off for dry brown hills and lumbering over tough, dusty terrain. What if I got stranded someplace with a flat tyre or something else that had to be fixed? Bikes could be quite temperamental. And a young girl shouldn’t be out in the wilds on her own, anyway; an adult should be present. I pleaded and pleaded, but they wouldn’t budge. It did make them think I should have a hobby, so they decided I should take piano lessons, which I hated.
But years later, when April said she wanted a mountain bike, things were different. We were back in Ireland, my parents had managed not to divorce and April appeared to be a full genetic member of the family; so, in the grand scheme of things, a mountain bike didn’t seem such a big deal. She got one. It was hardly even discussed. She took off on her bike and then came back on it, and we began to see her as a rugged, outdoorsy person who took risks and had adventures. And maybe people would have seen me that way, too, if I’d got my mountain bike; but I didn’t.
And now I’m lost. I’ve left the café immersed in these memories, and I must have walked straight past the building w here the reception is being held. The street numbers don’t seem to follow any logical pattern; even the landmarks Greta men tioned don’t seem to exist. Time has fast-forwarded to five-twenty in what seems like three minutes. Greta will be angry, because all her favours come at a price: I am virtually under orders to attend this reception and walk around looking fascinated and making careful notes while interviewing ‘top young designers’.
Maybe I should just go somewhere else. Sit by the pond in St Stephen’s Green and dream…
But of course I can’t. What am I thinking? I go into a newsagent’s and ask them where the store is; it’s just down the road, apparently, on the left. How can I have missed it? I race out. Beads of perspiration are gathering on my forehead. There it is – of course it is. I dart through the huge glass door.
I scan the room. I don’t see The Sunday Lunch ’sphotographer. That will disappoint Greta. She seems to think I can boss the pictures editor around and demand that he include certain photographs in the paper, but I simply don’t have that kind of clout. I grab a glass of sparkling water. I mustn’t have any wine. I must stay sober and focused. I must dart around the room like a blue-arsed fly, looking fascinated.
I take a deep breath and am about to launch myself into the throng when I see him. He is standing by the big rosewood drinks table – the man I somehow know, although I have never even spoken to him. Nathaniel, the beautiful blue-eyed stranger.
Chapter Nine
I stare at the Beautiful Stranger as though he were a famous sculpture in a Florence art gallery. I gawp like an American tourist who has never been to Europe before and finds it all fascinating. I want to reach out and touch him, trace the beautiful dark curve of his eyelashes. I’ve never seen eyelashes like that before, so long and thick, above such clear blue eyes.
‘Sally, you made it!’ Greta swoops down on me. ‘What happened to you? There are so many people I want you to meet.’ She looks more tall and muscular than ever, and her long black hair is tied up in a chignon. She’s wearing a bat-winged silk thing that she probably painted herself.
Greta grabs my arm and hauls me over to a small, wiry man who appears to be wearing white cotton pyjamas. ‘This is Tobias Armitage.’ She beams at us both. ‘Sally just loves your sofas, Tobias. She’s from The Sunday Lunch. ’In Greta’s world, people don’t just like sofas, they love them. It’s her way of bolstering the artistic temperaments of her clients.
Tobias looks at me and I look at Tobias. I’ve never heard of his sofas, but this is a mere technical detail. Tobias clearly sees this as a chance for sofa fame and grabs it with his unusually hairy hands. The hairs are dark and long, and I find myself looking at
But years later, when April said she wanted a mountain bike, things were different. We were back in Ireland, my parents had managed not to divorce and April appeared to be a full genetic member of the family; so, in the grand scheme of things, a mountain bike didn’t seem such a big deal. She got one. It was hardly even discussed. She took off on her bike and then came back on it, and we began to see her as a rugged, outdoorsy person who took risks and had adventures. And maybe people would have seen me that way, too, if I’d got my mountain bike; but I didn’t.
And now I’m lost. I’ve left the café immersed in these memories, and I must have walked straight past the building w here the reception is being held. The street numbers don’t seem to follow any logical pattern; even the landmarks Greta men tioned don’t seem to exist. Time has fast-forwarded to five-twenty in what seems like three minutes. Greta will be angry, because all her favours come at a price: I am virtually under orders to attend this reception and walk around looking fascinated and making careful notes while interviewing ‘top young designers’.
Maybe I should just go somewhere else. Sit by the pond in St Stephen’s Green and dream…
But of course I can’t. What am I thinking? I go into a newsagent’s and ask them where the store is; it’s just down the road, apparently, on the left. How can I have missed it? I race out. Beads of perspiration are gathering on my forehead. There it is – of course it is. I dart through the huge glass door.
I scan the room. I don’t see The Sunday Lunch ’sphotographer. That will disappoint Greta. She seems to think I can boss the pictures editor around and demand that he include certain photographs in the paper, but I simply don’t have that kind of clout. I grab a glass of sparkling water. I mustn’t have any wine. I must stay sober and focused. I must dart around the room like a blue-arsed fly, looking fascinated.
I take a deep breath and am about to launch myself into the throng when I see him. He is standing by the big rosewood drinks table – the man I somehow know, although I have never even spoken to him. Nathaniel, the beautiful blue-eyed stranger.
Chapter Nine
I stare at the Beautiful Stranger as though he were a famous sculpture in a Florence art gallery. I gawp like an American tourist who has never been to Europe before and finds it all fascinating. I want to reach out and touch him, trace the beautiful dark curve of his eyelashes. I’ve never seen eyelashes like that before, so long and thick, above such clear blue eyes.
‘Sally, you made it!’ Greta swoops down on me. ‘What happened to you? There are so many people I want you to meet.’ She looks more tall and muscular than ever, and her long black hair is tied up in a chignon. She’s wearing a bat-winged silk thing that she probably painted herself.
Greta grabs my arm and hauls me over to a small, wiry man who appears to be wearing white cotton pyjamas. ‘This is Tobias Armitage.’ She beams at us both. ‘Sally just loves your sofas, Tobias. She’s from The Sunday Lunch. ’In Greta’s world, people don’t just like sofas, they love them. It’s her way of bolstering the artistic temperaments of her clients.
Tobias looks at me and I look at Tobias. I’ve never heard of his sofas, but this is a mere technical detail. Tobias clearly sees this as a chance for sofa fame and grabs it with his unusually hairy hands. The hairs are dark and long, and I find myself looking at
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