The brochure on the table in Michael's room featured Heathshedge Manor in a soft light, a series of elegant vines twining around the photo. A description inside was elegant and eloquent: "A perfect location for weddings, receptions, and reunions" and a "delightful piece of English history and countryside."
Its gardens wrapped around the house in an orderly manner, no sprawling or tumbling landscape of trees and overgrown "weedy" English gardens which burst with color and blossoms. Lawns manicured to a sheer surface of green stretched forth from the massive entrance, its wooden door framed in heavy stonework carved by a hand no doubt long departed from earth. Michael had only seen it in the cheer of sunshine, yet he imagined it in the gloom of night. A gothic manor which he might explore was he not tied to his work, the weight of chapter six upon his mind.
The weight of a Claymore blade could strike a man's head from his shoulders, sever limbs beneath the forward strength of a man. Macleod did not care what bodies fell by his hand; nor did he care what might be the nature of their background, be it the service of Longshanks or the mercenaries of Ireland.
He swung the blade wide, with all its strength, hewing the painted face rushing towards his own from the blue torso and stained tartan. The wild figure stumbled, the head rolling to one side in a trail of blood...
He had agreed to take tea with the same inner reluctance which made him avoid invitations to lunch or to dine with the family. Enough time had passed since his arrival, allowing the family's curiosity to take hold and force him to face his host and a handful of curious relatives at a table. Wedged between Louisa and Charlotte, as he discovered the elderly woman was named, he did his best to balance a teacup whose china seemed thin and transparent in the sunlight streaming through the windows.
Sir Andrew's sitting room–which Michael thought of as some type of parlor–was a glass square filled with sunlight and plants, an arboretum jutting off a formal reception area like a greenhouse added to its foundations as an afterthought. The knight himself seemed a man of the earth; stained gardening apron, a pair of trousers marked from kneeling in the dirt.
"Welcome," he said. "Good to meet the best man of the chap taking young Katherine off our hands." As he spoke, he settled himself more comfortably into his wicker chair, legs crossed as he balanced a teacup.
Young Katherine. His pronunciation of her named seemed as formal as her aunt. There was no sign of the bride-to-be at tea, only the beaming figure of Mrs. Hammond bearing a platter of tarts.
"Yes, well..." Michael answered, a bright sentence trailing off as he found no other words to add. "It's nice to have a chance to see your lovely country. I've never made it across the shores before. Close, though." This last part he intended as a joke, although it received only a polite smile from the knight, a titter of laughter from Louisa. Charlotte, whose relationship to the family was still undefined, seemed absorbed in sampling her turnover.
"Mr. Herriman is the writer of all those lovely novels," said Charlotte, after a moment. "You remember, Andrew? Ride to the Highlands, the one you enjoyed so much." Michael anticipated that Charlotte might ask for his autograph, a request which always embarrassed him.
"Katherine would be luckier if her Sean was the author," laughed Sir Andrew. "What does he do again–filmmaker, isn't it?"
"Something independent, I think," said Louisa, vaguely. "More tea, Mr. Herriman?" She raised the pot.
Kate never appeared at tea; nor did Sean, for that matter. He had half-hoped someone more familiar with the family would prompt him into the proper subjects, more Kate's department than her fiancé’s. The thought of taking tea across from her was slightly embarrassing, given his recent temptation to spy on her.
And why? Because he was curious about her? Because he didn't understand the arm's length persona which made her different from what he expected from the love of Sean's life? Deep inside, he felt the stirrings of suspicion that it was something altogether different, a desire to reconcile the girl from the San Francisco adventure with the cool figure at the engagement party.
Sean was seated in a leather chair, feet propped on an antique desk as he balanced a laptop in front of him. On the screen, a video image of a woman gazing seductively at the ocean as she walked backwards along its shores.
The image drew Michael's eye the moment he entered the room, largely because the rest of the bedchamber was shrouded in darkness. Sean had drawn the drapes closed and turned out the lamps, as if savoring a reel of film on a projector instead of a digital camera's image.
"There's something about Serena in this take," he frowned. "It wasn't entirely what I was going for." The image paused as he clicked the space bar, Serena's figure frozen in a sultry pose.
Tequilas for Two Nights was intended as a gripping tale of a love affair, murder, and a Mexican bounty hunter, a "piece of gripping human experience and gritty imagery" according to its own posters in the works. Sean tended to assemble his films swiftly with the help of a long-time editor named Steve who apparently despaired of his director's comments on his every cut. Sean's fingers were already flickering towards his notes as the frozen image resumed its movement on the screen.
