A Sunset in Sydney Read online

  I took a deep breath and typed my response. Then deleted it, then typed it again. I followed this pattern twice more before settling on this:

  Hi. Are you free today?

  Before I could talk myself out of it, I tapped the “send” icon. Look at me, casually texting a super-handsome man to make plans for a date.

  Who was I kidding? There was nothing casual about a text message that took more minutes to compose than it had words.

  I heard Cat leave the bathroom and I grabbed my toiletries bag from my backpack so I could take the next shower. Along with tea and over-the-counter drugs, only a hot shower can complete the hangover cure trifecta.

  When I emerged from the shower ten minutes later, feeling somewhat human again, I dried off, then ran some moisturising product through my hair. My plan was to let it dry naturally and I silently begged my curls to behave themselves. Then, wiping steam from the mirror above the sink, I made the joyful discovery that I looked like an extra from The Walking Dead. Thank god for makeup. Yes, Rimmel, I’d love the London look, thank you very much—way better than “zombie chic”. But makeup could wait. I wanted to see if James had replied.

  Back in the living room, clad in Cat’s borrowed and far-too-short-for-me bathrobe, I picked up my phone, seeing that the battery was down to 8%. 8%? What the hell had it been doing while I was showering? Computing pi to a thousand decimal places? I needed to plug it in immediately, or it would chuck a huge wobbly, die, then need a two-hour charge before it would turn back on.

  I did not want to spend the next two hours fretting over a text message.

  I dug the charger and an adapter out of my backpack and looked around for an outlet. My phone buzzed at me angrily. 5%. Argh! Why was it being so infuriating? There! I hurriedly unplugged the kettle, ready to forgo a much-needed second mug of tea, and plugged in the phone.

  When I opened my text messages, I saw that James had replied, and my stomach did a little flip.

  I was hoping for today, so a yes from me. Where are you and what time can I come and get you?

  My heart started racing and it suddenly occurred to me that James was a real person.

  I know that must sound weird, but James was The Silver Fox—capital letters intended—and our brief time together had been more like an episode of Sex and the City than real life. He was my very own Mr Big, and all I had to do was send an address and he’d soon be standing at my door. Well, Cat’s door, but you know what I mean.

  My little stomach flip evolved into a round-off followed by a handspring. I was beginning to FREAK OUT. Just then, Cat came into the kitchen and caught me looking at my phone as though it was covered in Ebola.

  “Uh, Sez?” I blinked at her, feeling the crease between my eyebrows deepening. “What’s wrong?”

  I pointed at the phone and she came over and read James’s message. “The silver fox?” she asked. I nodded and started chewing on my thumbnail, something I’d never done before in my entire life.

  “Well, great. You get to see him today.” I nodded again. “So, what’s going on? Are you all right?” She looked really concerned, which made me even more freaked out. “Sarah, you’re going out with him, right? You said you wanted to see him again.”

  I re-read the message, and it dawned on me why I was so rattled.

  “Cat, what if he realises I’m just a silly schoolteacher from Australia, that I’m—” I stopped.

  I’m what? Nothing special? No, worse. What if he realises that I’m not the kind of woman who dates the handsome silver fox she met while sailing around the Greek Islands?

  Cat was obviously waiting for me to finish my thought. “What if he realises, I’m just me?” I steeled myself for the inevitable sisterly dig. Instead, she put her little arms around me and gave me a tight squeeze.

  “If he realises that, then he is a very lucky man, because you are wonderful.” She let go of me and rooted around in the catch-all on the counter for her keys. “Go on the date. Let him spoil you. Have fun.”

  “But …” I trailed off.

  “But what?” I saw her glance at the clock. She needed to go.

  “Nothing. You’re right. I’ll text him back.” She looked relieved.

  “All right, I’m off. Have a fantastic time with your billionaire boyfriend.” She kissed my cheek as I started to protest that he was neither a billionaire—just a millionaire—nor my boyfriend, but she ignored me and called out, “Bye-eee,” over her shoulder as she walked down the hall and out the door.

