by Sandy Barker
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, that that Sarah is not me.” She shook her head at me. I was obviously not explaining myself very well. I put my wine glass down on the coffee table and sat up straight, gathering my thoughts. “Okay, look. Sometimes when I’m with James, I feel like a young girl who’s pretending to be a grown-up, like I don’t belong in that world, or with him. Like once he figures out that I’m just me, he’s not going to want me anymore.”
“Sez?” I detected the hint of pity in her voice, but I didn’t mind, because at least it meant she understood—or she was starting to.
“Yes?” I replied.
“Have you talked to him about this?”
“What? No!” I couldn’t think of anything more horrifying.
“So, I just want to make sure I’ve got this straight. James is falling in love with you, but you’re not sure it’s you he loves. Like, you you.”
“Well, he does say I’m not like the other women he’s been with.”
“Well, that sounds good. What’s bad about that?”
“Nothing. I just—” I let out a heavy sigh. “I’m not completely myself when I’m with him. Not yet, anyway. And what happens if I do show him who I really am, and he doesn’t love that Sarah?”
“But maybe all these Sarahs are you.”
“Maybe.” I wasn’t convinced.
“Okay, but what about Josh?”
“Huh?” She’d caught me off guard.
“Which Sarah does he know?”
I froze under Lindsey’s loving, but potent scrutiny, because what she was asking, was something she already knew—something I already knew. Josh knows you, Sarah.
“He knows me.” It was almost a whisper, but that one word, “me”, was loaded with all that embodied my relationship—my friendship—with Josh.
“Well, there you go, then. Maybe that’s your answer,” she said sensibly. Even so, that hard knot in the pit of my stomach was now trying to gnaw its way out.
“Yeah, but Josh doesn’t know if he loves me. Maybe the real Sarah isn’t actually lovable.” Tears stung my eyes. I brushed them away, annoyed with myself. Poor me. Two men to choose from and poor, poor me. I dreaded the dose of tough love I expected to cop from the other end of the couch. Instead, a hand reached out and took mine.
“Oh Sarah,” she said, her voice thick with empathy, “That is complete bullshit and you know it.” We exchanged a look, then a smile, and then we both laughed long and hard and completely at my expense.
“I’m opening the pinot now. Drink up,” she said, as she climbed off the couch. My laughter trailed off and I downed the rest of my wine, not even registering how it tasted. Lins was right to call me out on the self-pity, but I was still stuck in my dilemma.
If I was my true self with Josh, but he wasn’t sure how he felt, or if he wanted a relationship with me—and if James was falling in love with me, but there were times with him that I didn’t feel like me—didn’t that mean something?
Maybe it meant that I wouldn’t end up with either of them.
Was I okay with that?
I probed the thought, and it hurt. I really did want to be in love, in a relationship, but as much as I felt for both men, I couldn’t force Josh to love me, and I couldn’t pretend that I was my truest self when I was with James—not yet, anyway. Hopefully, I would know more after the trip to New Zealand.
Hopefully.
Chapter 20
“Here you are, sir,” said the bellboy as he opened the door to our suite. My eyes flew straight out of the floor-to-ceiling windows to the spectacular view of Lake Wakatipu, which unfurled long and narrow to the south and at a right angle to the west.
The mountains, which in some parts seemed to emerge directly from the shoreline, were reflected in perfect symmetry on the water’s surface, and two promontories of low-lying land were covered in dusty dark-green fir trees and chartreuse-coloured grass. Even though it was summer, there was a dusting of white on the highest peaks, and in a feat of magnificence, nature had chosen the same brilliant blue for the sky and the water.
Queenstown was showing off. I hadn’t seen this kind of natural beauty since I’d been in Switzerland, and I’m from Australia.
The room itself was bigger than my entire apartment in Sydney. Since Christmas, I had been utterly spoiled with lavish accommodations, but realising that made me think of Josh.
James. James. James.
