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Just in case I thought this couldn’t get any worse. Now I’m embellishing the lie. Am I crazy? Next I’ll be inventing an entire history with a man I’ve never seen before in my life.
“Indeed?” Jeremy’s voice drips with scepticism. “You’re an old acquaintance of Professor Warwick’s?”
For a brief moment, I wonder who the hell he’s talking about. Then my heart plummets.
He knows, doesn’t he? He knows that I’m making all of this up.
“Yes, indeed,” I stutter. I couldn’t sound less convincing if I tried. “Now, if you’ll excuse me …”
I brush past him and I’m halfway across the floor of the gallery before my sense of triumph gives way to the first creeping misgivings. Why do I just come out with these things? It was all very well and good in the heat of the moment, but now the prospect of accosting a total stranger seems beyond daunting. Hopefully … I sidle a glance back over my shoulder, but no luck. Jeremy’s still standing there, watching me suspiciously.
Oh, God. There’s nothing for it. I’m going to have to do it, aren’t I?
When this is all over, I am going to give myself a serious talking-to about the perils of fabrication and getting myself into these ridiculous situations.
I square my shoulders and walk right up to my quarry.
“I’m so glad I’ve caught you,” I say loudly.
Or at least I think I’ve said it fairly loudly. But the museum’s not exactly living up to its reputation as a tranquil, studious place of enquiry today. A school trip has taken over the far end of the gallery, the children fidgeting and chattering as their beleaguered teacher hands out activity papers. My voice is completely drowned out by the hubbub.
He doesn’t even look up. His dark head is still bowed over what I can now identify as a leather-bound notebook, in which he’s scribbling at a furious pace, apparently totally oblivious to everything around him.
I hover uselessly, wondering if I should try again, when one of the children barges past my legs, pitching me forwards. On reflex, I fling my arms out in front of me and, the next thing I know, I’m hanging off the unfortunate man in a strange approximation of a hug.
But that’s not the worst part. Oh, no.
That would be our lips, which have somehow ended up … Well, they’re not quite on one another. I mean, if we’re being technical about it …
Oh, who am I kidding? They’re on one another. It’s a kiss. An accidental kiss, but a kiss nonetheless.
The next few seconds are the strangest I’ve ever experienced. Time seems to grind to a halt. He’s gone as rigid as corrugated iron. I’m pretty much frozen to the spot myself, my brain struggling to compute what’s happening.
Then, just as suddenly, clarity comes rushing back.
Oh, God. What am I doing? I’m kissing him. I’m kissing a total stranger.
Because now it really is a kiss. I mean, neither of us has pulled away.
Something tells me the museum board won’t take a particularly indulgent view of this. I wrench my lips from his, closing my eyes in mortification.
“Er … do we know each other?” he asks faintly. His lips are close to my ear, and something about his voice sends a shiver of awareness through me.
He thinks I flung myself at him. And why shouldn’t he? That’s what it must have looked like.
Now people are watching us, openly curious. I can feel heat creeping across my cheeks and I already know they’re turning a vibrant pink. Not for the first time in my life, I have cause to curse my fair complexion.
“Sorry,” I mutter frantically. My head feels like it’s about to explode. I’m about to explode. Surely, no one can deal with as much embarrassment in one sitting without it being fatal? Even someone as seasoned as me. “Just … sorry. Look, I’ll explain in a moment.”
Without thinking, I grab his hand and tug him across to the nearest window seat. It’s covered in papers, but I’m too shaken to care. I just collapse right on top of them.
“My papers,” he says in a strangled voice.
“Sorry, sorry.” Why can’t I seem to stop saying that? I pull a wad of them out from under me, intending to smooth them out on my lap. But I never get that far. Instead, as I look down at them, I’m gripped by a cold sensation.
There’s something very familiar about these papers. They’re crumpled and stained with dirt, like they’ve been on the ground.
Surely … I mean, it’s got to be a coincidence, right? There’s no way it could actually be …
I turn another one over, and there’s a bicycle tyre track running diagonally across it.
Oh, no. No way.
Slowly, I drag my eyes up to look at the man sitting next to me.
So much for thinking the worst of it was over. By the looks of things, it hasn’t even started.
Chapter 6 (#udfc81e59-b1f4-528a-b922-8118f6e662d1)
For an age I’m paralysed. I just sit there, staring at him.
