CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

London,
August 2001

Gracie knew as soon as she saw Tom step out of the train carriage at Paddington that this visit would be different. As she stood on the platform in her favourite red coat and green silk scarf, her hair tied back in its usual long plait, she spotted him immediately. Taller than the people around him, his figure lean, his hair a mass of dark curls. He was wearing jeans, a dark reefer jacket, and had a battered rucksack on his back.

He put down the rucksack and they hugged as two old friends meeting but even that moment, that touch, felt different. An electrical charge, that’s how she described it to him later. He’d felt the same thing, he told her.

During his visit two years previously they’d spent their time together sightseeing and teasing, nothing so much as a kiss between them. All the letters they’d sent to each other since had been between two good friends too, nothing more. Yet this time, from the first minute, every cell of her nineteen-year-old self was physically aware of him. They couldn’t seem to stop touching each other, accidentally at first, she reaching for his rucksack at the same time as he did, briefly taking his arm to direct him to the right Tube entrance, before seeing the message that there were delays on the track. It was an unseasonably cold August day. She suggested a hot port while they waited, at the same time he suggested a hot whisky.

In a dark, smoky pub around the corner from the station, they had one of each. She was worried there wouldn’t be anything to talk about, that she should have tried harder to track Spencer down to get him to meet Tom as well. But their sentences tumbled over and into each other’s.

She told him about life at university, how much she’d enjoyed her first year, the joy of studying for study’s sake. About her plans to move into a flat of her own as soon as she could afford it, how she was still babysitting and now waitressing too to try and save as much as possible. He asked about her family, and she talked about her parents’ separation, her mother’s teaching career, her father’s constant travels, Charlotte’s nanny business, Audrey’s marriage to her New Zealand-born therapist, Spencer’s ongoing wild streak and ever-growing bond with his aunt Hope, who was, yes, still sober and now running her own rehabilitation clinics with Victor, her wealthy, elderly boyfriend.

Tom listened intently, asking questions, laughing at times, shaking his head when she finished, telling her he felt like he’d just watched an omnibus edition of a family soap opera.

‘That’s us in a nutshell,’ Gracie said, laughing too.

In turn, he told her about his eight months at the cricket academy, about the second placement he was due to start after his holiday. He talked about Nina’s new life as a teacher. He spoke about his travels through Laos, Cambodia, Thailand, Vietnam; the scenery he’d seen, the life of a solo backpacker, apologising several times, mid-story. ‘I haven’t been talking to many people lately, sorry, Gracie.’

‘No, please, go on.’

Two hours into their reunion, they stopped talking and there was a moment when all they seemed to do was smile at each other.

‘You look great, Gracie,’ he said. ‘London suits you.’

‘You look beautiful yourself.’ She meant it, even as she laughed and said he was beautiful in a manly way, of course. He looked so strong and handsome and fit, she thought, like someone in an adventure story. She almost told him as much, before searching for more normal conversation. ‘In years to come you won’t be able to sit here undisturbed, will you?’ she said. ‘Cricket fans will be mobbing you.’

He shook his head and smiled that shy smile she’d already committed to memory. ‘You’re confusing cricketers with pop stars. See that man over there?’ She turned and looked at an old man in the corner he’d indicated. ‘He might have been the greatest bowler in English history, for all we know, but people don’t remember faces. Not when we’re all dressed in white and look the same.’

‘They’ll remember you,’ she said loyally. ‘Especially after you’ve bowled out the entire English team in every Ashes series.’

‘I need to make the team first,’ he said. ‘Minor detail.’

‘You will, Tom. I know it.’

She took him back to her mother’s house after a third drink. There was no sign of Eleanor, just the note she’d left on the table that morning welcoming Tom, saying to make himself at home, that she’d be back from her conference as soon as she could. There was no message from Spencer. Gracie apologised on his behalf. ‘I think he might be away with Hope again. She travels a lot and Spencer seems to go with her as her bag-carrier or PA or something. We’re not too sure what exactly.’

Tom smiled. ‘Don’t worry. It’ll be great to see him whenever he turns up.’

Was Tom getting tired of her company already? ‘I can try a few different numbers for him, if you like? He might be back or he might be staying with other friends of his. He moves around a fair bit.’

‘Can we go and have something to eat first? You and me? We’ve hardly caught up yet.’

The attraction between them intensified during dinner. He seemed to find every excuse to touch her, as she found to touch him. They ordered a bottle of wine, pasta, dessert, the conversation flowing easily, laughing together, swapping tales. Coming out of the restaurant, it was the most natural thing in the world to hold hands as they dodged the traffic, ran from a sudden rain shower, to keep holding hands even when they didn’t need to, until they got home again.

Eleanor still wasn’t back. There was a message on the answering machine. The conference had run late, she was staying with one of her colleagues, she’d see them tomorrow instead. They had the house to themselves.

They decided to pretend it wasn’t summer and light the fire in the living room. He helped her bring in wood from the small garden shed, set the fire, choose music. There was more talking, more laughing. Gracie offered another glass of wine and was embarrassed to discover there was none in the house.

‘I’ll go and get some. There’s an off-licence just down the road,’ she said.

‘I’ll come with you. It’s getting dark out there.’

‘I’ll be fine on my own, I promise.’ She needed to slow this down, catch her breath, even for a few minutes. ‘Would you like to take a shower while I’m gone?’

‘Is that a not-very-subtle hint?’

Another smile. ‘You don’t need one, no, but would you like one?’

‘I’d love one, actually. You’re sure you’ll be okay on your own?’

‘I’m sure,’ she said, about to jokingly ask if he was sure he’d be okay in the shower on his own. Fighting a sudden blush, she showed him where the towels were, told him to help himself to Spencer’s shampoo, now even more physically aware of him than before.