  I was on my own once more with my wretched, worrisome thoughts. What I was going to say was, “But, what about Josh?” And what about Josh? Sure, I had plans to see him in December, but I could still meet up with James, right?

  Right?

  I chewed on my thumbnail again. I was really going to have to stop that. I picked up my phone— now up to a whopping 20% battery—and typed out my response, asking him to pick me up at eleven. That would give me plenty of time to wash my boat-filthy clothes and do something about my zombie face. I added Cat’s address and sent the text.

  Moments later, he replied.

  Perfect. I know a lovely spot for lunch and afterwards I’ll take you to one of my favourite places in London. See you soon! Jx

  So, it was happening, a date with the silver fox. Then it occurred to me—what do you wear to have lunch with a millionaire?

  I did a mental inventory of my backpack, but boating clothes and bikinis would hardly do, and eleven o’clock was only three hours away. What on earth had I been thinking? I wasn’t going to have time to wash clothes, fix my face, and find something suitable to wear!

  I only had one option. I was going to have to raid my sister’s wardrobe, which would have been fine if I wasn’t five inches taller and several kilos heavier than her.

  Crap-a-doodle-do.

  Chapter 2

  After receiving no less than seven frantic text messages, my sister finally responded to my clothing emergency with excellent news. She’d bought an Alannah Hill dress during her last trip to Sydney and had never got around to altering it. It was in my size!

  I found the dress hanging in the back of her wardrobe. It was gorgeous on the hanger, and it looked even better when I put it on. I retrieved my strappy sandals from my backpack—even though I knew the dress would have looked much better with heels, flats would have to do. Before I knew it, it was close to eleven and all I had done for three hours, was get ready and fret.

  I wasn’t sure whether I was excited about my date with the silver fox, or nervous, but whatever the feeling was—perhaps a little of both—it was doing some spectacular gymnastics in my stomach. And even though I was expecting it, the bleat of the door buzzer made me leap. A grainy black and white image of James appeared on the wall console and I pressed the button so he could hear me.

  “Hi James!” I said way too enthusiastically. Cool it, Sarah. I deliberately dropped my voice an octave. “I’ll be right down.”

  “Wonderful!” he said, grinning into the camera. I took a step back even though he couldn’t see me, such was the impact of that smile.

  During the elevator ride to the lobby, I attempted to calm myself by breathing in through my nose and exhaling long slow breaths out of my mouth. It was a shorter ride than I needed, though, because Cat only lived on the fourteenth floor.

  Why does he make me feel so squidgy inside? I thought, as the elevator announced its arrival at the lobby. Then the doors opened and there he was, in all his glorious gorgeousness. Oh yeah, that’s why.

  He smiled at me, reaching for my hand as I approached. I gave it willingly, transfixed by that smile, and he gently pulled me towards him, kissing me lightly on the lips. “Hello, beautiful,” he said, his voice like honey being poured over gravel.

  “Hello, handsome,” I replied, as though I was someone way cooler than me. His eyes roved over my face and my shallow breaths reappeared, the traitors.

  “We’re just out here,” he said suddenly, seeming to remember himself.
He led me out of the building to his car, which was idling at the kerb. I don’t know what kind of car I was expecting him to drive—maybe a Jaguar or Mercedes—but I was pleasantly surprised to see a Peugeot RCZ in metallic marshmallow-white.

  I knew what kind of car it was because I like cars—a lot—and the RCZ was at the top of my “if I won the lottery, I would buy this car” list. It suited him perfectly, just as elegant and sexy as he was.

  James opened the door for me, and I climbed in as gracefully I could, settling into the soft leather seat. As he got in the driver’s side, he flicked me a look. His mouth turned up at the corner and he reached across to squeeze my hand. It was almost like he couldn’t believe I was there with him.

  That made two of us.

  As he turned his attention to driving and deftly pulled away from the kerb, I noticed two things. First, James smelled divine. It was the same scent he’d worn in Greece—sunshiny, citrusy and manly. And second, it was a spectacular day in London, which anyone who lives there will tell you, is super rare in early September.