How can this be happening?
I am a good person, you know. Not perfect, but pretty damn good. I pay my taxes. I remember birthdays. I’m even an attentive listener, and that’s not a widespread trait these days.
So why, oh, why, is the man from last night now sitting next to me in my place of work?
And why, by all that is good and holy, have I just kissed him?
Why did it have to be him?
I don’t deserve this. Really I don’t. I’ll be having words with the Universe later.
“Are you all right?” he’s asking now, peering at me with something approaching alarm. “You’ve gone rather puce.”
Puce, indeed. Like that’s going to make me feel better.
“I’m fine,” I croak.
I suppose that, now I’m looking at him properly, and with the benefit of proof in the form of those cursed papers, it’s obvious that it’s the same man. The mid-morning sun slanting through the window illuminates those sharp features I only caught a glimpse of beneath his helmet last night, picking out hints of bronze in his black hair. And his voice … Reluctantly, I have to admit that I thought it was familiar, although, to be fair, it has a completely different tone to it today. Last night it was angry, sarcastic; today, it sounds very different. It’s almost … nice, with a deep, cultured thread to it.
I pull myself up sharply at that last thought. Nice?What are you doing, Clara? Now’s not the time to get carried away with how nice his voice sounds.
He’s regarding me thoughtfully. “Are you sure we don’t know one another? I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere.”
Hang on … what? Surely he can’t mean …
The realisation, somewhat belated as it is, hits me in a flash.
He doesn’t know who I am.
How can that be the case? I mean, all right, so it was dark. More to the point, he was standing under the streetlamp, whilst I was in the shadows. And he never really looked at me properly throughout our entire ill-fated meeting. So I suppose …
Actually, I’m not sure if I should be affronted or not. Did I really leave so little an impression upon his lofty mind?
Apparently so. For some reason, that piques me.
I’m about to confess everything. Really, I am. But then, when I open my mouth, what I intended to say somehow isn’t there. It’s like someone’s mixed up the words, and instead I can only listen on in horror as what I actually say is …
“What? No! Definitely not. I mean …” I rummage in the pocket of my cardigan, brandishing my lanyard. Really, I’m supposed to be wearing it, but it’s such an outfit killer I can’t bring myself to. I didn’t spend twenty minutes staring blankly into my wardrobe this morning trying to select a cute ensemble only to loop an unflattering black cord around my neck. “Probably around the museum. I work here, you see.”
Well, that’s that then. I’ve officially lied right to his face. That’s … that’s just fantastic. My second monstrous fabrication of the day, and it’s not even ten-thirty yet. As if it weren’t enough to dig myself one grave in the course of a morning, I have to go and excavate myself a second.
Perhaps this is what Heather means when she says I’m my own worst enemy.
His cobalt blue eyes scan the card for several seconds, and I hold my breath. He doesn’t look entirely convinced. At last, though, he shrugs.
“That must be it, then. So tell me,” he begins casually, crossing one leg over the other, “is it museum policy to kiss unsuspecting members of the public?”
My head snaps up. Did he really just say that?
“I did not kiss you,” I say haughtily. “It was an accident. One of those kids pushed me!”
He nods knowingly. “All right, well, we’ll have to take your word for that, I suppose, considering the lack of any firm evidence.”
“It’s true,” I say hotly.
“So you say.”
I look into his dark eyes, trying to work out if he’s playing with me or not. But there’s nothing there to give him away. His expression is totally inscrutable. We could just as easily be discussing the weather.
Annoyed at my own confusion, I turn away, craning my neck to squint around the window casement, which screens us from both sides. To my intense aggravation, Jeremy’s still there, lurking behind a stone pillar in what he clearly imagines to be an unobtrusive manner. Honestly, does he not have something else he could be doing? Since when did spying on me become a legitimate part of his job description? The only small bright spot in the whole thing is the expression on his face. It’s priceless. If everything else weren’t so awful right at this moment, I’d probably be enjoying myself immensely.
“And who, exactly, are we hiding from?” murmurs my new companion.
“No one.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Really? No one? You’re habitually this furtive, then?”