Outside, the cool night air helped calm her down. She walked to the off-licence, chose a bottle of very good wine and then sat down on the graffitied bench down the road to do some thinking.

What was going on? Was she imagining this? Or was there definitely something happening between the two of them?

She tried to look at it rationally. It was Tom. Tom, Nina’s son. Tom from the farmhouse. Tom who played cricket. Tom who had visited two years earlier, without anything like this happening between them. Tom who she’d known since she was eleven years old. Tom, who she’d had – yes, who she’d had a small, secret crush on since she was eleven.

But she was nineteen years old now. He was nearly twenty-one. And yes, something had changed. All she wanted to do now was kiss him. She wanted to do more than kiss him.

She’d never felt like this before, so intensely physically aware of someone, so attracted. More than attracted. It felt like some kind of magnetic pull, almost out of her control. It had never felt like this with Owen, the closest she’d had to a boyfriend before. He’d been another volunteer at the old folks’ home, a nice, friendly Scottish boy her age. They’d gone to the cinema several times, eaten pizza and watched DVDs at home together, had a day trip to Brighton. They’d kissed and done a little more than kissing, but Gracie hadn’t wanted to go any further. Barely a month into their dating, she’d realised they’d run out of things to say to each other. She’d put off breaking up with him, not wanting to hurt his feelings, and then felt only relief when he broke up with her first.

But everything that had been missing when she was with Owen – real attraction, curiosity, constant conversation, physical longing, yes, longing – was all she was feeling with Tom. She’d felt it from their first minutes together that afternoon.

She stood up abruptly. She’d been gone long enough already. Perhaps she was imagining this. Perhaps she was a little bit drunk. Perhaps it was just that it was Tom, Tom Donovan, who she’d known for so long. He was just an old family friend come to stay. She was confusing familiarity with something else. That was it.

She knew she was fooling herself from the moment she saw him again. As she walked into the living room with the wine, he turned from where he’d been putting some more wood on the open fire. She was instantly aware of every detail of him. His dark hair was damp. He was barefoot. He’d changed into faded jeans, a blue T-shirt, his arms bare, tanned, muscled. He smiled at her and her breath caught. She wasn’t imagining it. She wasn’t imagining any of it. Something was happening to her, with him, between them. Something amazing.

‘Gracie? Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine.’ She smiled at him. ‘Really, really fine.’

He smiled back. ‘That’s good. Really, really good.’

From that second, she knew what was going to happen. She longed for it to happen. It was as if all the conversations they’d had as children, the games they’d played, the kindness he had shown her, the letters they’d written in the years since, the photographs he’d taken especially for her, everything, all of it, had been leading to this moment when the two of them were there alone in the room, illuminated only by the firelight.

Did she sit down on the sofa first, or did he? Did he open his arms or did she? Afterwards, she couldn’t remember the detail of that exact moment, though she remembered every second of what followed. The first beautiful slow, soft kiss, every touch, every caress that followed, the unhurried, gentle slipping off of clothes, her top, his shirt, her skirt, his jeans …

She gasped when he first kissed her bare skin.

‘Will I stop?’ he whispered.

‘No, don’t. Don’t stop.’ She’d already decided. She wanted this to happen tonight, to make love with him now, tonight, his first night, their first night. It was soon, but it wasn’t too soon, not for them. More touching, more kissing, more sensation. Waves of it, building inside her. She tried to find words, could only tell him again, ‘You’re so beautiful.’

She felt the smile on his lips as he kissed her neck, her breasts, lower. ‘Handsome and rugged, Gracie, not beautiful. You’re the beautiful one.’

If she’d imagined the way she’d feel the first time she made love, it had never been as good as this. If she had ever dared to imagine something happening with Tom, she’d never pictured it being like this, like a slow dance, gentle movements, then the tempo increasing, each caress becoming more urgent, more important, a soundtrack of their soft voices underneath. They moved from the sofa on to the floor, on to the soft cotton rug, warmed by the fire. ‘Is this okay?’ ‘Does this feel all right?’ ‘Are you okay?’ Step by step, touch by touch, as if they were leading each other towards that final moment together, an explosion of feeling, of warmth, closeness, something wonderful. It hurt her only a little. He noticed, asked her was she okay, then asked her something else. ‘Gracie, was that your first time?’

She nodded, shy. She had to ask. ‘Was it yours?’

He hesitated for a moment and then shook his head. ‘But it was the best.’

The second time that night it didn’t hurt. The third time the next morning there was only pleasure, ripples, then waves of it. By the time Eleanor arrived home in the early afternoon, his bed looked as if he’d slept in it, though he hadn’t. Her bed looked slept in too, though they hadn’t slept there either. There seemed to be no time or no need for sleep. All she’d wanted to do all night was talk to him, touch, kiss and hold him.

It was like a hunger, Gracie discovered over the next few days. A longing. A secret. Their secret, their special knowledge. Just a touch of his skin, the sound of his voice, the feel of him close by sent a kind of shimmer through her. As though there was a kind of current linking them, humming between them.

Eleanor noticed.

‘It’s that obvious?’ Gracie said, mortified and delighted at the same time.

‘Two’s company, three’s a crowd. Are you being safe?’

‘Mum!’

‘Are you?’

Gracie nodded. They were now. They hadn’t been that first time, there in front of the fire when it had only been about making love then, there, quickly, now. Neither of them had wanted to stop, or been able to stop. She’d done some calculations since and knew that, fingers crossed, all was fine.

‘It’s taken me a bit by surprise,’ Gracie said to Eleanor, glancing at the door. Tom had gone out to get ingredients for the dinner he was cooking for the three of them. Eleanor was impressed when he offered. He’d smiled shyly at her praise. ‘Nina said I wasn’t leaving home until I knew how to cook ten proper meals,’ he explained.

‘Enjoy every minute,’ Eleanor said to Gracie. ‘You’re a lucky girl.’

