Miranda Dickinson 2 Book Bundle. Miranda Dickinson
about his visit when you come to the shop tomorrow,’ I said. ‘I’m sure you’ve got lots to tell me too.’
‘Absolutely,’ she affirmed, ‘especially considering the fact I also saw Mimi Sutton tonight.’
‘Ah, the plot thickens.’
James arrived with two mugs of tea. ‘Is that your wacky friend? Say hi from me.’
I smiled. ‘James says hi.’
Celia’s tone changed. ‘James? Your brother James? He’s there?’
‘Yes times three. He surprised me yesterday.’
‘But I thought he was in Washington…’ Celia sounded distracted, thoughtful.
‘Yes, he was. He’s just staying with me till Saturday morning, then he’s going back. Are you OK, Celia?’
There was a brief pause. I could hear her breathing. ‘I’m fine, Rosie. Yes, just fine…Well, gotta go. The kids go back tomorrow, thank heaven, so we’re getting pizza tonight and they’ve rented some gosh-awful movie. I may not survive the night…I’ll see you tomorrow morning, honey. Bye.’
James saw my puzzled expression as I put the receiver down. ‘And how is the inimitable Ms Reighton?’
‘She’s fine, I think.’ Truth be told, I wasn’t sure. ‘She seemed a little surprised you were here.’
James flopped down beside me. ‘There isn’t a great deal of love lost between me and Celia, Rosie, you know that. The last time I saw her we had a blazing row—don’t you remember?’
I did. I’d just as soon as forget it, though. It was one of those Really Bad Ideas you have in all good faith, only to repent at leisure. Wouldn’t it be a great idea to invite Celia to have dinner with my brother? I’d thought, in my naive innocence. It was about a year after I’d settled in the city and I’d finally completed refurbishing my apartment—including my prized 1920s dining-room table that I’d found at the Boston Flea, a wonderful flea market that Ed and I visit regularly, with the most eclectic collection of vintage furniture, lamps and clothing. (I go for the vintage stuff, Ed goes for the waffles.) So, thought I, who better to invite to my housewarming than my brother, my best friend and her partner?
Now, a self-confessed optimist I may be, but I defy even Pollyanna to find something in that evening’s events to Be Glad about. As I recall, Jerry kicked off the argument by remarking that everybody agreed that Oxford and Cambridge were far inferior to Harvard or Yale—to which James responded with an attack on American ‘all-mouth-no-substance’ intellect. Celia attempted to change the subject by talking about her latest gathering of New York writers but James was on a roll and proceeded to reduce every author after Steinbeck as ‘mere pretenders and band-wagon jumpers’. By the time I served dessert, the debate had run its course and my guests had resorted to defiant silence. And coffee was accompanied by averted eyes, served with generous helpings of underlying rage. I still harboured hopes that, one day, Celia and James would get on. But it appeared that, for now, those hopes must remain safely stashed in the file marked Highly Unlikely.
James was dismissive as ever about Celia’s reaction, but I was aware of a jumpiness about him. It was carelessly hidden—like the dodgy magazines he used to stash under his bed as a teenager—with just enough showing to reveal their existence, but not enough to tell you exactly what they were.
Once I knew his guard had dropped, I broached the subject, handing him a pack of Oreos to soften the impact of my question. ‘So—what’s the story, Jim?’
‘How do you mean?’ he replied innocently.
‘The visit—the meal tonight—Celia’s reaction…what’s going on?’
James’s smile remained bright as ever, but I saw him shift uneasily.
‘Nothing…’ His voice was strained. He cleared his throat. ‘Nothing, sis. I just needed to get away from DC for a while and…and I missed you, believe it or not.’
‘I know Mum thinks you can do no wrong, but I worry about you. I mean, let’s face it: trouble has a habit of finding you, doesn’t it?’ Careful to maintain direct eye contact, I continued: ‘When I mentioned marriage earlier you flinched. What was that all about?’
James cleared his throat again. ‘Ha! Rosie, that’s a guy thing. I’m only thirty-four; that’s way too young to settle down. Believe me, I’m enjoying playing the field too much right now.’ Was he sweating? ‘Plus, I thought it was a weird thing for you to say…considering.’ That one hurt. I looked away. His smile dropped and he reached across and took my hand. ‘Really, I’m fine, sis. Let’s just have a good time together and enjoy these few days…You know if I need help I’ll always ask you first, yeah?’
I smiled and gave him a hug. Even now, all grown up, my arms were barely able to go the whole way round him. His broad shoulders seemed to relax and he held me for a long time. ‘Thanks for caring, little sis,’ he mumbled.
Later that night in my room, I thought I heard a noise. I put down the battered copy of E. F. Benson’s Mapp & Lucia that I was reading (a present from Marnie from her favourite old bookstore) and climbed out of bed. Tiptoeing to the door, I noticed the living-room light still on and as I got closer I was aware of James’s hushed voice. I opened the door slightly and peered through the gap. James was on the couch-bed, propped up on one shoulder, hunched over his mobile phone. He was whispering with hoarse insistence and, although a glimpse of his face was denied me from my vantage point, his aggravation was obvious.
‘…Never mind what I said…I want out, understand?…Whatever you have to do, get it done. I…I can’t do this anymore…I just can’t, OK?…Yeah, yeah, whatever…Look, I’ll be back Saturday…Yeah, we’ll talk then…Uh, I…Yeah, you too. G’night.’ He snapped his phone off and flopped back onto the bed, his hands over his eyes.
Silently, I closed my door.
The sunlight of Friday morning broke through my window a lot earlier than I would have preferred. I had been restless all night and felt drained and heavy-limbed as I reluctantly vacated my bed. One glance in the bathroom mirror revealed the full, uncensored horror that was Rosie Duncan on approximately three hours and twenty-six minutes’ sleep. ‘Well, they say true beauty lies within,’ I said to my reflection, which remained unconvinced. I swear I heard the mirror breathe a sigh of relief and request counselling when I walked away.
James was fast asleep when I passed his makeshift bed to get to the kitchen. He is the only person I know who never loses sleep over anything. Ever. And, believe me, he has had plenty to worry about over the years. I should know: I’ve bailed him out of countless crazy situations that would have caused serious sleep deficiency for most people. At Oxford they called him ‘Straight-Eight Duncan’, meaning that he always got at least eight hours’ sleep every night—even during end-of-year exams and finals.
I finished my breakfast and made him a cup of tea as I got ready to leave. Kneeling down by the side of the bed, I gently touched his shoulder to wake him. He stirred, eyes struggling first to open and then focus, all warm and disoriented like a small child. ‘Hmm?’
‘Morning, sleepy,’ I whispered, smiling at the almost endearing sight of my semi-awake sibling.
A lazy smile spread across his sleep-crumpled face. ‘Mmmhh…morning, Rosie.’
I reached out and ruffled his messed-up ginger hair. ‘Sleep good?’
‘Yeah, great—as ever. You off now?’ His nut-brown eyes studied my face in a slow, side-to-side sweep.
‘I am. But I’ll be back about seven, so think of something you want to