"Why weren't you and Kate at tea?" asked Michael, as he leaned against the doorway. The sound of his voice startled Sean out of his one-sided conversation with the screen. He clicked the pause button again and swiveled towards Michael.
"Mick! I didn't hear you come in, pal." He motioned for Michael to sit down as he swung his feet off the desk. "Say, has Vicki spoken to you about the rehearsal dinner tomorrow night? I think she was thinking maybe you two could work up something, maybe a couple of toasts or a skit–"
"Sean, have you–thought about what I said about Vicki? At all?" Michael's tone was gentle, as if tossing this remark off-hand into the conversation. He expected at least a defensive reaction, but the words appeared to slide off of Sean's good humor.
"Then she hasn't talked to you? Good. I wanted to tell you to forget about it–that kind of thing isn't really Kate's style. And the big day should be about her, as you pointed out." He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees in a serious position. "She's really ... she's really something. I haven't tried hard enough to make her see that." His voice was soft; in response, Michael's stiffened posture grew slack as he moved closer.
"I've been thinking about all the things I have to do," said Sean. "Like, find a place for us to live, help split the expenses for the wedding, give up some of the late nights out," he ticked them off his fingers as he spoke. "And get rid of the collection of course," he added, with a slight grimace. "I want her to know I care about her and I'm committed all the way, you know?"
The "collection" was a wall in Sean's apartment devoted to photos of him and his girlfriends, with poems scribbled around them about breakups and hookups as if a mural devoted to a lifestyle of loose relationships. Since it was tucked in a closet where Sean stowed film equipment almost nobody had seen it except for his friends–even some of the girlfriends depicted in blurry bar room shots and photo booth images had viewed the relationships billboard in person.
Michael was fairly certain Kate hadn't seen it, however. Given the expression on Sean's face as proof, the closest she would come to encountering the collage would be as an urban legend mentioned among his ex-girlfriends.
"I'll burn the photos, get rid of the gifts," Sean continued ticking off the list on his fingers. "Except maybe ... do you think it would be wrong to hang onto to Jeanette's stereo system? At least for a while?" At the look on Michael's face in response, he grinned.
"Just kidding," he said.
"I'm glad to hear that," Michael answered. "Very glad." He rubbed the back of his neck, a mixture of feelings coursing through his mind. Pleasure that Sean was taking the value of his decision seriously, a twinge of jealousy that it was so. At once, he felt ashamed of himself for letting it creep into his thoughts.
"I'm under the impression that maybe Kate's not exactly happy here," said Michael, after a moment of deliberating what to say. "I mean, she seems like someone who would appreciate the efforts you make–the thought behind them making her happy, that is." Fumbling for the right words, he had fallen into an awkward subject even with the closeness of himself and Sean to explain the choice.
"Kate said when she lost her parents, that she had a hard time adjusting," said Sean. "She would mention it sometimes on the set. Not a lot of stories about it, but enough to make it obvious it was rough." With a sigh of frustration, he closed the laptop's lid. "So I guess I feel I'm up against a wall trying to change things for her. I might need help making her see that."
Reaching across, he punched Michael in the arm, gently. "That's where you come in," he said.
Michael's eyes wandered towards a corner of the room, avoiding Sean's gaze. "I might not be the best person to help," he suggested. "Matters of the heart aren't my area of expertise, as you're aware." He felt himself weakening under Sean's stare, his friend's eyes like a magnet polarizing his feelings towards their past like a binding contract of friendship.
"That's why you're here, man," said Sean. "I trust you. I need you." The hand that punched Michael's arm now squeezed his shoulder with a gentle shake; the feelings of envy and personal motives seemed criminal to Michael suddenly.
He smiled at Sean's beaming countenance. "You can count on me," he answered. His hand squeezed Sean's fingers in return, a grip that he released along with his momentary reservations.
It was a promise he wouldn't be able to escape; that was something of which he was keenly aware. Even when he unwrapped the note Sean left propped against his doorknob on the morning of the Paris press tour departure, he kept the promise floating at the surface of his mind like a force against future questions about his part in all this.
Inside, a list scribbled in the form of a note: Dear Mick, leaving at five a.m., won't be back until party tomorrow night at eight. Run into London today and pick up the tuxes for me and drop off this ring inscription at jeweler's shop enclosed, will you? Will have some other errands there and in town while I'm in Spain, too, so keep your calendar open as the best man for a couple more days, okay? Sean.
