A Sunset in Sydney Read online

  Oh. My. God.

  I was holding my breath, and I realised my mouth was hanging open. I shut it. Looking like a goldfish when a man is pouring his heart out to you is less than optimal.

  “And I know it’s early days for us, and that you go back to Sydney soon—too soon in my mind—but if you have feelings for me, then I want to find a way for us to be together, to see what this can become.”

  So, there it was. Not a proposal, thank goodness. I was surprised at how relieved I felt, but really, it would have been far too soon. And it would have made me question his sanity or his motives—or both.

  But James wanted me. He wanted me.

  As I held his gaze, I wondered if he expected me to say something and I seriously hoped he didn’t.

  Because I didn’t know what to say. I knew I felt something for him, but to label that and say it out loud seemed so formal, almost like a commitment, one I wasn’t ready to make.

  Talk about having a bigger life. It was all incredibly overwhelming.

  “Don’t feel like you have to say anything—or decide anything—right this minute.” Relief flooded through me. Could this man be any more perfect?

  But I had to give him something of myself. He had laid his heart bare.

  So, I did what mine told me to. I leant forward and kissed him, pulling him close with the front of his shirt. I didn’t know if a kiss could convey everything I was feeling, everything I wasn’t quite able to parse or ready to say, but I hoped so.

  When we broke apart, I realised I had a fistful of his shirt and I quickly smoothed out his shirtfront. “Sorry about that,” I said.

  He touched his forehead to mine. “Sarah, don’t ever feel you need to apologise for kissing me like that.”

  I smiled.

  “So,” he said, lightening the mood with a single word, “I hope you’re hungry. We have a delectable assortment of fine foods for our picnic dinner.” He opened the basket and with a flourish worthy of Nigella Lawson, began to decant its contents onto the blanket. I giggled in response and he winked at me.

  He took out an array of cured meats, two cheeses—one soft and oozing and a blue—a bowl of plump, glossy olives stuffed with blanched almonds, crispy flatbread, quince paste, pâté, and a mini baguette. Oh, and a bottle of gamay from Beaujolais.

  “That’s quite the spread,” I said, genuinely impressed. “I’m guessing we have a few countries represented here.”

  “We do.” He pointed to the meat, “Tuscany—wild boar and prosciutto,” then to the cheeses, “France—Meaux and the Pyrenees,” then to the olives, “Spain.” I popped an olive in my mouth. God, I love olives.

  “Good?” I nodded enthusiastically and popped another one in my mouth. James would have to move fast if he was going to get any.

  From the basket, James produced two plates, two napkins, and cutlery, including cheese knives and a pâté knife. And there I was, already helping myself to a slice of prosciutto with my fingers. Oops. You can’t take me anywhere.

  James either ignored them or didn’t care about my bad manners. “Are you happy with the champagne? We could switch to red.”

  I held up my flute. “This is perfect for now, but I’m keen on the red for later. I love a wine from Beaujolais.”

  “Oh, you do?” There was obvious interest in his eyes. You’re not the only one who can be surprising, I thought.

  “I’ve been places and seen things, you know. I’m a proper, experienced world traveller.”

  He laughed, “I have no doubt. So, tell me, how did you come to love a wine from Beaujolais?”

  “Well, I told you how I used to run tours in Europe.” He nodded. “One of our overnight stays was at a château right in the heart of the Beaujolais region. It even had its own vines and there was this ancient vintner who lived in a cottage on the property. For anyone interested, he’d conduct these little tours of the winery. He had very limited English, but he could get his meaning across with a few words and gestures, that sort of thing.

  “And, he especially loved the ladies. I’m pretty sure it was his intention to keep us tipsy the whole time we were there. He’d greet the coaches with carafes of his latest vintage, straight from the barrel and, before my feet hit the ground, he’d hand me a globe-shaped wine glass filled to the brim.”

  James grinned at me while he cut off a generous piece of the gooey cheese and slathered it onto a hunk of bread. “And did he?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Keep you tipsy?” He took a bite and groaned a little.

  “Is it as amazing as it looks?”