Gracie had to ask something else, before he came back. ‘Is it okay with you?’ She meant so much with that one simple question. Did Eleanor mind it had happened so quickly? Was it okay with her if Tom slept in her room … ?

‘Gracie, you’re nineteen years old. An adult. I think you can decide that for yourself.’

She was still blushing when Tom came back from the shop.

Gracie discovered over the next week that Tom could do more than kiss her and touch her so gently, so beautifully that every part of her, her whole body, her skin, her bones felt like they were melting. He could do more than cook well. He could do more than make her laugh. She felt like he got her. He wasn’t just her sudden, beautiful unexpected lover. He was the friend she hadn’t been able to make until now. She’d often seen girls of her age walking with their boyfriends, talking and laughing, so happy and comfortable with one another, and she’d wondered how that would feel, how they knew what to say to each other. Now she knew. She didn’t even have to think about it. It just came spilling out. It was the most natural thing in the world to want to hold hands, to want to share what was on her mind, to know how he was feeling, to want to be physically close – to revel in the closeness – of each other. She’d never felt a connection like this with another person. It made what was already special even more special.

On holiday from university, she was free to spend each day with him. They explored different parts of London, taking bus trips, Tube trips, walking across bridges, visiting galleries and museums, sitting hand in hand in Trafalgar Square, taking a picnic to Hyde Park, strolling beside the river. He listened, he asked her questions, he challenged her. He liked reading as much as she did. They discovered a mutual love of crosswords and spent a whole day doing one after the other together.

One afternoon in her room, she was at her dressing table, tying her hair back into its plait, while he lay on the bed reading through the pile of postcards from her father that she’d given him, wanting him to see them. There were more than fifty, sent from the dozens of cities and countries Henry had visited in recent years through his work. Each of them began with the same line: Having a wonderful time, dearest Gracie, wish you were here, before listing a quick geographical fact about each place and then an extravagant sign-off in his large, looping handwriting, With love as always from your Dad xxx.

Tom had asked her a lot about Henry, about his antique-selling, the vintage car business, all the different fields he was now – by all accounts, very successfully – involved in. He asked her whether she missed him, if it had been upsetting for her when her parents separated. It had been, at first, she told him. Especially when it became obvious her parents couldn’t bear to be in the same room together. ‘I don’t see him often, but I love his postcards. They’re almost the next best thing. We all get them, dozens of them. Charlotte says he sends them out of guilt, of course, and that Dad’s problem is he can’t handle any of us now we’re adults, and Spencer says he doesn’t even bother reading them any more, but I love them. I know it means he’s thinking of us. Audrey says it’s not enough, that he should make more of an effort to visit us, but he does his best, and it’s not like he’s just disappeared into thin air or he’s died – oh, Tom, I’m sorry.’

‘It’s okay, Gracie.’

It was a moment she’d been waiting for. The opportunity to apologise for something that had been on her conscience, ever since she’d realised the mistake she’d made, all those years before.

She came across to him now, took his hands in hers, her face serious. ‘I should never have been the one who told you about your father dying, Tom. I’m sorry.’

She knew from his reaction that he’d always remembered it was her. He squeezed her hand. ‘It would have hurt no matter how I found out.’

‘I’m still sorry.’

He reached up and touched her cheek. Even then, his touch sent an immediate ripple of desire through her. He smiled. ‘It’s okay, Gracie.’

It was as he was putting the postcards back on her bookshelf that he noticed it. The silver whistle he’d given her as a child, lying on one of the shelves. He recognised it immediately. ‘You’ve still got it? After all these years?’

She nodded, embarrassed. ‘It’s my good luck charm.’

He picked it up, held it in his hand, smiling at her. ‘Has it worked?’

‘Better than I expected,’ she said, blushing more. From that afternoon, she started carrying it with her all the time, tucked carefully away in her handbag.

Eight days after Tom arrived in London, Eleanor casually announced to Gracie over breakfast that she needed to go up to York on a work trip. ‘Will the two of you be okay here on your own?’

‘Of course,’ Gracie said, too quickly. ‘We’ll be fine, Mum.’

‘Spencer might turn up yet too. I’ve left another message at Hope’s house to remind him Tom is in London.’

‘It’s fine if he doesn’t.’ She blushed. ‘I mean, Tom wants to see him, of course, but —’

Eleanor smiled. ‘First love is a wonderful thing, Gracie. I’m envious.’

She hurried to try and make her mother feel better, said how sorry she was again about all that happened between her and Henry, until Eleanor held up her hand.

‘Gracie, it’s your turn, not mine. Enjoy yourself.’

‘You like Tom, don’t you?’

‘I like him very much. I always have. Do you like him?’

‘I love him,’ she said.

She told Tom that night. She’d read in magazines that the last thing a woman should do is be the first to say she was in love, that she should play it cool, be assured and aloof, keep the man guessing. She didn’t want to keep him guessing. She didn’t want to keep anyone guessing. She wanted to shout it from the rooftops. She was in love with Tom Donovan, kind, gentle, funny, clever Tom Donovan.

She’d pictured telling him in a romantic, dramatic way. She never thought she’d just blurt it out. They were in Camden, at a comedy venue. He’d gone to the bar and was coming back towards her, a pint in one hand, a glass of wine for her in the other. Someone turned and bumped into him and he just smiled and told them not to worry. That was all it took for Gracie to be sure.

‘I love you,’ she said, as he came closer.

‘What?’

‘I love you,’ she repeated.

‘Why?’

‘Because of the way you are. Because of the way you were with the spilt drink and that person just now.’

‘You love me because I’m clumsy?’

‘You’re not clumsy.’

‘Because I can carry two drinks at once?’

‘Yes, but that’s not why I love you. I just do.’

He sat down beside her, passed her the wine, then leaned down and kissed her on the lips. ‘That’s a happy coincidence,’ he said, matter-of-factly. ‘Because I love you too.’