He tipped the bellboy as I admired the view. The trip was his gift to me, I knew that, but I wasn’t going to let him pay for everything. I’d be buying us dinner and drinks and whatever else he would let me pay for.
Maybe he’d let me take him to play mini-golf—if we had time and if he didn’t think it was a completely idiotic idea. I like mini-golf and Queenstown apparently has an incredible indoor course. But I wasn’t sure if James was a mini-golf kind of guy. I’d have to play it by ear, so to speak.
I sensed him behind me, then his arms wrapped around my waist as he nuzzled my neck. “What do you think of the view?” he asked needlessly.
“It’s hideous.” He chuckled. “No, really. I thought you said it was nice here.”
“You are very naughty sometimes, aren’t you?”
Why yes, I was, but usually when I was accused of being naughty it didn’t turn me on and send shivers down my spine. I bit my bottom lip, not trusting myself to reply. I didn’t have a clever retort to hold up my end of the repartee and, besides, it would be bad manners to rip his clothes off less than five minutes after arriving.
“So, do you want to go for a walk and see the town, or would you like to stay in for a bit?” he asked. Was that a come on? His hands started to caress me, and the neck nuzzling turned to neck kissing. Yes, that was a come on. Maybe it wasn’t bad manners to want a shag five minutes after checking in.
*
We did eventually go on a walk to see the town. I’d seen it from the air—incredible, by the way—and some of it on the drive to the hotel, but the walk along the waterfront and through the small, neat streets revealed far more about Queenstown’s personality.
It was very pretty for one thing. Low buildings hugged the shoreline, the backdrop of pine-covered mountains dwarfing them. It reminded me a little of alpine towns in Austria or northern Italy, but there was a more relaxed architectural thread in Queenstown, more variety.
I could see the influences of English colonialism in the austere white government buildings, and modernists had stamped their aesthetic onto the skyline with glass and timber meeting at odd angles. Then there were the homages to other styles—a giant hotel that looked like a French château, smaller buildings with gabled, shingled roofs, as though they’d been lifted from Cape Cod, and of course, Alpine-cottage-inspired restaurants and shop fronts. There were also some ghastly concrete blocks that had obviously been built in the 70s. And peppered amongst the streets and buildings were trees—conifers, oaks, and willows—and carefully manicured, brilliantly-green lawns.
It all came together in a hodgepodge of styles that somehow worked—Queenstown chic. It was charming.
The cadence of the town, however, was a little odd. The footpaths were busy and there were many times when James and I had to stop holding hands as we walked. It seemed that most people were either gawping or rushing, and it was obvious who was visiting and who lived there. I wondered if the locals wished everyone would bugger off and leave them to their mountainous-lakeside paradise.
James must have been thinking along the same lines. “This is not exactly the relaxing walk I was thinking of,” he said, after we dropped hands for the umpteenth time to get around a family of tourists who’d stopped in the middle of the footpath. While we didn’t have a destination in mind, just content to see where we ended up, it was becoming clear that we needed a game plan.
“What about over there?” I asked. We were on the waterfront and I could see across a small bay to what looked like a giant park of forested land. “That might have a nicer
pace, somewhere for us to soak it all in.”
“That’s the Queenstown Gardens,” he said, adding, “and a brilliant idea.” He grabbed my hand again and as we walked briskly around the waterfront, our destination in sight, dodging tourists became a game.
“Seventeen,” I said as we entered the gardens.
“What’s seventeen?”
“The number of tourist dodges on the way here.” I grinned at him and he smiled back, seeming a little less enthused with my game than I was. I suddenly felt foolish.
“There’s a track bordering the whole garden,” said James, saving me from a bout of self-flagellation. “Let’s head this way.” We made our way to the track that traced the shoreline of the promontory, and the view back across the water reinforced my impression of the town—it was stunning.
“I never asked you how long it’s been since you were here,” I said after a few minutes of silence that felt like many more.
“It’s been a few years.”