  “It is. Here, you try it.” He handed me the rest of the bite he’d prepared. “It’s one of my favourite things in the world to eat.”

  I popped the bite into my mouth and savoured the combination of crusty bread and creamy cheese. He was right. It was delicious. If I did end up spending the rest of my life with James, I’d probably gain about fifty kilos.

  “Anyway, sorry, I interrupted—the old vintner, keeping you tipsy.”

  “Oh, right. And, yes, he did. His wine was just so drinkable.” I took another sip of my bubbles, also dangerously drinkable.

  “We’d arrive at the château mid-afternoon from Paris, and by the time I went to bed that night, I’d have drunk seven or eight glasses.” His eyes widened. “And we didn’t leave until after lunch the next day, so I’d have a sneaky glass or two with lunch. I swear I’d be half-cut by the time we left for Antibes. This was just the tour managers, though. The drivers couldn’t drink before a travel day, so they never got to have any wine. I’m sure it drove them batty.”

  “Pun intended,” he joked.

  “Oh, pun definitely intended.” It wasn’t.

  “So, how many people at the château? How many tours at once?”

  “Only ever two tours with around fifty people on each.” He shook his head as though in disbelief. “It was a big place, but even so, we all shared rooms. It was crowded, but fun—well, mostly. I’m guessing you’ve never really travelled like that.”

  “Oh, I think you’d be surprised.” I grinned. “I’ve not gone on a bus tour, but I certainly had some escapades backpacking around Europe—in my youth, that is.” His eyes twinkled with amusement.

  Just then, my mind alighted on a memory from Greece, when James had introduced me to his friend, Armando. “Wait, were you called ‘Jimmy’ then, in your youth?” I asked, loading up the word like he had. His head cocked to the side. “It’s just that Armando called you that, and you’re old friends, right?” I took a sip of my bubbles.

  “Depends what you mean by old.”

  The bubbles went down the wrong way, leaving me spluttering and coughing, and James reached across to pat me on the back. How had I wandered so blindly into “age difference” territory? Yes, James was in his fifties, but I certainly didn’t consider him old.

  “Are you all right?” Concern etched his face.

  I cleared my throat, then nodded. “All good, thank you.” I took a deep breath and saw his concern ease. “You know, I don’t … it’s not … I don’t really care …” Good grief, Sarah. You’d never know I was an English teacher.

  “Are you talking about our age difference?” he asked, saving me from another bout of verbal diarrhoea.

  “Poorly, but yes. It doesn’t matter to me.”

  “Nor me.”

  Our eyes were locked onto each other’s and I wondered if he was thinking what I was. It doesn’t matter, but just out of curiosity …

  “I’m thirty-six, nearly thirty-seven,” I blurted.

  “Fifty-two,” he said and I decided, right then, that fifty-two was the sexiest age ever. I saw the smile twitching the corner of his mouth and moments later, we were grinning at each other.

  “And yes,” he said, as he topped up my bubbles.

  “Yes?” I’d completely lost track of what question he was answering.

  “Jimmy. Armando and I met when I was twentyish.”

  I searched James’
s face for a glimpse of twenty-year-old Jimmy, but James was such a man, it was futile.

  “He’s the only person who calls me that, however.”

  “Is that so, Mr Cartwright?” I lifted my chin, challenging him, even though I would never call him “Jimmy”.

  “It is, Ms Parsons.” He tipped his head and finished his glass of bubbles. “Now, back to you. Did you enjoy touring? You didn’t say when we were at lunch last week. And I’ll be honest, it sounds like a difficult job.” He made himself another bite of bread and cheese and I took the moment to consider my response.

  “It was a difficult job. I know a lot of people think it’s very exciting and glamorous to get paid to travel around Europe. And, of course, there were days when I had to pinch myself. We went to some incredible locations, did these amazing things, like paragliding in Greece, and all those tours of ancient sites and historical buildings. I loved that part. I could go to Rome a thousand times and never get sick of it. And I met people who’ve become treasured friends, like I said.