The next day, Spencer turned up.

It was early afternoon. Gracie and Tom were in bed together when she heard the front door open. She stopped Tom from kissing her neck, went still, lay there and listened. There was a kind of dragging sound, a door slamming and then a loud ‘Fuck!’ as something fell from the hall table and landed with a crash onto the floor.

‘It’s Spencer,’ she said, leaping up. ‘Quick, Tom.’

He didn’t move, just watched her with an amused expression. ‘Quick, what? Finish what I’d started?’

‘No. Yes.’ She stopped. ‘Why am I panicking?’

‘You tell me.’

Gracie knew why. Because Tom was Spencer’s friend. Because she was naked in bed with Tom. Because any minute now Spencer would come charging up here and she didn’t want him to know about this yet. She didn’t know why not. She just knew she didn’t.

She heard his steps on the stairs, heard him shout, ‘Mum? Gracie? Where is everybody?’

‘I’m in here,’ she shouted back. ‘Stay where you are. Don’t move.’

‘Why? Is this a stick-up?’ Spencer called back.

She pulled on a T-shirt and jeans and slipped out the door. Spencer was standing there with his hands in mock hold-up style. He was dressed in a grubby T-shirt, faded jeans, his unruly curls almost dreadlocks these days. He grinned. ‘Not very terrifying, Gracie.’

She reached for the doorknob behind her and pulled it shut.

‘Sleeping in?’ he said.

She nodded.

‘Cat got your tongue?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Where’s Tom?’

‘Asleep. Out.’

Spencer looked at her. She looked back.

‘He’s asleep and he’s out?’ Spencer said. ‘Or he’s asleep outside? Or you don’t know where he is and you’re pretending you do? Or you’re feeling guilty about not telling me that you and Tom have got it on and he’s probably in there, in your room, right now?’ He leaned past her and called through the closed door. ‘Hey, Tom. Welcome to London. Get up, you lazy bugger. We’re going on a pub crawl.’

Gracie hit him. ‘You know? How do you know?’

‘That lady who lives here too. What’s her name? Oh, yes. Mum. She rang me last night.’

‘Mum told you?’

‘Why? Was it a state secret? She asked me to show some sensitivity, not to come charging in on you both.’

‘Like you just have?’

‘I’m being sensitive now, aren’t I?’ He pulled an exaggerated sensitive expression. ‘I’m so pleased for you, Gracie. He’s a lovely, lovely man. I hope you’ll both be so happy together.’ He changed his voice back to normal and shouted through the door again. ‘Get up, Donovan. We’re wasting valuable drinking time. I’m practically eighteen now. I’m practically legal. Let’s celebrate.’

‘He can’t,’ Gracie said. ‘We’ve got plans for this afternoon. A film —’

Behind her, the bedroom door opened. Tom appeared, in jeans, barefoot, a blue linen shirt not quite buttoned. ‘Spencer.’

Spencer grinned. ‘Mate! Welcome, welcome. Come on, let’s go. You might want to put some shoes on, though. It’s raining again.’

Gracie frowned. ‘Spencer, I told you —’

Tom unself-consciously put his arm around her. ‘Maybe we’ve time to go for one, Gracie.’

‘One?’ Spencer said. ‘Better than nothing, I guess. It’ll have to be your round, though. I’m skint.’

Two hours later, she, Spencer and Tom were still in the pub two streets away. Spencer was in high-octane form. He’d been away with Hope and Victor, he explained. Touring Wales with them, as they searched for a possible location for another of their rehabilitation clinics.

‘I’m kind of Hope’s pet, Gracie, aren’t I?’ Spencer said.

‘That’s one word for it. Charlotte’s word is parasite.’

‘Gracie! Don’t listen to a word Charlotte says.’ He turned to Tom. ‘Hope had an epiphany, Tom. Did Gracie tell you? A true miracle. The skies opened above her one day, a large hand appeared, a finger pointed and a deep voice said, “Never drink again, fall in love with a very rich, very old ex-alcoholic called Victor and spend the rest of your days spoiling your favourite and only nephew Spencer.” And like magic, that’s exactly what happened. Neither of us have looked back since.’

‘Congratulations to you both,’ Tom said.

Gracie just rolled her eyes.

Spencer laughed. ‘Gracie, just because Hope appointed me the Chosen One, there’s no need to be so scornful.’

‘The Chosen One? Spencer, you bleed her dry and I’m amazed you get away with it.’

‘Bleed her dry? I’ll have you know I work hard for every penny she gives me. I’m her Voice of Youth. I keep her in touch with what the young people of today are thinking, what drugs they’re taking, what they like to drink too much of. You think those clinics of hers are so successful without that kind of insider knowledge? She needs me as much as I need her. It’s the perfect relationship.’ He lifted his pint, took a big swallow, then grinned again. ‘Enough about Hope and me. Let’s just talk about me.’

At first Gracie laughed alongside Tom at all the stories Spencer told of misadventures in his social life, calamities in his occasional work life. Officially he was taking a gap year before doing his A levels and going to university. Unofficially he had no intention of doing either. He told Tom – Gracie already knew – that all he really wanted to be was rich, as quickly and easily as possible. So far, though, it had been all pain and no gain. His attempts to get work in share trading had failed. The music business was his next goal, he’d decided. Not as a performer but as a manager, where the real money was. Unfortunately the closest he’d got to any musicians was picking up glasses in a nearby venue, and he was already on a warning there for sneaking drinks from the bar. He somehow made it funny.

‘I’m starting to think it might have something to do with me,’ he said. ‘It’s all right for you, Tom, basking in the love of a grateful sporting nation, your talent moulded and coaxed and cherished, a place in the cricket academy set aside for you, like a seat at the throne of some royal sporting kingdom. What about serfs like me? The talentless scum of the earth? Do you need someone to bleach your whites? Polish your bat? Carry your ball—’

Gracie decided she’d had enough of feeling stuck in a locker room with a thirteen-year-old. ‘Okay, Spencer, thanks. We get the idea.’