  It was sunny, with bright puffs of clouds dotting an azure sky. Glancing at the dashboard, I saw it was 26°C outside—practically a heatwave in London terms, but I was both delighted and relieved. I was wearing a floaty Alannah Hill dress and I didn’t want to freeze to death, or inadvertently flash my bum because of a chilly gust of wind.

  “So, how was the end of your trip?” James asked.

  You mean the end of my trip where I slept with Josh and maybe fell for him a little and then made plans to see him in a few months? That?

  He obviously didn’t know how much of a loaded question he’d asked. He glanced at me, still smiling, and this was when a normal person would reply. I’d have to gather my wits.

  “It was lovely. Um, yeah, the last stop, Mykonos, that was, uh, really lovely.” Hardly an eloquent response, but my dastardly wits had abandoned me. How could I avoid talking about one would-be suitor to the other without sounding like a twit?

  “Was Mykonos your favourite island?”

  “No. I mean, I liked it. It’s beautiful—all the islands were—but I think I liked Naxos best.”

  Oops. Naxos was where James and I had officially met, where we’d gone on that sort-of date and where he’d kissed me. It was also where he’d asked me what was going on between me and Josh. I had played it down at the time, but things with Josh had progressed since then and I needed to redirect this conversation—pronto.

  “Uh, we had an incredible lunch there at this tiny café with no name.” Food was a safe topic, right?

  “One of Duncan’s gems?” Phew. Another safe topic—Duncan.

  Relieved that I’d steered the topic away from my romantic entanglements, I leapt back into the conversation with gusto. “Yes, exactly! He seemed to know all these great, out-of-the-way places. And in busy towns, we’d come across a row of restaurants—they’d look exactly the same, but he’d know the best one to eat at, every time. He never steered us wrong.”

  “He’s great with local knowledge, always has been.”

  “How did you end up hiring him?” Duncan had once worked for James, skippering James’s boat in the Caribbean.

  “He answered an advertisement. He was qualified and as soon as I met him, I liked him. It was a good fit.”

  I felt a surge of fondness for Duncan the Skipper, wondering if I would ever see him again. I also wondered how things were going with him and his girlfriend, Gerry. They were dating long-distance, and I was heavily invested in their “happily ever after” because they were just gorgeous together. It was also easier than championing my own—and far more likely.

  I’d met two men who lived across the world from me. That it would work out with one of them would be a minor miracle, one I wasn’t sure I wanted. Yes, I needed to shake up my life—like Josh and I had talked about in Greece, I wanted my life to be bigger. But that was about reconnecting with my friends, taking more initiative at work, travelling more. It didn’t necessarily mean leaping into a long-distance relationship—with anyone. I wasn’t sure my heart was ready for that.

  What the hell am I doing?

  I was having some fun, damn it—well-deserved fun.

  After a string of horrid men, not one of whom was able to keep his hands off someone else, I was on a date with a seemingly nice man who thought I was beautiful. Where was the harm in that?

  Not to mention, that if I wasn’t on a date with James, I would be at Cat’s flat, alone, watching bad daytime TV—is that a tautology?—eating too many digestive biscuits, and googling how to get the boat stains out of my clothes.

  I turned my attention back to James and watched him navigate the rabbit warren of inner London roads with ease. He was a sexy driver. He probably looked sexy peeling potatoes too, but there is something attractive about a man who looks both confident and comfortable driving. His tanned hands rested lightly on the steering wheel and he frowned ever-so-slightly when he checked his mirrors.

  “So, where are we going?” I asked after a few moments of silence.

  “Have you been to The Summerhouse?” he asked. No, I had not. I hadn’t even heard of The Summerhouse, but if the millionaire was taking me there, it was bound to be good.

  “No, not yet, but I’ve heard it’s lovely.” There was that word again, “lovely”. I felt like asking if we could make a quick stop at Waterstones so I could buy a thesaurus.

  “It’s fairly close to home for me—not overly fancy, but good food and it’s in a nice spot. I think you’ll like it.”