London. He grimaced at the thought of long hours wandering around in a strange city, asking tourists for directions to place none of them had ever encountered, negotiating with merchants in a confrontational manner he avoided when frequenting the corner shops in his neighborhood. Although he knew this was what the position entailed, there was a sense of personal loss in holding it that he could not explain.
*****
"Passengers boarding the train should be aware..." intoned the light English voice over the station's public announcement speakers, sounding hollow and lost amidst the constant murmur of public conversation. Jostled against a woman carrying a child and a grocery bag, Michael sought refuge in the first empty seat he found when boarding the train.
The child wore a grey tam, a knitted striped scarf; it sat across from Michael on the lap of its grey-coated mother, her seatmates a man absorbed with a newspaper story in the Times and a businesswoman talking on a cell phone. A handful of sullen teenagers clustered in the aisle, clinging to the rails and gazing at the Underground's walls visible through the glass.
Had he been writing a story about them, their faces would have proved a challenge, giving so little clues to the personal thoughts inside. His mind was drawn to Kate again, the quiet exterior which seemed to mask the internal conflicts. From lost parents to a life abroad in a place where she shared no connections to the seeming calm over Sean's choice of maid of honor for her wedding.
His eye glanced from the teenagers to the seats just beyond his own by the door. A man with a briefcase on his lap texted on his phone, a schoolgirl rummaged through her backpack, and Kate sat with legs crossed sedately as she read a novel.
The sight of her startled him, making him turn away inexplicably; a second later, he was aware that she noticed him also, the freezing in her pose observed by his peripheral vision.
They remained like this for several seconds, sneaking a glance while the other one seemed to be looking elsewhere. It was Michael who broke this chain by meeting her gaze directly, the end of the act of strangers on a train.
He cleared his throat. “I know we said we would pretend we’d never met before,” he said, “but I think by now we might pretend to be friends.” This received a smile from Kate, although she angled her face away from his own.
“I know,” she answered. “I suppose although we have separate errands–”
“We might combine forces,” he finished for her, “since we are going the same place, after all.”
“You are visiting a dress shop, I take it?” she asked. He saw a hint of sparkle in her eyes, as if something was kindled beneath the layers of blue.
“A suit shop,” he answered, taking a stab at what he hoped might be British terminology, something akin to “posh frocks” and “cummerbunds.” Kate merely smiled in response, gazing ahead through the glass as if seeing something more than the blurry speed of the Underground’s walls.
“My stop is the first one,” he said. He did not ask her which one was her own; nor if she would be willing to exit early. The answer was in the deliberate way she tucked the novel into her pocket.
He did not know the way to anything in London, but Kate seemed to possess a fair knowledge of the city. She must have come here often, he realized, in her university years; perhaps with weekends in pubs, crowded noisily with friends on the train at late hours.
He followed close as she walked, her thin frame disguised by a straight tan coat and the bulky rucksack slung from one shoulder. The dark curtain of her hair showed signs of having been unbraided hours earlier, a faint ripple like an old-fashioned curling iron’s waves.
Details like these preoccupied Michael in a way that no observations had in the past. He had watched countless strangers move through crowds, observed with interest people on benches outside the grocery or fellow passengers aboard transportation, but never with such fascination. When he realized he was doing it, he reproached himself; then slipped into it again the moment she readjusted the strap on her shoulder or glanced back to make sure he wasn’t lost in the crowd.
Glass windows displayed bridal dresses like a shower of tulle, as conventional as any American shop catering to formal events. He was tempted to wait outside, but she paused in the doorway as he held it open, a fraction of a second that ended his hesitation.
A salesperson emerged from a fitting room, surveying them with a smile.
“I have a dress reserved,” said Kate, as she approached the counter. “The name Ivey.” The woman checked a computer log as she listened, raising her face with a sympathetic smile.
“Miss Ivey,” she said. “Yes, we have your dress ready, but we were rather hoping you would change your mind about that lovely gown you tried on before–”
Kate blushed. “I rather think not,” she answered, as the persistent salesperson’s smile deepened.
“I can offer you a discount,” she hinted. “Twenty-five percent off the tag. It was such a fetching design for you...”
“Perhaps you should think about it,” said Michael, laughing. “Twenty-five percent is a good bargain.” He regretted the remark when he saw the brooding expression on Kate’s face as she contemplated the decision.
