Bradley’s bathroom down here—go on, hurry up. I’ll start grilling the bacon while you change. My room’s first on the right. Wait for me there.’
Wishing she could avoid getting sweaty and red-faced just once now and again in Sinclair’s company, Rose stripped off her outer clothes in a blessedly warm bathroom, then pulled on dry socks, old, comfortable denims and an outsize baggy white sweater which grew larger every time she washed it. She dismantled her damp plait, rubbed her hair dry with her own towel, rather than mar the immaculate ones on the rail, used a hairbrush vigorously, then added the usual token touch of lipstick to her mouth and packed her wet things in the bag.
Rose felt like a trespasser when she ventured into Sinclair’s room. There were piles of books everywhere. The sizeable table he used as a desk had obviously been cleared of them to make room for a large wooden tray set with tea-things, but books lay in stacks under it, and on shelves and on the floor either side of a big sofa. To her relief there was no bed. He obviously slept somewhere else. Through the rain sluicing down the big window at the back of the room Rose could see a drenched garden backing onto gardens in the street behind. Pleasant on a better day. And she envied him the room, which was three times the size of hers at the flat. She put her bag down and went to look at his books. Her aunt maintained that you could tell a lot about people from their taste in reading. But there was little to be learned from Sinclair’s collection, which was all textbooks, bar a couple of volumes on fly fishing.
Rose turned guiltily as Sinclair came in with a platter of sandwiches. ‘You were quick!’ she exclaimed, hoping he couldn’t tell how shy she felt now they were alone together.
Sinclair switched on a couple of lamps and plugged in a kettle. ‘I put everything ready before I went out. I just had to light the grill and abracadabra, everything was ready in no time.’ He handed her a length of kitchen paper in lieu of a napkin, and gave her a plate with two sandwiches on it, then made a pot of tea and sat down on a straight chair at the table and began to eat. Rose munched in silence for a lengthening interval, wishing she could think of something brilliantly clever to say.
‘What’s the matter, Rose?’ he asked bluntly.
Her eyes met his with candour. ‘I was just thinking that this isn’t what I expected when I started out this morning.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘You’d prefer the transport café?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Then don’t look so scared. I’m perfectly harmless.’
She grinned involuntarily. ‘So I’ve heard.’
He glared, his eyes suddenly wintry. ‘And just what have you heard, little girl?’ he drawled, ice in every word.
Rose blushed to the roots of her hair. ‘Only that you’re more interested in getting a double first than chasing after girls.’
His eyes softened. ‘True enough. My surplus energies expend themselves on the track and the rugby pitch. The rest goes into this lot here.’ He waved a hand at the encroaching books, then gave her the slow smile which made her insides dissolve. ‘The rumours about my sexual preferences are false, by the way, in case you’re wondering, spread in my first year by a female who resented my lack of interest.’
‘I wasn’t wondering,’ she assured him blithely, and began on her second sandwich with more relish.
‘Why not?’
Rose regarded him steadily. ‘Because it’s none of my business.’
Sinclair stared back in surprise. ‘You’re very blunt. Want some tea?’
‘Yes, please.’ He filled a beaker, added a splash of milk and handed it to her, pleasing Rose enormously because he’d remembered how she liked it.
‘So you don’t care whether I’m gay or not?’ he demanded.
‘No.’ She shrugged. ‘I fail to see why race, religion or sexual leanings should matter when it comes to friendship.’
Sinclair leaned forward, his hands clasped between his knees as he peered down into her face. ‘You really mean that, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’ Rose gave him a crooked little smile. ‘Wet behind the ears I may be in your eyes, but I have my beliefs.’
‘Your parents fostered them?’
Her face shadowed. ‘They began the process, but they died when I was fourteen. I live with my aunt. Minerva holds strong views on everything, so I suppose I’ve taken some of them on board myself without even realising it.’
Sinclair got up, seeming taller than usual to Rose from her seat on his sofa. He took her mug and plate from her and put them on the tray, then to her astonishment he sat beside her and took her hand.
‘Would you like to tell me about your parents?’ he said gently.
Rose gave him a startled, sidelong glance, deeply conscious of the hard, warm hand grasping hers. Then after a moment’s hesitation she told him about the joyrider who’d put an end to her parents’ lives one afternoon on a narrow country road in Warwickshire.
‘They were on their way to fetch me from school.’ Rose bit her lip. ‘For a long time I just couldn’t accept that they were gone, even after I went to live with my aunt. Minerva owns a bookshop in a small town in the Cotswolds, and after—after the accident I moved into the flat over the shop with her.’
‘Poor little kid,’ said James quietly. ‘It must have been tough for you.’
‘I won’t pretend it wasn’t. But I’ve been fortunate, too. My father was a lot older than Minerva, so I look on her more as friend than aunt now I’m older. And I still have my memories of a happy childhood, and the holidays I spent with Mother and Dad.’ Feeling horribly guilty, she recalled herself to the matter in hand. ‘We even went to Scotland once, to Skye.’ The last bit, a vital part of Con’s strategy, was her first real lie, and she gulped down some tea to cover the rush of guilty colour to her face.
‘Skye!’ exclaimed Sinclair. ‘When my father was alive we went there once a year. I love it there. How about you?’
‘I don’t remember much about it. I was quite young, and it rained a lot,’ said Rose, deliberately vague. ‘My father went fishing, and Mother and I visited woollen mills.’
‘Did your father do much fishing?’ he asked with interest.
‘Yes. When he could. Trout, like you.’ She went cold for a moment. ‘I saw the books on your shelves,’ she said hurriedly, and went on talking to cover her blunder. ‘Dad made the most beautiful flies. He’d sit with a special little vice at the kitchen table, listening to opera tapes while he created tiny works of art. I still have some of them. The fishing flies, I mean. His rods were sold.’
The grasp tightened. ‘You still miss him.’
‘I miss them both.’ Rose hesitated. ‘But it comforts me to know that they’re together.’
‘You really believe that?’
‘Yes.’ Her chin lifted. ‘Because I need to believe it.’
There was silence