  “So, where is home?” I asked, remembering my conversation with Cat that morning.

  “Paddington,” he replied. And then he added, “W2,” the way people who live in London sometimes do.

  Cat had been right. “Single digit,” I accidentally said aloud.

  “Sorry?” He hadn’t quite heard me, thank goodness.

  “Paddington’s lovely,” I replied. Good grief.

  *

  As predicted, I liked The Summerhouse.

  It was situated on a canal in an area of West London called Little Venice. I’d been to actual Venice, and the similarities ended with the canal, but it was—dare I say it—a lovely part of London.

  The restaurant was bright and airy, with furnishings in crisp white and light wood, and on each table was a small bouquet of yellow flowers. There was even a compact hedge of lush green foliage which made a sort-of wall between the restaurant and the canal. The waterway was dotted with canal boats, some moored and some on the move, and with London putting on some brilliant sunshine, the restaurant and its surrounds literally shone.

  We were shown to our table—which gave us a front-row view of the canal—by a petite, dark-haired woman with a severe fringe and a perfect red lip. She smiled politely as she handed me my menu. I glanced over it and just seeing the offerings made me hungry. Thank god my hangover was over.

  “You cannot go wrong here. Everything’s terrific,” said James.

  “So, you come here a lot, then?” I asked.

  He laughed, seemingly at himself. “I do, yes. Probably more than I should, but as I said, it’s close to home and I love the food.”

  “James!” A large man in a white chef’s coat called out and made his way across the restaurant, gracefully navigating between the tables.

  “Paulie.” James looked up at the chef and they shook hands warmly. I wondered if James was one of those people who knew everyone everywhere he went. “This is my friend, Sarah. She’s visiting from Sydney.”

  Paulie turned towards me and took my offered hand between his large ones. “Welcome, Sarah. We’ll have to make sure we dazzle you with something tantalising. You have some incredible seafood restaurants in Sydney.” That may have been true, but I wasn’t the sort of person who frequented the incredible seafood restaurants of Sydney. Still, Paulie didn’t know that and I was dressed in Alannah Hill, so I decided to play along.

  “Oh, we absolutely do, but I’m very much looking forwa
rd to this lunch. James has raved about your restaurant.” Paulie seemed to like that and when I caught James’s eye, he winked at me.

  “In that case, may I design a special menu for the two of you?” I looked at James and he shrugged good-naturedly as if to say, “why not?”

  I grinned up at Paulie. “I’d love it.”

  “Terrific. Anything you don’t like?” he asked.

  “No, not really.”

  “Excellent.” He clapped his hands together in a way that was utterly endearing. “James, the sancerre will be perfect with what I have in mind.”

  James closed his menu. “Sounds good.”

  The dark-haired woman suddenly appeared by Paulie’s side and he murmured something to her. She smiled her polite smile at us, took our menus, and disappeared.

  “Maria will bring the wine. You two, sit tight.” With that, Paulie was gone and James and I were left alone. I realised, with some gratitude, that I was no longer nervous. Perhaps our encounter with the larger-than-life Paulie had quelled my nerves. I grabbed the moment to take in more of the view, glad James didn’t feel the need to fill the silence.

  “It really is beautiful here,” I said after a few moments.

  “The weather helps,” James replied. “Although, it’s just as beautiful on a cold, wet day—only a different kind of beauty. They wind down the awnings, so it’s quite cosy. And, it’s a great place to watch the world go by.”

  Just then, a canal boat drifted past. I smiled to myself. “Literally.” I turned towards James. “You know, I used to live in London. Did I tell you that?”

  “No, I don’t think you did. How long ago?”

  “Quite a while. I was in my twenties. Actually, my sister and I moved here together. I went back to Australia after a couple of years and she stayed.”

  “So, London wasn’t for you?” Was he just making conversation, or did I detect something more in his tone? “Uh, I don’t know if I’d put it that way, exactly. I loved my time here—well, eventually. Cat and I arrived with all these grand ideas of what life would be like, but for the first little while, London nearly chewed us up and spat us out.”