“Come on, now; at least try it on.” The saleswoman’s voice assumed a chirpier lilt as she plucked Kate’s sleeve. Michael bit his lip, hesitating to intervene. In an instant, he wished himself en route to the jewelry store, shuffling in line for the tuxedo rentals, anywhere but here watching Kate be dragged away to this dress.
There was a fluttery, rustling sound from the dressing room, a murmur of voices– the saleswoman, possibly a tailor, making sounds of amazement and encouragement. A moment later the curtain parted to release a seamstress wearing a wrist pincushion dotted like a porcupine. Through the gap in the fabric, Kate was visible atop a hidden stepstool, a stream of white fabric billowing around her.
A train of satin rose to a sequined bow in the back, the fitted bodice studded with silver beads and bugles; sleeves jutting out like wings from the shoulder, the accordion pleats softly tapering outwards from the low neckline. Kate’s hand smoothed the skirts flat against her as she gazed downwards, her hair tucked in a low knot on her neck with a pencil holding it in place.
The dress was hardly a style in which he would imagine Kate–neither classy, or couhteur, lacking the elegance of Audrey Hepburn or Jackie Kennedy-esque fashions which would suit her figure better. Yet, in this dress, at this moment, she was stunningly beautiful. A towering figure in shades of marble who seemed like a sculpture.
The seamstress moved in the direction of the dressing room again, this time with a garment box tucked under her arm. She disappeared inside, the curtain drawn again as the voice of the saleswoman piped up from inside.
Michael shifted his weight, forcing his glance in any direction other than the dressing room. Through the store windows, he could see a group of people chatting on the sidewalk, a passing figure in a vicar’s collar and overcoat carrying an umbrella. The sounds of human voices in the dressing room grew louder as Kate and the saleswoman emerged, the box from before in the seamstress’s arms.
“I think you’ll be pleased with the selection,” said the saleswoman, swiping Kate’s credit card. “A charming little dress if I do say so myself. And sensible for an outdoor ceremony.”
Kate signed the receipt without comment, claiming the box from the counter. As she exchanged polite farewells with the saleswoman, Michael moved to open the door for her.
“Let me take that,” he said, reaching for the box.
“It isn’t heavy,” she answered. “It’s not as if I purchased that tremendous affair of tulle, is it?” With a slight laugh as she shifted the garment box beneath her arm.
He wanted to argue that weight was not the point, but didn’t. Instead, he switched subjects. “I’m sorry about teasing you over the discount,” he said. “It wasn’t any of my business, really; I didn’t intend to encourage the salesperson to stuff you into a dress you didn’t want.” Awkwardly, he touched her elbow as he guided her across the street.
“It’s her job to persuade me,” answered Kate. “The bigger the sale, the greater the commission, as you know. There was nothing wrong with the dress, I suppose; perhaps under different, less hasty circumstances, I would have considered something more elegant.”
“So the one in the box is–” he began.
“–a rather conservative choice, I’m afraid,” she answered. “On all accounts.” Her fingers wrapped themselves around the string tying the box shut. No more words followed this statement.
He paused in mid-stride, causing Kate’s steps to slow as well. “I feel a little hungry,” he said. “Would you let me pay you back for that bowl of noodles with an actual meal?”
“That isn’t necessary,” she said.
“No, but I might insist anyway,” he answered, although he made no move to drag her in the direction of the nearest eatery. They were both quiet, yet tense with expectation; as if waiting for the other to make a move.
“That would be nice,” Kate answered.
Michael grinned. Hand still on her elbow, he guided her towards the door of a sandwich shop, pushing it open to make way for their entrance.
Across from her at the table, separated only by a bud vase and salt and pepper shakers, he found himself without the urge to avoid eye contact. For once, he met her gaze with something more like confidence, even if only inspired by the faintest resemblance between this place and the bakery in San Francisco.
“You shall have to tell me what to order and what to avoid,” he said. “I have no ins and outs of English cuisine.”
“What would you tell me to avoid in America?” asked Kate. “If I were a tourist there for the first time and not a resident, let us say.”
“I would say not to eat anything made with seafood at a diner,” he said. “And to avoid muffins in cafeterias.” This statement made her laugh as she glanced at her menu again.
“You have a really nice laugh,” he said. “You should use it more often.” His face reddened. “Not that I’m saying you’re sad–that didn’t come out the way I intended...” He ran a hand through his hair, looking away as the embarrassment consumed him.
