Perfect Strangers

‘I always wanted to live in a castle. By the water, like the sea or a lake that turns pink in the sunset,’ she said, blushing slightly. ‘Maybe I have a princess syndrome,’ she laughed.

The crowd in the bar had thinned and the waiters had started putting the chairs on the tables.

‘Well, I guess that’s our cue,’ said Sophie, standing up and feeling an ache of sadness that the evening was coming to an end.

‘So where do you live?’

‘Not far. Just off Brompton Road.’

‘Well in that case, how about I walk you home?’

She was about to complain that it was too far to walk, that her shoes were too high, but she didn’t want the night to end. At the back of her mind a little voice told her to beware; that this could be just a quick fling, a holiday romance, a one-night stand with a handsome stranger who would be back in Texas by the end of the week, but she could only throw caution to the soft, balmy evening wind.

They walked up towards Belgrave Square and cut across Sloane Street, Sophie still pointing out landmarks, like the flat John Barry had shared with Michael Caine where he had kept the actor awake composing ‘Goldfinger’. She felt light-headed, and when Nick took her hand in his, it seemed like a perfectly natural thing to happen. She let it stay, enjoying the warm, firm clasp of his fingers. She caught herself and realised she was happy. It wasn’t an emotion she had felt in a long time. Her grief and anxiety about the future had blocked out the light, but tonight she realised that something simple like holding hands with a man you liked was enough to make life feel good again.

‘So what’s a girl like you doing being single?’ he asked her finally.

Sophie paused for a moment.

‘Who said I’m single?’ she chided.

She caught his look of disappointment and continued.

‘Yes – I’m single,’ she grinned. ‘And what about you, oil man? You must be what, thirty-two, thirty-three?’

‘Thirty-two actually. Hard work, it’s taking its toll.’

‘So how come you haven’t settled down with those pigs?’

He stole a sideways glance at her and sighed.

‘I’m not one of those commitment-shy guys you read about in women’s magazines. I guess I’ve just spent the last ten years working my butt off to make something of my life. Besides . . .’

‘What?’

‘Well, I know this sounds conceited, but . . .’

‘But?’

‘But I guess it’s difficult finding someone who likes me for me.’

‘You mean the money?’

‘Exactly. I mean, there’s a lot of gold-diggers out there,’ he said frankly. ‘If I hadn’t met you at a fancy ten-thousand-bucks-a-plate dinner, if we’d bumped into each other ice-skating at Somerset House, I’d have pretended I was a waiter or a struggling poet with not a bean to his name.’

‘Really?’

‘Sure. My dad had four wives, count ’em. Even my own mom, she squandered the family money, parties every weekend, keeping up with the Joneses, all that crap. It’s just nice to meet someone, you know, who’s successful in her own right.’

‘Listen, Nick,’ she began, but stopped herself. She wanted to tell him that her dress was borrowed, that she lived in a tiny flat in Battersea, that she didn’t have a penny. But what good would it do? And anyway, finally there it was, Lana’s huge white house looming up in front of them like a big full stop.

‘Well,’ said Sophie. ‘This is it, then.’

‘This is yours? Hey, not bad.’

Sophie felt a sinking feeling. She wanted to blurt out that she was only house-sitting, that she wasn’t a high-flying businesswoman, but he was so nice, why ruin a perfect evening? And he would probably never call again anyway.

‘It’s been a good night, Nick. Thanks.’