahead. ‘What if we give it a chance, have a little trust in each other?’
Something about the wordtrustmade her wince. Was it losing Jack, or was it the brutal newspaper world of Manhattan, the culture that thrived on one key principle: ‘I never trust anyone,’ she said, her mantra since Jack’s death. ‘And I recommend the same for you – although I’d have thought you were smart enough to know that already.’
‘Has it ever crossed your mind that people can do better than that, that they can be better together?’
She put her arms out to gesticulate, to explain, but how could she begin – where even was the beginning, the place where it had started?
Instead she muttered an exasperated huff and sped up. ‘I’m fine by myself.’
He caught up with her. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, you’re not all that fine, Miranda. You’ve never given yourself a chance. I can’t imagine how dreadful it must feel to go through what you have, but you need to open up about it, start living. No one’s going to judge you – except perhaps yourself.’
But she couldn’t tell him the secret that now hid like a ghoul in her heart, that she wasn’t who she said she was, but an imposter, there to bring them down. And as she felt herself peer into the abyss, she knew she had to get away from him.
She spun around. ‘How dare you? I thought maybe you were becoming a friend, but now I see that you’re just another ridiculous man who thinks he knows best.’ She looked at the street that led to the Underground. ‘I have to go.’
She expected him to climb down, to apologize, but he must have been stung by her words, as he only replied, ‘If you want to leave, then go ahead.’
Unsure, she began to turn away from him. ‘Well, if that’s all you have to say...’ Then, throwing him a final scowl, she strode towards the Underground.
She felt his eyes watching her as she walked across the street, hard and fast in the glimmering car lights, half expecting him to call after her.
But when she reached the corner and glanced back, he’d gone, vanished into the crowd.
Her mind was a jumble of anger and anxiety, her heart pounding as she stood alone, arms folded over her chest, engulfed with the unfamiliar sear of regret.
And as she felt the downward tug of emotion, she pulled herself together, took out her notebook, and marched to the nearest telephone box.
After all, the only reason she was in London was to report on the coronation. Sinclair and Betty and the others, well, they were just there to help dig out the details.
It was O’Hara who was counting on her. At least she had the details of the route this time. That should keep him happy for now.
But instead of feeling pleased to have done the job well, the only thing on her mind was how much she loathed sneaking around, how much her palace friends would hate her if they knew.
And how that vile newspaperman would always be there, breathing down her neck, whether she gave him the top scoops or not.
LUCY
THE CHURCH BELLS PEALED OUT FOR SHIRLEY AND VERNONas the group of women followed the wedding guests through the great doors, chatting with glee at their friend’s happy day.
All, that is, except Lucy.
With Shirley vanishing into the world of matrimony, she felt lonely and betrayed. At least she had Richard, she thought, and Miranda and Betty weren’t so bad once you got used to them. Miranda was helpful with loans, and Betty was quite nice, too, with her cups of tea and singing in the kitchen – once, Lucy had joined in and they’d had quite a singsong. But then it struck Lucy that maybe this was a bit too cosy, like Betty was trying to be her mum or something. She’d made an excuse to leave, thinking how opposite Betty was from her own mother, with her waspish indifference. Once Lucy was rich and famous, she’d go back to Cornwall and parade it in front of her mother, show her she was worthy of praise, of love.
They took their seats in the church, Lucy glancing around to see if she had any admirers. Ever since she’d turned blonde, she’d become the centre of attention, and she preened herself, brushing down the new lilac dress that Caroline had made for her. She pushed back her hair and opened her mouth into a laugh, as if someone nearby had just said something funny.
‘Oh, sit down, Lucy.’ Miranda pulled her into the seat between her and Betty. ‘I think everyone in the church has had a good look at you by now.’
Lucy had hoped to be a bridesmaid, but Shirley, already the dedicated wife, chose Vernon’s two sisters instead. If Lucy were honest, they hardly saw each other these days. They were pulling in different directions, Shirley spending time with Vernon’s family, Lucy with Richard.