“You have a very difficult time with words for a writer,” she answered. “One moment you are quite eloquent; the next, apologizing for every word.”
Even with the humor in her voice, he detected a slight note of pain. She folded her menu and gave him a soft smile.
“I haven’t always had a cheerful life,” she said. “There were some things which made me cautious later on. Less likely to laugh, I suppose.” Although her voice was still light, he could detect the note of discomfort beneath, the movement beneath the ice.
His own menu fell closed after a moment’s time, his fingers smoothing the creases in the laminated surface. “When did your parents pass away?” he asked. “Sean told me a little about it.”
She was quiet for a moment. “I was eight,” she answered. “It was an accident. A mechanical error in flight was the final verdict, which meant a small settlement. That’s what paid for my education.”
“But no childhood at Heathshedge, correct?” asked Michael.
Kate’s laugh was slightly bitter. “I grew up in schools,” she answered. “Heathshedge is a place where I spent Christmas and Easter holidays. There was no true ‘home’ in the traditional sense of the word once I was on my own. It was a void that never quite filled.”
She folded the napkin before her into a fan pleat, as if forming origami. “I don’t intend it harshly,” she said. “They love me in their own way. They were kind to me in their own way. Just not–”
“Just not as parents would have been,” said Michael. He looked out the window at the foot traffic passing by on the sidewalk.
“My mother,” he said, “was the last person in my family to die. A long diagnosis of cancer.” He coughed, his hand remaining near his chin as if supporting his face. “The month before she died, it was only me. Spoon-feeding three meals a day, sponge baths that avoided bed sores. Long nights when I could hear the sound of moans through the walls of her room.”
“No siblings,” said Kate.
“No siblings,” he answered. “No dad for fifteen years, either.”
Her lips parted as if to say something else, but the waitress approached their table, a coffee pot in one hand, a pad in the other.
“A bowl of chicken soup, please,” said Kate to the waitress, who made a note on her pad. Michael said nothing as he glanced at her, eyebrows arched expectantly.
“Not the pickle,” she said. “Ham and egg pie is good.”
“Ham and egg pie,” he said to the waitress. “With a cup of coffee, please.”
He could see Kate was right when it arrived. A slice of yellow that broke apart beneath his fork, melting in his mouth without the flavors of cheese or peppers that he would have expected from an American version. Kate crumbled a handful of oyster crackers into her soup, raising the spoon to her lips in the formal fashion of an evening dinner party.
“Was it awkward?” she asked. “For you to tell me about your mother?” She stirred the crackers into the bowl.
“Probably no more than for you to mention your childhood,” he said. “Your past was absent in most of the stories Sean told about you.”
“I told Sean so few, I’m surprised he remembered them,” she said. “In Mexico, we didn’t talk about our past. Only the bright future ahead. Careers and filmmaking, being artists and being in love. It was nothing so very concrete as this.”
“As concrete as marriage?” Michael laughed. “I would have thought–given that Sean proposed, there would have been some warning.”
“I knew he fancied me,” she answered. “I knew I liked him. By the end of the shoot, it felt more like love. When he asked me to come to Chicago, I knew it was to see me again. I came to see him as much as to see Trinity’s art show, I confess.”
Michael was quiet for a moment. “Did you go out of curiosity, then?” he asked.
“Perhaps,” she answered. She lifted her cup of tea with both hands. Her mouth was concealed behind the brim; he could see neither a frown nor a smile in the depths of her eyes.
When the waitress brought the check, he drew his wallet and fished out a handful of pound notes from his currency exchange. Kate did not attempt to argue him over the check, something which gave him a sense of satisfaction.
He pocked the receipt as they left the restaurant, as if keeping it as a souvenir of this day. He strode alongside Kate as they made their way towards the jeweler’s, their hands a few inches apart in distance. He felt taller with her alongside him, as if Kate’s petite frame brushing his shoulder was a sign of strength.
The jeweler’s shop was empty when they entered. Michael fished the slip of paper from his pocket, a size and inscription scribbled in Sean’s handwriting. Cases of solid bands and bejeweled rings stretched before him in a museum of possibilities. He wondered which one was Sean’s choice; until now, it had never occurred to him that the ring was among the best man’s duties.
“This is for the Bealy order,” he said, approaching the counter. “I assume it will be ready for pickup before Saturday?” He slid the piece of paper across the counter. The clerk adjusted his glasses, then examined the slip.
“Wait here for one moment, please.” He stepped away, leaving Michael alone at the counter. Kate wandered past a jewelry case, pausing to admire something inside.
