and a keen brain might be enough to turn some girls’ heads but she was made of stronger stuff. No being led astray by blue eyes and snug-fitting jeans for Maddison, no allowing the odd spark of attraction to flare into anything hotter. Think first, feel after, that was her motto.
Speaking of which, she was here to think. Maddison looked around. She was used to city parks—Central Park was her gym, garden, playground and sanctuary—but the sheer number of green spaces on the map Kit held loosely in one hand had taken her aback. London was surprisingly awash in nature reserves, parks, heaths, woods and cemeteries. Yes, cemeteries. Like the one lying before her, for instance. Winding paths, crumbling mausoleums and trees, branches entwining over the paths as they bent to meet each other like lovers refusing to be separated even by death. Maddison put one hand onto the wrought-iron gate and raised a speculative eyebrow. ‘Seriously? You’re sending people to graveyards? For fun?’
‘This is one of London’s most famous spots,’ Kit said as he led the way through the gates and into the ancient resting place. Maddison hesitated for a moment before following him in. It was like entering another world. She had to admit it was surprisingly peaceful in a gloomy, gothic kind of way. Birds sang in the trees overhead and the early-summer sun did its valiant best to peep through the branches and cast some light onto the grey stone fashioned into simple headstones, huge mausoleums and twisted, crumbling statues. ‘There’s a fabulous Victorian cemetery near you in Stoke Newington too but there’s no Tube link so I didn’t include it in the tour.’
‘You can save it for the future, a grave tour of London.’
‘I could.’ She couldn’t tell whether he was ignoring her sarcasm or taking her seriously. ‘There are seven great Victorian cemeteries, all fantastic in different ways. But I love disused ones best, watching nature reclaim them, real dust-to-dust, ashes-to-ashes stuff.’
‘Don’t tell me.’ She stopped still and put her hands on her hips. ‘You wore all black as a teenager and had a picture of Jim Morrison on your wall? Wrote bitter poetry about how nobody understood you and went vegetarian for six months.’
‘Naturally. Doesn’t every wannabe creative? You forgot learning two chords on a guitar and refusing to smile. Does that sum up your teen years too?’
It certainly hadn’t. She hadn’t had the luxury. People didn’t like their waitresses, babysitters, baristas and cleaners to be anything but perky and wholesome. Especially when their hired help had a background like Maddison’s. She’d had to be squeaky clean in every single way. The quintessential all-American girl, happy to help no matter how demanding her customer, demeaning the job and low the pay.
‘Not my bag,’ she said airily. ‘I like colour, light and optimism.’
Kit grinned and began to pick his way along the path. On either side mausoleums, gravestones and crumbling statues, some decorated with fading flowers, formed a curious honour guard. ‘What was your bag? Let me guess: cheerleader?’
Maddison tossed her hair back. ‘Possibly.’
‘Mall rat?’
‘I would say Mall Queen,’ she corrected him.
‘Daddy’s credit card, a cute convertible and Homecoming Queen?’
‘Were you spying on me?’ she countered. Actually it had been a rusty bike she had saved up for herself and then repaired. Not a thing of beauty but she had been grateful at the time.
He fell into step beside her, an easy lope to his stride. Her brightly patterned skirt, her neat little cashmere cardigan and elegant brogues were too bright, too alive for this hushed, grey and green world and yet Kit fitted right in, despite his casual jeans. He belonged. ‘So where did you spend your cheerleading years?’
‘You wouldn’t have heard of it. It’s just a typical New England small town.’ Maddison was always careful not to get too drawn into details; that was how a girl got caught out. She didn’t want anyone to know the sordid truth. She much preferred the fiction. The life she wished she had led. So she kept the generalities the same and the details vague. ‘How about you? Have you always lived in London?’
He looked surprised at her question. ‘No, I’m from Kilcanon. It’s by the sea, on the coast south of Glasgow on a peninsula between the mainland and the islands. Scotland,’ he clarified as she frowned.
‘You’re Scottish?’ How had she not known that?
‘You can’t tell?’
‘You don’t sound Scottish, you sound British!’
He laughed. ‘We don’t all sound like Groundskeeper Willie, well, not all the time.’
‘Do you miss it?’ She only had the haziest idea about Scotland, mostly bare-chested men in kilts and romantic countryside. It sounded pretty good; maybe she should pay it a visit.
‘Every day,’ he said so softly she almost couldn’t hear the words. ‘But this is where I live now.’
‘I love living in New York but I wouldn’t want to raise my children there.’
‘Children?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘How many are you planning?’
‘Four,’ she said promptly. ‘Two girls, two boys.’
His mouth quirked into a half-smile. ‘Naturally. Do they have names?’
‘Anne, Gilbert, Diana and Matthew. This week anyway. It depends on what I’ve been reading.’ Actually it was always those names. They gave her hope. After all, didn’t Anne Shirley start off with nothing and yet end up surrounded by laughter and love?
‘Let’s hope you’re not on a sci-fi kick when you’re actually pregnant then, or your kids could end up with some interesting names. Why so many?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Four children. That’s a lot of kids to transport around. You’ll need a big car, a big house—a huge washing machine.’
‘I’m an only child,’ she said quietly. That, for once, wasn’t a prevarication, not a stretch of the truth. And she had vowed that when she got her family, when she had kids, then everything would be different. They would be wanted, loved, praised, supported—and they would have each other. There would be no lonely nights shivering under a thin comforter and wishing that there were just one person to share it with her. One person who understood. ‘It gets kind of lonely. I want my children to have the most perfect childhood ever.’
The childhood she was meant to have had. The one she had been robbed of when her mother refused to name her father. All she had said was that he was a summer visitor. One of the golden tribe who breezed into town in expensive cars with boats and designer shades and lavish tips. Maddison could have been one of them, but instead she had been the trailer-trash daughter of an alcoholic mother. No gold, just tarnish so thick hardly anyone saw through it to the girl within. Even when she had got out, the tarnish had still clung—until she left the Cape altogether and reinvented herself.
Kit looked directly at her as she spoke, as if he could see through to the heart of her. But he couldn’t; no one could. She had made sure of that. And yet her pulse sped up under his gaze, hammering so loudly she could almost hear the beat reverberate through the cemetery. She cast about for a change of subject.
‘How