He turned his attention to her. ‘We? “We get the idea.” The royal we? The royal couple?’ He laughed. It wasn’t a nice laugh. ‘How long has this been going on between you? A week? Ten days at the most? No need to carry on as if you’re about to celebrate your fiftieth wedding anniversary, up there on your fluffy white lovey-dovey cloud, Gracie.’ He took a big sip of his drink. His fifth pint. He was drinking two rounds for every one of theirs. So far, Tom had bought every round. ‘Excuse me for putting a dampener on love’s young dream and all of that, but a little look at the facts of the situation here mightn’t do you any harm. In the real world, Gracie, there are things called holiday romances. Have had one or two of them myself, as it happens. Nothing like being a glass collector to be able to scope out a room for visiting international beauties. They come, I see, I conquer. Now, young Tom here, sure, he looks like a gentleman on the outside, beautiful manners, as my mother didn’t stop banging on about on the phone last night – “And he cooks too. No wonder Gracie is smitten”.’ He did an uncomfortably good imitation of Eleanor’s voice. ‘But my role in this family is to keep us all real, Gracie, and I don’t want you thinking more of this than there is, okay? Tom’s here on a holiday. He’ll be gone without a backward glance one day soon and it’s up to me to keep your feet on the ground and stop you from getting too attached or too hurt, or thinking —’

Gracie didn’t stop to hear any more. She stood, picked up her red coat and was outside seconds later, hands shaking from anger or the cold wind, she wasn’t sure which. In less than a minute she’d gone back in time, back to being the little girl standing on the sidelines as Tom and Spencer hatched plans and had fun without her. How dare Spencer come crashing in like this, reclaim Tom as if they were back playing at the Templeton Hall dam again. And why hadn’t Tom said something, stood up for her, stood up for what was happening between them? Because what Spencer had said was true? Of course. That was it. How could she have been so stupid? It was just a holiday romance for Tom, a little interlude overseas before he went back home and his life was taken over by cricket once and for all …

She heard the door open behind her, then a voice.

‘If we hurry, we’ll be able to get to the five o’clock session.’

She spun around. Tom was there, buttoning his coat, carrying her scarf. She’d left it on the back of her chair.

She said nothing, just stared at him.

‘Unless you don’t want to go to the cinema any more? Pity. I liked the sound of that film.’

‘What about Spencer?’

‘I don’t think Spencer would like the sound of that film. In fact, Spencer isn’t invited to see that film.’

‘You don’t want to stay in there? Stay with him?’

Tom pretended to give the idea some consideration. ‘Let me think. Choice one. Stay in a pub and watch an old childhood friend get progressively more drunk and insulting. Choice two, go to see a film with my beautiful, non-holiday romance girlfriend, just the two of us. Or maybe not go and see a film. Go for a walk. Go and count bridges. Do anything that keeps me close to her for as long as possible. I really can’t decide.’

‘But he’s your friend. I thought you were enjoying it.’

‘He’s your brother. I thought you were enjoying it. Sorry, Gracie. I’m not a big drinker. A few pints do me.’

‘So why did you stay as long as you did?’

‘Because he’s your brother. Because he was – is – my friend. I liked him. I still like him. I just didn’t like the rubbish he started to spout at the end. When he sobers up, I’ll tell him. Rule number one for dealing with intoxicated patrons, Gracie.’ He smiled. ‘Spencer’s not the only one who’s worked in bars. You can’t talk sense to anyone when they’re drunk.’

Gracie relaxed.

He gently draped the scarf around her neck, once, twice, then leaned down and kissed her forehead. ‘So, the film? Or the walk? Or the bridges?’

‘Can we just go home?’

‘Option four, you mean?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘Can we run rather than walk? Hail a taxi, even?’

She smiled. ‘There’s the minor problem of Spencer having a key. I suppose I could always get the locks changed.’

‘Poor Spencer. Do you want to check he’s okay before we leave?’

She hesitated. Right now, she’d be happy if she never saw Spencer again. She always forgot what a troublemaker he could be. But he was her little brother. Her too-often insulting, annoying, misbehaving little brother … She should say goodbye at least. She put her head back in through the pub door. Spencer was up on a table brandishing a pool cue like a guitar, miming to a Bon Jovi song on the jukebox. A pair of pretty young women were cheering him on. She called his name several times. He didn’t hear her.

‘Bye, Spencer,’ she said. Then, linking arms with Tom, she turned and walked down the street towards home.

Over the next week, Gracie kept waiting for something to change between them, for the gloss to fade. It didn’t happen. It got brighter. London became an enchanted city, filled with beautiful buildings she and Tom wanted to see, plays and films and comedy they wanted to watch, parks and gardens they wanted to visit together. The sun shone five days in a row. They even managed another night out with Spencer, a good night this time, a pizza together and then a band in a local pub. Spencer spent most of the evening pointing out how well behaved he was being.

One afternoon, Gracie was surprised to get a phone call from Hope. Her aunt got straight to the point.

‘Gracie, I hear things have become quite serious between you and this Tom Donovan. I think I should meet him again, don’t you? Cast my approval. No arguments, please.’

The next day she and Tom were standing outside the Dorchester Hotel in Mayfair, as ordered. Tom had been happy to agree, curious to see the ‘new Hope’ in action.

‘Don’t be nervous of her, will you?’ Gracie said to him as they walked in through the grand entrance. ‘She’s really quite different these days.’

‘I’m not nervous,’ Tom said.

‘She’s sober, but she’s still herself, if you know what I mean. Quite sharp-tongued, but there’s nothing to be afraid of.’

He laughed. ‘I’m not afraid, Gracie. I think you’re the one who is.’