“When I was a little girl, I had one like this,” she said. Her finger touched the glass; beneath it was a miniature music box made from plated metal, scenes of flowers and rabbits along the sides and the raised image of a butterfly on the lid.
“It plays ‘Annie Laurie’,” said the clerk, reappearing from the back of the shop. “A modernized mechanism, of course, but very similar to an antique version believed to be Queen Victoria’s. Very popular design through the ages.”
He turned his attention to Michael. “Mr. Bealy’s order will be completed within two days,” he said. “If there is a telephone number, we can contact you to inform you when it is available for retrieving.”
“Is my cell phone number acceptable?” asked Michael, pulling his phone from his pocket. The clerk retrieved a form and placed it on the counter, attaching a corresponding sticker to a small velvet box beneath the counter. The lid closed too quickly for Michael to catch more than a glimpse of a small diamond stone and a glint of gold.
Kate had moved on to the next shop, where Michael found her examining a jar of face cream in a cosmetics display. The scent of jasmine and spices hung heavily in the air, a tranquility fountain bubbling on one of the display tables.
“Cold cream,” he said. “Very old-fashioned.”
“My aunt uses this kind,” said Kate. “I was considering a jar for Vicki, perhaps. As my bridal party gift to her.” He glimpsed a slightly wicked smile lurking in the corners of Kate’s mouth.
“I think something in the wrinkle prevention department would be more appropriate,” answered Michael. “Something with a bit of sting in it.” He lifted a small jar of purple liquid, a label on the front guaranteeing smoother skin in less than five uses.
“You would know her better than I would,” answered Kate. Michael paused in the act of unscrewing the sample jar’s lid.
“How do you really feel about Vicki?” he asked. “Truly. I think there must be someone you would rather have beside you on your wedding day than a total stranger from Sean’s past.”
He shoved his hands in his pocket as he waited for her answer, trying not to seem overly-interested in her answer. It was none of his business; the question of Kate’s personal tastes was not part of the duties of being best man.
Kate stared at the display of lotions on the neighboring table. “I had no one I could ask,” she answered. “I don’t suppose it mattered that Vicki was the choice in the end.” She set the jar of cold cream on the table and made her way towards the shop’s door.
He followed her. “Kate, wait,” he said. “I shouldn’t pry into your business–”
“I’m not as easily hurt by these things as you think,” she answered. She had paused a few steps outside the door, facing him on the sidewalk as the dress box dangled at her side. “It doesn’t affect me–hurt me–that Vicki was one of Sean’s girlfriends. His past wasn’t entirely a mystery to me when I agreed to this.”
“I only wished Sean wasn’t so thoughtless sometimes,” said Michael. “Even if it didn’t hurt you, how could he know that when he made the decision?” His voice rose without him intending to be passionate on this subject. He drew his hand from his pocket to rub his neck and discovered a small vial still in his palm, the lavender skin cream.
“No,” he groaned. “How could I be so stupid?” Kate’s glance fell on the jar in his hand, her eyes widening with realization.
“Why didn’t the alarms beep?” he said. “I’m a thief now–” He didn’t have time to say anything more, since another voice chimed in.
“Oy! That man says he’s a thief!” The voice was loud and insolent, belonging to a tough-looking youth in a crowd of pierced and black-attired teenagers slumped on a bench.
“Thief! Thief!” The chant was repeated by his friends, a series of grins proving this was more mischief than civic concern. When the boys clambered up from the bench, Michael felt Kate grab his hand.
“Run,” she whispered. When he didn’t respond, she repeated it. “Run!” Yanking on his hand, she pulled him with her as she took off in the opposite direction of the youth crowd.
Ahead was an unfamiliar corner, a throng of people resembling tourists crowded there. Kate towed him into their midst, into the sound of music and conversation. The melee of carnival tents and hodgepodge stalls, of artists at work in the mix, the haven of Portobello Road in London. From the corner of his eye, he glimpsed the flash of a fire eater, the bright flowing garments of dancers in green and yellow, as if a circus and flea market combined to close them in.
“There’s a bus shelter ahead!” panted Kate. “We’ll catch one if we hurry.” Her hold on his hand was tight, steering him past a book vendor’s stall. In his mind they were a ludicrous picture, the garment box dangling at Kate’s side by its knotted cord, his coat billowing out as he stumbled along behind her in haste. An image so vivid he could not imagine capturing even a fraction of its movement and color on paper.