  “But there were other facets, the stuff no one talked about, the difficult stuff. Twenty-hour days, hardly any sleep, borders and visas and lost passports and stolen credit cards, clients with hangovers, me with hangovers—just lots of hangovers. Anyway, with the long drives, subsisting on fast food, and never exercising, I often felt like rubbish.”

  “So, not an ordinary job, then.”

  “No, never ordinary. Probably the best and worst time of my life,” I said, then added, “So far, anyway.” I loved how attentive he was being, but it also made me a little self-conscious. “Sorry, I’m talking incessantly about myself.”

  “No, not at all. I like hearing about you, about your life.”

  “In any case, that was the long way around to answer your question, but I love Beaujolais, probably as much for the memories as for the wine.”

  “Let’s switch, then,” he said, sitting upright and feeling around in the picnic basket. After a moment, he pulled out a wine opener and I clapped my hands together softly in anticipation.

  I didn’t think there could possibly be anything left in the basket, but then he took out two red wine glasses—globe-shaped glasses, like I’d drunk from in France—and I squealed with unconcealed delight. “That picnic basket is like the Tardis. Anything else tucked away in there?”

  He squinted into the basket, as if trying to see to its depths. He looked up. “No. This is all.” He indicated the impressive spread between us with a nod of his head.

  “So,” I said as he opened and poured the wine, “You did all this yourself?”

  “I had a little help—with the candles—Janice lit them just before we arrived.” He handed me my glass and clinked the edge of his against mine. “But, everything else, yes, that was me.”

  So, the millionaire, who could have paid someone to shop and to set up our terrace picnic, had gone to a lot of trouble to tell me he thought he was falling in love with me. Double swoon.

  “Well, it’s divine.” I took a sip of wine and I could taste the sunshine of central France. The wine was both familiar and something entirely new, far more elevated than any wine from Beaujolais I’d had before.

  “Do you like it?”

  “I’m out of superlatives,” I replied.

  He laughed lightly. “I find that very difficult to believe.” I didn’t mind the gentle teasing. It made me feel like he appreciated me—all of me, even the things I agonised over, like being too effusive, or worried I was constantly making a fool of myself.

  What a wonderful feeling to be appreciated like that, to be loved. Loved.

  James had said he was falling in love with me. And I’d said nothing. How could I leave him wondering like that? I had to tell him something. “James, thank you—for the dinner and this week and for, well …”

  And in the absolute worst timing, a lack of superlatives was the least of my worries. I had lost the ability to say how I felt. I looked at my wine for inspiration, feeling the crease form between my brows. Why couldn’t I tell James how I felt? What was wrong with me?

  He was watching me intently, letting me have the moment I needed to collect my thoughts, to find my words. And after what felt like aeons, I was finally able to say, “I do have feelings for you.” It was just above a whisper, and my voice caught in my throat as the emotion threatened to overwhelm me, but I said it.

  He stood, then, and reached out for my hand. “Come here,” he said.

  I placed my glass on the blanket, then reached for his hand and let him help me stand. I was careful not to tread on our picnic, which would have been the perfect way to obliterate the moment. He didn’t say anything more, just wrapped his arms around me and pulled me into a hug. I held onto him tightly as he rested his chin on the top of my head. We stood like that for a long time.

  And then very quietly, he said, “Oh, Sarah.”

  *

  I woke on my second-to-last day in London well before the sun came up, lying on my back with my stomach in knots. The goodbyes were coming thick and fast. First it would be James and then it would be Cat. I didn’t know which one I was dreading the most.

  And that morning, the glow of the night before—the things we’d said, the incredible meal on the rooftop, our lovemaking, the possibility of a future together—receded, and in its place was dread, thick syrupy dread.

  “I can practically hear you thinking,” said the gravelly voice next to me. He rolled over onto his side to face me. I smiled weakly.

  “I hate saying goodbye,” I said, forgoing any pretence that our situation was tolerable. He snuggled closer and nuzzled my neck with his mouth, peppering me with tiny kisses. It annoyed me. I was not in the mood for nuzzling.