She stopped. ‘You’re right. I am. I’m terrified.’

Hope was sitting in one of the prime positions in the elegant lounge area of the hotel. She stood up, looking every inch the rich, successful woman, dressed in a beautifully tailored crimson suit, very high shoes, her face perfectly made up, her dark-brown hair cut in an expensive and flattering style. Gracie thought of her mother, too busy with her two teaching jobs to spend time on fashion and make-up. She preferred her mother’s looks.

Hope gave her a dramatic kiss on each cheek, told her in an off-hand way that she was looking lovely and then turned her full attention to Tom, gazing from top to bottom.

‘Well, well. Look at you,’ she said in her mannered voice. ‘Didn’t you get tall, dark and handsome while none of us were looking? Come and sit here next to me, Tom Donovan. Tell me everything you’ve been up to since I last saw you. What has it been, five years?’

‘Closer to eight, I think.’

‘Time does fly when one is having fun and sobering up. You’re a cricketer, is that right? I do like an athletic man. You work-out a lot, do you, from what I can see?’

An excruciating half hour later, Gracie stood up. She couldn’t take much more of Hope’s far-too-flirtatious behaviour, she decided. And as amusing as it was, she wasn’t sure Tom could cope with having his hand held by Hope much longer either.

Hope didn’t try to stop them, checking the elegant gold watch on her wrist and saying she had an appointment to go to herself. ‘Another client, as it happens. My darling Victor and I are fighting them off these days. Society’s mess is fortunately our gain.’ She kissed her niece on both cheeks again, kissed Tom far too close to his mouth and then stood back and looked at them both, nodding thoughtfully.

‘Yes, Gracie, I approve. He’s handsome, he’s smart, he’s got beautiful manners and quite frankly, a gorgeous body. A shame he’s Australian rather than English, but I suppose you can’t have everything. Off you both go now. And I know you’ll talk about me once you’re out of earshot, so do make sure it’s complimentary, won’t you?’

They barely made it out onto the street again before they both started laughing.

Two days later, Tom suggested to Gracie they go travelling together. She’d been dreading him telling her he’d decided to move on from London. She’d heard all about his trip so far, how much it had meant to him to feel so free, to decide on the spur of the moment where to go next. She wanted to travel too, but there hadn’t been the opportunity or the funds yet. She’d thought she’d finish university first. But now she wasn’t so sure about that. Perhaps she could take a year off. After Tom had gone back, for example. Go back to Australia, perhaps, to see Templeton Hall again. See Nina. See Tom.

‘Have you ever been to Scotland, Gracie?’ he asked, as they lay on her bed together, legs entwined. They were both reading, fully dressed, but Tom’s caresses on her bare arm were making her feel it was time they did take their clothes off again.

She looked up from her book, already feeling her eyelids go heavy, the gentle molten feeling in her body, wondering again how it was possible to just want to have sex with him all the time, as though she was some kind of addict. ‘Did I want to make love, did you say?’

‘That was my next question.’ His hand moved further down. ‘But can you answer the Scotland one first? Before I get too distracted?’

‘No, I haven’t been to Scotland.’

‘Would you like to?’

She closed her eyes in pleasure as his hand slipped under her T-shirt.

‘Gracie, are you ignoring me?’

‘Mmm.’

‘Scotland? Yes or No?’

‘Yes. Some day, definitely.’ She kept her eyes closed.

‘On Friday? With me? And then Ireland maybe? Wales? Europe? The world?’

Her eyes snapped open. ‘Go travelling together? You and me? Together?’

‘Don’t you want to?’

She sat up. ‘I’d love to. I’d love to. But I thought this was your big trip, your chance to run free.’

‘I’ve done that. I ran free as a bird in Asia. Now I’m here. Now I’m with you. I want you to come with me. I’m begging you to come with me.’ He rolled off the bed in a graceful movement, landing on his knees on the side of the bed. ‘I beg you, Gracie Templeton. Come travelling with me.’

‘But I can’t. I have to be back at university in three weeks’ time.’

‘I’ll have you back in time, I promise. I’ll walk you to the university grounds myself. Sharpen your pencils. Carry your books. Shine a crate full of apples for your lecturers. But come travelling with me first.’

She laughed. ‘I don’t have a rucksack.’

‘I’ll carry your clothes in mine.’

‘I think my passport is out of date.’

‘We’ll renew it.’

‘I haven’t got much money.’

‘Nor have I. We’ll stay in hostels. Busk together. Eat scraps together.’ He hesitated. ‘So you’ll come?’

She scrambled across the bed, down onto the floor too, beside him. ‘I’d love to,’ she said.

They started with ten days in Scotland, taking buses, trains, even hitchhiking one day. They fell for the grandeur and graciousness of Edinburgh and stayed there for four nights, talking so casually about returning for the Festival one year, perhaps even living there one day. That’s how far it had gone between them, Gracie realised. They’d somehow skipped over the angst-ridden ‘does he/she love me?’ questions Gracie always assumed would happen in a relationship. It felt so comfortable being with him but also so … thrilling, was the only word she could use. Tom thrilled her. She loved talking to him, laughing with him, sleeping with him, making love with him, being with him. It was all so good she started to worry about it. Surely love wasn’t supposed to be this easy?

She raised it with him one evening, as they sat in a bar in a village on the west coast of Scotland. They’d planned to stay there one night. The wild beauty of the area and the promise of a boat trip to the Isle of Skye had turned it into a three-night stay.

Tom listened as she explained her concerns, then nodded, very seriously. ‘You’re right. It’s going too well. Let’s break up. I’m too happy. You’re too happy. It will never last.’

She frowned. ‘Shouldn’t it be harder, though? Shouldn’t we be fighting?’

‘Of course. What’s your stand on the nature v nurture debate? Roe v Wade? Should Churchill have moved against Hitler sooner?’

