Christmas at Tiffany's (57 page)

Cassie smiled and waited until it achieved the perfect colour. ‘When.’

He passed her tea over and repeated the method for himself. Then he fished out two large parcels wrapped in tin foil. ‘One for you, one for me.’

Cassie opened hers. Inside was a steaming bap filled with two slices of bacon, a fried egg and a dollop of ketchup. ‘Ah! You read my mind!’ she gasped, now ferociously hungry as the shock of her early alarm call and climbing hundreds of steps ebbed away.

‘So you have breakfast here every morning, do you?’ she teased after a while, scooping up a bit of ketchup that had fallen on her wrist.

‘Of course. It’s important to have a view while you’re eating.’

Cassie giggled and shook her head. He was joking, but she knew he meant it too – that it was all about
savouring
experience, not just going through the motions, be it munching toast mindlessly whilst reading the paper or exploring a city on a tour bus. He always seemed to get to the heart of a situation, to see it from a different angle, from the inside. Or, in this instance, from the top.

‘Well, it was very brave of you to put your life in your hands and bring me here this morning. But wake me up like that again and it won’t be polar bears you should watch out for.’

Henry chuckled.

‘The view’s worth it, though,’ she conceded.

‘It is. But that isn’t why I brought you here.’ He checked his watch and started packing up the breakfast things.

‘It isn’t?’

‘Nope. But I thought you’d appreciate breakfast.’

‘What are we doing here if not admiring the view?’ she asked, knowing as she did so that he wouldn’t do anything as straightforward as simply
tell
her.

‘We’d better hurry. There are only a few minutes before they start up again.’

‘Start what?’

‘The Eucharist,’ he said over his shoulder, opening the door and leading her back down the stairs. Her muscles felt weak and ticklish, as though someone was squeezing them, but Henry showed no mercy.

Halfway down, he stopped at one of the doors and gingerly opened it.

‘Where are you going?’ she hissed.

‘In here.’

She followed him through and gasped at the sight. If she’d thought the exterior views were impressive, what was happening inside the dome was even more phenomenal. Below, the black and white mosaic floor was decorated with a magnificent star; above her were grisaille murals of St Paul and mosaics of the prophets and saints. She stopped and leaned against the gilded balustrade.

‘I’ve never seen anything like—’ she started, but Henry rushed over and clamped his hand over her mouth, pulling her back towards the walls.

He placed a finger to his lips before dropping his hand, and she looked at him, open-mouthed with outrage. ‘What the . . . ?’

‘This is the whispering gallery,’ he whispered. ‘And we’re not supposed to be here. They’re starting the service in a few minutes and I don’t want them to see us before we’ve done what we came to do.’

‘And what
is
that?’ she hissed back.

‘You’ve got to whisper a secret.’

‘What makes you so sure I’ve got any secrets?’ she whispered, one eyebrow arched.

‘Everybody’s got secrets, Cass. Now, I’m going to go round to the other side of the gallery, and I want you to whisper a secret to me, okay? Wait till I’m all the way round or I won’t hear it.’

She looked over at the opposite side of the gallery. ‘But that must be a hundred feet away. You’ll never hear it.’

‘Oh yes I will.’ He turned to go and then turned back again. ‘And make it a good one, okay? I haven’t done all this just to listen to you admit that
Pretty Woman
is still your favourite film.’

Cassie gasped. How the devil did he know that? She always told people it was the
The English Patient
when the topic came up. Henry grinned and jogged off.

She walked back towards the balustrade and looked over tentatively, worried lest someone should see her and throw her out. She watched Henry moving round so effortlessly, his arms pumping lightly as though he hadn’t really climbed a vertical mile, or however it translated.

Everything about him was extraordinary. Not just his fitness or his looks or his contacts book, but the way he lived – it was so dynamic, and fresh and vigorous. Life was so exciting with him around. Never pedestrian, never dull. She could only imagine what sex with him must be like.

She caught herself and slapped her hand over her mouth as though she’d actually articulated the thought. She watched him approaching the point that was exactly opposite, and before she knew what she was doing . . .

‘Don’t marry her,’ she whispered, sending her secret floating across the sacred air, ferried by angels, carried on the wings of Destiny, to where he was positioning himself.

The very second she said it, she regretted it. She wanted to pull it back in like washing on a line. Her heart lurched. Oh God, what had she done? She stared at him, stunned and horrified by her recklessness. Until that moment, it had been a secret even to her. Why had she said it? Where had it come from?

Henry looked up and smiled at her. With a nod of his head, he beckoned for her to begin.

What?

He nodded again. ‘Go on,’ he mouthed.

She couldn’t believe it. He’d been so nearly there. He must have missed it by millimetres, her secret slipping past like angel’s breath and absorbing itself into these thick walls which held the secrets of so many other saints and sinners.

Her eyes shone with unshed tears – relief and regret mixed together. She had been right all along. There was no such thing as Destiny. It was all about timing.

She opened her mouth to speak. What could she say?

‘I’m secretly frightened of cats,’ she whispered.

Henry paused, waiting for the words to come to him. He frowned as they landed.

‘Seriously?’ he whispered back.

‘Yeah, retractable claws . . .’ She gave a small shudder.

Henry pursed his lips in consideration. He seemed disappointed that that was the best she could manage. He shrugged.

‘Now you,’ she whispered.

But he just shook his head. ‘It’s your list,’ he whispered, walking back towards her, completely unaware of how close he’d come to discovering the deepest and darkest of her secrets.

They walked back to ground level and emerged into the bright sun, both muted. Henry smiled at her but didn’t say anything as they walked back to the little mini, and she wanted to kick herself for having been so uninspired.

He threw the bag on to the back seat whilst she fastened her seat belt.

‘I’m not even going to ask where we’re going next,’ she said, resting her head against the headrest.