  “Goodbyes are awful, but it won’t be for good.”

  I hoped not.

  “I hope not.”

  He lifted his head, suddenly serious. “It will be all right, Sarah. I’ll visit, or you’ll come here. Actually, we’ll do both until we know for sure, and then we’ll sort it out. All right? We don’t need to decide anything right this minute.”

  Maybe I was being over-sensitive, but I thought he was being condescending. I didn’t mention it, though. “Okay,” I said, even though it wasn’t.

  “Can I make you breakfast before I take you home?”

  Take me home.

  Only, it wasn’t my home. It was Cat’s home, and soon I would have to leave there too. And the only thing worse than a goodbye, is a long, drawn-out goodbye.

  “Actually, I think I’ll just have a shower and then we can head out.”

  “Oh. It’s very early. It’s not even seven yet.”

  “I know.” Tell him. Tell him it’s the situation and not him. You’re not mad at him.

  But I couldn’t. I was behaving like a child, and I knew it. And I was pretty sure he knew I knew it. I just couldn’t help it. Maybe I thought it would be easier to part if we were annoyed at each other. Maybe I had lost my damned mind.

  “Okay, then. You take a shower, and I’ll get dressed. We can leave as soon as you’re ready.”

  I am really screwing this up.

  He flung back the doona and reached for the jeans I’d pulled off him the night before, which were on the floor next to his side of the bed. He didn’t bother with underwear and with his back to me, he pulled them up. I heard the zip.

  Yep, I’m totally and completely screwing this up in the worst way. Fix it, Sarah, for fuck’s sake.

  “James.” He stopped, his shirt on but not yet buttoned. I climbed over to his side of the bed and knelt behind him. I slid the shirt off his shoulders and let it drop to the floor, then wrapped my arms around him and ran them up his torso, resting them on his chest. Pulling him towards me, I leant my forehead against his bare back.

  He turned suddenly and grasped my face roughly between his hands, kissing me with an intensity that held everything we were both feeling. I fell backwards onto the bed, pulling the weight of him onto me. We both fumbled at the waistband
of his jeans, until his impatience won out and he practically tore them off and pushed them onto the floor. He made short work of the condom he retrieved from his bedside table, then he was inside me.

  We clung to each other and moved with a ferocity we’d never had before, until he collapsed, spent and breathing hard, his face in the groove between my neck and my shoulder. I held him close to me and stroked his hair.

  Whatever this was, this feeling, I wasn’t sure I was ready for it.

  *

  I was fidgeting. I fidget when I’m anxious, mostly with my hands, and at that moment I was interlocking and unlocking my fingers in quick succession. I glanced across at James, who was driving with the same ease and confidence I’d seen before. In the midst of everything I felt, I lusted after the confident, sexy man who made driving in London traffic—there is always traffic in London, even on a Saturday morning—look easy.

  My phone bleeped from my lap. Cat. I had just texted her to let her know we were on our way.

  I want to meet him.

  What? No! No way! James meeting Cat was not part of the plan. I was barely able to admit I had feelings for him. I was not ready for him to meet the family.

  No.

  Her reply was so quick I was surprised she could type that fast.

  I know you know your no is bollocks. I’m meeting him.

  I’m going to kill my sister.

  NO! I’m not ready.

  I lifted my thumb to my mouth and nibbled on the nail.

  When am I going to meet him then? At the wedding???!!!

  Grrr! I was not in the mood for Cat to prolong her proposal joke by playing the “future brother-in-law” card.

  No wedding. UR not meeting him. That’s final.

  I don’t usually go for abbreviations in texts, but I had to type fast to get Cat to back down. Not only was I not ready for James to meet Cat, but I wanted to say goodbye in private, not with my little sister ogling us. Surely, she could figure that out! My phone bleeped again.

  See you out front!

  Yep. I was definitely going to kill my little sister. Maybe I could convince James to run her over with his fancy car. “Everything okay?” James asked, glancing over at me. I hid the screen of my phone with my hand, just in case reading tiny type with a mere sideways glance was amongst his hidden talents.