‘I don’t mean fight like that, about issues, about politics.’

‘We can fight about sport, then. Did Maradona touch the ball or was it the Hand of God?’

‘You’re not taking me seriously.’

‘No, I’m not. Let’s fight about that instead. Should I or should I not take you more seriously?’

She started to laugh. ‘You should. You should take me seriously. You should also adore me, listen in amazement to everything I say and think I am the most beautiful girl in the world despite my unfortunate hair.’

He reached across and tweaked a lock of her still fly-away white-blonde hair. ‘I do adore you, you do amaze me and your hair is what I love most about you.’

The uncertain feeling wouldn’t go away, though. That this was temporary. That it was somehow too good to last.

After Scotland, she and Tom travelled to Ireland by ferry, catching buses and spending a week touring the country. Two nights in Dublin, a day in Cork, two nights in Galway, a boat trip to the Aran Islands, across to Dublin again, then back to London. Tom’s ticket back to Australia was already booked. They were just coming into Euston station after the overnight journey when Tom spoke.

‘Have you ever been to France, Gracie? To Italy?’

‘No.’ She was getting embarrassed about how little she’d travelled. ‘One day, I hope.’

‘Let’s go next week. For a few weeks. A month, even. We could hire a car, take the ferry from Dover to Calais, just drive when and wherever we felt like.’

‘But we can’t. You have to be back at the academy next week.’

He shook his head. ‘I rang them last night.’

‘You did?’ She remembered him saying he needed to make a couple of phone calls, that he’d promised to call home at least once a month. When he came back she asked if everything was okay and he just nodded and said that Nina sent her love.

‘I’ve asked my coach for extended leave.’

‘But how? Why?’

He looked a little sheepish. ‘I said I was having a few personal issues, that I needed a few more weeks away —’

‘Personal issues?’

‘I was going to tell them I’d fallen in love and that being with you over here was more fun than playing cricket, but I decided that was too much information.’

‘But you love playing cricket.’

‘And I love travelling with you as well. So I was telling the truth. I am having a crisis. You or cricket? Cricket or you?’

‘You don’t have to decide between us, Tom. I know what cricket means to you.’

They’d talked about it as they travelled. He’d spoken of the discipline of being a sportsman, the physical pleasure of being so fit, so focused, knowing that he was special – one in a thousand, he finally, shyly admitted to her. In the fifteen key matches he’d played so far, each of them leading towards a possible place one day in the national team, he’d taken a record number of wickets. He told her he didn’t just love the matches, either. He loved the training too. The camaraderie with his team-mates. Gracie had heard talk of wild team antics, heavy drinking and misbehaviour. Tom shrugged. Yes, it happened, but it wasn’t compulsory. He kept himself to himself, pretty much. And there were other people around too, experienced people to talk to and work with, mentors really. He had two: his coach, and another man called Stuart Phillips, a well-known cricket journalist who’d swapped sides to work as an advisor at the cricket academy. In his mid-fifties, Stuart had three daughters, none of them sporty. He saw Tom as the son he didn’t have, he’d told him.

‘And you?’ Gracie asked.

‘The father I never had. Pretty obvious, isn’t it?’

He shared the details of his conversation with Stuart and his coach with her now. He’d told them that he knew once he returned home, cricket would take over his life for the next few years, beyond that if he made the national team. He wanted these final, extra weeks of freedom and then his life was theirs again.

‘Stuart gave me the third degree, checked I wasn’t going off on wild drink or drug benders. When I just happened to mention you, he made me assure him you were of sound mind and flawless beauty. I told him you were both and then he gave me his blessing.’ Tom smiled. ‘He told me he was jealous, actually. He loves France and Italy. He also told me if I wasn’t back at the academy in a month’s time exactly, he’d, well, I don’t need to tell you his threat.’ His expression changed. ‘Gracie, I’m sorry. I should have asked first, been sure you wanted to come with me.’

‘Go to France and Italy with you for a month? It sounds horrible. Hateful. The very last thing I want to do.’

‘So you’ll come with me?’

Her smile was her answer.

If Eleanor was surprised with this latest development, she didn’t tell Gracie. As far as Gracie knew, Nina hadn’t said anything to Tom either. Gracie hadn’t written to Nina since Tom’s arrival, but she was sure Nina would be as happy for them as Eleanor had been. There was the minor matter of Gracie having to loan some money from her mother to supplement her savings – she’d insisted to Tom that she’d pay her share of the car hire and trip costs. After a short lecture, Eleanor gave Gracie not just the money, not just her blessing, but also the loan of her own small Volkswagen for the month too. She rarely used it, she told them. Two days later, there was another welcome surprise. A motorcycle courier arrived at their front door bearing a large envelope from Hope. Inside the expensive-looking bon voyage card was a bank cheque for two thousand pounds. The note was brief and to the point. This is a gift, not a loan. Spend it unwisely. Love, Hope xx

The only hitch was Spencer. He surprised them both with his insistence on joining them.

‘I need a break. I’ve collected more than three thousand glasses in the past month. My hands are like claws. They’ll never open properly again. When I’m not battling drunks and glasses I’m hammering against every bloody door in any strand of media I can and all I’ve got in return are bleeding knuckles. It’s not me that needs a holiday in la belle France and bella Italia, it’s my poor tendons. I need it, I deserve it. Anyway, if it wasn’t for me, you’d never have got together. I’m the one who found Tom for you, Gracie. I’ll leave you alone to live love’s young French and Italian dream for three weeks and then join you for the last one. So where will we meet? Rome? All roads lead there, don’t they?’