“No, I …” I flush guiltily. “Look, you don’t understand …”
I see him sidle a dubious glance at the mug still in my hand. It has a picture of Casper on it, surrounded by clouds and rainbows. Hastily, I move my hand so it’s covering the image. The last thing I need is for him to recognise the cat which dented his bike and ruined his precious research papers. That’s a can of worms I really can’t face opening just now.
In fact, I can’t do any of this. I can’t sit here, making pleasant conversation with this man. Well, semi-pleasant, at least. I stand, not caring if Jeremy’s still there. “I’d better go.”
He looks faintly disappointed. “So soon? Are you sure you don’t want to kiss me once more before you do?”
He is laughing at me. I can see it in the depths of his eyes. Who’d have thought he had a sense of humour? Unfortunately, I’m not in the mood to share it right now.
“No, thank you,” I say, with as much dignity as I can muster. “I don’t think you enjoyed it all that much the first time. I wouldn’t wish to put you through it again.”
For a moment, he looks as though he might be about to say something else, but then he simply inclines his head. It’s an old-fashioned gesture, oddly formal, but it seems to suit him, somehow.
“Well, then, until next time, Miss Swift.”
Good God, I think, as I scuttle away as fast as my pride and poise will allow, I hope not. If the insufferable Professor Warwick never crossed my path again, it wouldn’t be a moment too soon.
***
“I’m going to hell,” I moan, flinging myself across the sofa. “It’s official. My fate is sealed.”
“You’re so melodramatic,” Heather tuts, although I notice that she puts down the kettle and reaches into the wine rack instead. “It can’t be that bad. Although why you didn’t just tell the truth, I don’t know.”
“Because that would have been sensible. That’s the sort of thing you would have done. I’m not like you. I panicked.”
“And made an idiot of yourself, as usual,” Heather remarks calmly.
I sit bolt upright. “That’s not very supportive!”
She shrugs, pouring pale pink wine into two expensive-looking glasses. “Sometimes I’m here to be supportive, sometimes just to tell you the truth. And the truth is, you’re an idiot. In this case, at least.”
“You’re right,” I admit mournfully as she settles onto the sofa next to me. I hug my knees to my chest and take a fortifying sip of my wine. Almost immediately, its warming effect helps me to relax, and I sink back into the cushions. Heather has lots of cushions. And they’re always perfectly plumped too. I don’t know how she keeps it up, not with a rambunctious three-year-old charging around the house all day.
“Better?” she asks with a knowing look.
“Yes,” I say in a small voice.
It’s always nice coming to Heather’s. Like visiting your mum’s. Everything’s wonderfully ordered, with a soothingly tasteful colour scheme. You always get offered a drink of some description from their sumptuous new kitchen, with its Carrara marble island unit and built-in wine rack. And when the drink comes, it’s unfailingly from an ever-ready supply of sparklingly clean glasses in the glossy-fronted cupboard. You’ll never find Heather scrabbling around for a halfway decent receptacle before eventually serving up warm wine in a chipped Moomins mug she’s had since she was eight.
In fact, much as I like coming to Heather’s, it always makes me feel a little … I don’t know, flat. Because it just highlights the ever-growing chasm between her life and mine. Heather’s a grown-up, a fully fledged adult member of society with the tasteful arrangement of beeswax pillar candles to prove it. And I’m …
Well, today was a case in point.
I look at those candles now, blazing away on the glazed fire surround. Then, slowly, I look at Heather, in a powder-blue cashmere jumper, her favourite diamond studs glinting in her ears.
“Oh, sorry. Have I interrupted a romantic evening?” Now I feel really guilty. Why didn’t she say something?
She looks nonplussed. “Not at all. Dominic’s just putting Oscar to bed, then he’s got a squash match.”
“You mean, this is your staying at home outfit?” I’m only half teasing.
“One has to make an effort, even if only for oneself.” She cradles her wineglass against her lips, looking mischievous. “So, what I really want to know about is this man. A professor, you say?”
“Heather!” If we were at my house, where the soft furnishings aren’t quite so precious, I would gladly throw a cushion at her. “Don’t even think about it. Believe me, he is definitely not a candidate for romantic interest.”
She quirks an eyebrow. “Isn’t that what people always say to begin with? I wasn’t exactly keen on Dominic when I first met him.”
“Yes, but you slept with him anyway,” I point out drily. It’s about the most reckless thing Heather’s ever done. And just like her luck that it should actually turn out well in the end.