‘Well, it’s going to be a bit of a drive,’ he said, turning on the radio.

Traffic had built up quickly during their hideaway breakfast at the cathedral, and it was well over an hour before they parked at another meter at the foot of some green, sloping hills.

Henry opened the small boot and took out a much larger bag and a hamper.

‘Are we having a picnic on these hills?’

‘This is Hampstead Heath, Cass.’

‘Is it
really
? I’ve always wanted to come here.’ She looked up. Trails and paths criss-crossed all over it. Cyclists, buggies and dogs jostled for space, and there were already lots of picnic rugs spread on the lawns and people playing Frisbee. A game few were trying to fly kites, but there was scarcely any breeze today, and no matter how fast they ran, the kites weren’t airborne for more than a few seconds.

Henry led them up the hill.

‘Where shall we sit?’ she asked, amazed that this pastoral scene could be in the centre of London. Central Park had been an impressive ‘cultivated wilderness’ in the middle of Manhattan, with its high banks and clumps of trees, and Paris’s parks, of course, were beautiful exercises in symmetry, with long, straight avenues where people could sit and watch, or gently stroll in neat lines. But this was genuinely wild and untouched heathland.

‘I know the perfect spot,’ Henry replied, without slowing down.

‘Of course you do,’ she muttered, panting slightly. ‘Won’t you at least let me carry one of those bags?’

‘Nope.’

He seemed to know his way around the paths expertly. Cassie lagged a few bedraggled steps behind, and before long they arrived at a small gateway with various black notice-boards posted on it. ‘
Hampstead Heath Mixed Swimming Pond.
’

Cassie looked at him, a small feeling of anxiety beginning to eddy in her stomach. ‘Tell me we’re not,’ she said as he paid the entrance fee.

‘I’m afraid I can’t do that,’ he replied, leading her down a narrow dusty path with rickety wooden fencing on either side. It opened out on to a tarn surrounded by thick woods and tall trees, with uniformly straight platforms floating above the green water and steps placed along it at intervals.

It was already filling up and it was still only ten in the morning.

‘We’re just going to have a picnic here, right?’ Cassie asked, warily looking around for nudists as Henry threw a large rug on the ground.

‘Nope.’

Cassie planted her hands on her hips. ‘Well,’ she said, exhaling patiently. ‘As much as I would love to get in the water, I can’t, see? I haven’t got any swimming kit with me. And before you say it, no, I am not going to swim in my underwear.’

‘I wasn’t going to say that, actually,’ Henry said, leaning down and picking up the bag which had held the rug and shaking it out. Two beach towels, a pair of palm-leaf printed shorts and . . . she reached down in horror.

‘You’re not serious?’ she gasped, holding a tiny gold swimming costume between her fingers.

Henry just nodded.

She held it from different angles and stared at it from every which way. It appeared to be cut out at the sides so that only a thin strip at the front connected the bottom to the top. ‘I’ll look like Paris bloody Hilton!’ she protested. ‘What were you thinking, buying
that
? What’s wrong with Speedo, for God’s sake?’

‘You’ll look great in it.’

A thought occurred to her. She pulled a face. ‘Is it Lacey’s?’ She knew for sure it wasn’t Suzy’s.

‘No! I bought it for you especially. I was in a rush and it was just there and . . .’

‘And you thought it would be funny to make me wear it!’

‘You can get changed over there,’ he said, indicating a block of toilets.

Cassie didn’t move.

‘Or you can wear your underwear if you prefer,’ he shrugged, reaching down for his trunks. ‘I was just trying to be helpful.’ He straightened up. ‘But we’re not going till you’ve had a swim.’

Cassie tried to remember what underwear she’d pulled on in the dark reaches of the morning. A white mesh bra and matching thong. Even less of a goer than the gold thing.

She grabbed a towel from the ground and stomped over to the loos, muttering to herself crossly. Much as she loved his lists, they always seemed to involve an element of sacrifice on her part.

When she emerged five minutes later with her towel clutched fiercely round her, she was no happier. Henry was walking just in front of her, having changed out of his shorts into his trunks, and was pulling his T-shirt over his head. She stopped walking, mesmerized by the movement of his muscles across his back, until she noticed two teenage girls giggling at her.

Blushing, she met him back at their rug. He was rubbing lotion on to his shoulders.

‘All okay?’

‘Oh, tickety-boo,’ she said, holding the towel even tighter around her. ‘I’m delighted to be dressed as a Vegas showgirl in the middle of Hampstead Ponds.’

Henry chuckled. ‘Here, let me put some lotion on you.’

Cassie took a step back. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Why not?’ he frowned. ‘It’s seventy degrees already. You’ll burn otherwise.’

She hesitated for a moment, then turned her back to him. ‘Fine.’

He squeezed some lotion out. ‘Uh, can you . . . lift your hair up a bit so I can do your neck?

She reached an arm up but couldn’t grab it all in one clutch.

‘No, there’s a bit over there,’ he said.

She tried reaching it with her fingers, but it just wasn’t long enough. Hurriedly she tucked the top of the towel in on itself and held up her hair with both hands, but the movement released her makeshift knot and the towel fell gracelessly to the floor.

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ she muttered, reaching for it, but Henry grabbed her by the elbow and stopped her.

‘It’s fine, Cass,’ he said, beginning to rub the lotion on her shoulders with his other hand. ‘We’ll be in the water in a minute anyway. No one’s looking.’

‘They definitely wouldn’t be if I was in a proper swim-suit,’ she mumbled, less aware now of his eyes on her than of his hands.

His fingers slipped beneath the straps of the costume and she felt herself catch her breath. Then, from behind, they spread over her collarbone and beneath the plain silver necklace – all she had left now of her Tiffany Christmas present.