From the moment she and Tom arrived on the ferry in Calais it was a special trip. Gracie had schoolgirl French and Tom had learnt it for two years at school in Melbourne. Between them they managed to get directions from one village to another, to negotiate nights in small hotels or pensions, order cheap and beautiful meals in little cafés and restaurants. They spent two days in Paris, and did everything tourists should: going to the top of the Eiffel Tower, on a cruise along the Seine, taking a walk up the Champs-Elysees, sipping champagne in the Latin Quarter. The rest of their time in France they stayed in rural villages, sitting in sunny squares, living on cheap wine, crusty bread, cheese, fruit. Two days in the glamorous south of France were enough for them both, the excess too much after their gentle meanderings. In Italy they were both without the language, but it didn’t matter. They pointed, tried in English or even French, so relaxed and at ease now that language seemed secondary to their needs. The weather was perfect, warm days, balmy nights. The Italian scenery bewitched them both. Golden yellow fields dotted with straight green cypress trees. Hilltop villages. Bustling cities. Sunlit piazzas. Noisy bars, enthusiastic conversations, friendly people. The sight of clothes drying on lines strung from balcony to balcony across cobblestoned alleys. Red geraniums on sunny stone steps. Gracie had never imagined a country could be so beautiful.

As they sat outside a café in Florence one afternoon drinking coffee in the sunshine, Tom surprised her by asking if she was still carrying the silver whistle he’d given her. Of course, she said. She took it from her handbag.

‘I’ll be right back,’ he said. She watched as he traced their steps back to a small side street lined with jewellery shops. He returned fifteen minutes later, with the whistle now nestling in a small velvet box. She took it out. He’d had it engraved. For Gracie with love from Tom. She’d already treasured it. Now it was even more perfect.

They talked constantly, about all they saw, where they were going, and increasingly about their future together. Could she come to Australia again soon? Tom asked. She could get work there, study, do whatever she wanted, he was sure of it.

Gracie had thought about it already. Thought a lot. It was the next big step in their relationship. Yet she hesitated before answering.

He noticed. ‘You don’t want to go to Australia again? You don’t like our animals? Our insects? I’ll kill them all. Just let me know which species to start with.’

She laughed. ‘I love your wildlife. I was thinking about visas, grown-up things like that.’

‘You won’t need a visa.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I’ll marry you.’

He was joking, she knew, but she went along with it. ‘Why, thank you, how kind. But I’m much too young to get married.’

‘We’ll just get engaged to begin with, then. We can get married on your fiftieth birthday.’

‘That was your proposal?’

‘Wasn’t it romantic enough?’ He smiled. ‘Sorry, Gracie. I’ll make up for it next time.’

From that day, whenever they found themselves in front of a landmark sight or looking at a beautiful view in any of the Italian towns or cities they visited, he asked her the same question. ‘Gracie Templeton, will you marry me?’

‘Of course, Tom,’ she said each time.

By the tenth proposal, she barely acknowledged it. ‘Sure. Do you feel like a coffee?’

As they’d arranged three weeks earlier in London, she checked her emails the day before Spencer was due to arrive. Sitting in a small internet café off the Piazza Navona in Rome, waiting for a computer to become free, she looked out at Tom, sitting on a stone bench, his face tilted up to the sun, his long legs stretched out in front of him. She smiled. She seemed to smile constantly these days. Tom had proposed to her again that morning, as they stood in front of the Trevi Fountain. She’d accepted with great enthusiasm for once, throwing her arms around him as though it was the first time, not the eleventh. A group of people behind them overheard and applauded.

Sitting down on some sunny steps a few streets on, he’d taken her hand, leaned back and said in a casual way, ‘I mean it, you know. I do want to marry you.’

About to joke back, she saw the expression on his face. He was serious. She bit her lip, her heart suddenly racing.

His expression changed. ‘But if you don’t want to, that’s fine. Honestly. Forget I even mentioned it.’

She laughed, unable to help herself. ‘Forget which proposal? All of them or just that last one?’

‘All of them. Forget I said anything.’ He smiled then. ‘No, don’t forget the third one, the one in the square in Siena. That was really something special. I want you to remember that one when you are old and grey in your nursing home, looking back on your youth and wondering whatever happened to that nice young cricketer you knew once.’

‘That nice young cricketer I hope will be sitting beside me in my nursing home?’

‘I’ll be there beside you? So you will have married me?’

‘No. I’m hoping you’ll have retrained as a nurse and be looking after me.’

He’d kissed her hand, then stood up in the graceful, easy motion he had, pulling her up beside him. ‘You will marry me one day, Gracie Templeton. You wait and see. Protest as much as you like, but it’s written in the stars.’

Looking out at him now from the Internet café, she smiled at the memory. Once Spencer had gone, when they were on their own again, she would talk about it with him, seriously. Talk about the two of them, seriously. Because she realised something that made her feel strange and excited and scared, all at once. The next time he proposed to her, she would say yes and she would mean it. She did want to marry him. She would move to Australia to be with him. Have children with him. All of it.

As her turn at the computer came up, she crossed her fingers, hoping Spencer had changed his mind, that his email would say he couldn’t make it after all. Her heart gave a lift when she read his subject line – Bad news – and then fell as she read on.

Don’t collapse with disappointment but can only join you for four nights not seven. I HAVE GOT A JOB IN THE MEDIA. An honest-to-God, no-nonsense paying job that doesn’t involve late nights or intoxicated wankers (myself excluded). Job is courier driver for a film production company. I know, it doesn’t sound like much, but it’s a start, the first of my stepping stones to media mogul-ness. My own van – all right, their own van – and all. It’s small, it’s white, it’s beautiful. I am in love with my van. Anyway, will fill you and Tom in over a Campari or twenty. Arriving Roma Termini 2pm Saturday. Be there or else. My last days of freedom. Will be in celebratory mood!

Gracie and Tom were waiting at the end of the platform when Spencer’s train came in. The sun was shining, the two of them hand in hand, as Spencer stepped out of his carriage and came striding and smiling towards them, oblivious to the fact he was about to ruin both their lives.