“But you’ve come here a lot?”
“Well, not as much as I would have liked. It’s a fair way from London, of course, so I’ve only really added it as a side jaunt when I’ve been in Australia, and once when I was in Chile, which I realise isn’t that close by, but it’s in the same hemisphere at least, and I suppose it’s all relative.”
I wondered if the last bit was about geography, time, or the cost of flying to New Zealand from South America. It’s all relative when you have a bunch of money and get to fly business class. At least, I was guessing he flew business class. Maybe for long-haul flights he was right in the nose cone.
Even though it had only been a three-hour flight from Sydney, I’d certainly appreciated the wider seats and extra legroom of business class—and the endless glasses of bubbles. If you’re with James, you’ll always fly like that. It was a fun thought, but not remotely helpful. I needed to decide how I felt about James, not his money.
“You really do travel a lot,” I said, purposefully steering clear of my thoughts.
“Yes, but you do too, don’t you?” I turned to see a gentle smile.
“I guess. I mean, not as much as you do—and not for work or anything. And, of course, I can only travel in the school holidays, and that’s when they hike the prices, so as a teacher I always get stung with the more expensive flights, the pricier accommodation.”
I was rambling again, but for some reason I couldn’t stop complaining about the cost of travel—to the wealthy man. Shut up, Sarah.
But I didn’t shut up.
“And, for most of last year I didn’t travel at all—not until the trip to Greece.”
“Why’s that?”
Without realising, I had painted myself into a Neil-sized corner. Please, Sarah, do shut up.
“Because of my ex.” Nooo! He didn’t say anything, so I ignored my very loud inner voice and went on to explain how Neil didn’t like to travel and how I’d changed who I was to be with him, and how that meant I’d stayed put when all I’d wanted to do was go somewhere. Finally, I wrapped it up with, “So, yeah …” It was definitely one of my less eloquent moments.
He was quiet for a moment and, predictably, I spent the entire time beating myself up for sounding like I was auditioning for a Gilmore Girls reboot.
“Well, I’m certainly glad I had the good fortune of being there when you ventured back out into the world.” He lifted the hand he was holding to his lips and kissed it.
So, maybe he didn’t think I was a complete idiot with verbal diarrhoea.
*
“So, where are we going for dinner again? I know you told me the name, but is it fancy or caz’?” I was rifling through my luggage and considering what might be appropriate for dining out in a ski town in summertime.
I’d packed carefully and had a range of options, but I wanted to be sure we looked like we were going to the same place. It irks me when I see couples out and it seems like one of them thought they were dining at a nice restaurant and the other thought they were volunteering at a community garden.
James looked up from his own suitcase. “I was just going to wear jeans and a dress shirt.”
“Okay, cool.” Cool? What am I, twelve? I took out a pair of skinny jeans, a pair of ballet flats and a flouncy, floral long-sleeved top. Okay, it was a blouse, but I hate that word. It conjures images of pirates or (worse) 80s New Romantic pop groups.
And even though James had seen me naked numerous times, I went into the bathroom to change. Sure, I needed to freshen up, but—truth be told—I was still self-conscious about changing in front of him. It was such a couple-y thing to do and I didn’t think we were quite there yet.
I emerged, feeling fresh and pretty, to find him dressed in a dark blue pair of dress jeans and a grey, finely checked button-down shirt, with brown lace-up shoes and a brown belt. He looked ridiculously handsome, but far less caz’ than I did. I looked down at my outfit. Flats. I was wearing flats. I needed to change into boots.
I stepped out of my shoes and rummaged in my suitcase for my black boots. James came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist. “You look beautiful.” I appreciated the compliment, but I was also a teensy bit annoyed that he’d interrupted me getting ready. Yes, really—I am particularly skilled at self-sabotage, you know.
He turned me around to face him and out of my shoes, he seemed so much taller than me. I felt my annoyance fall away as he leant down and placed a soft kiss on my lips, seeming to take care not to smudge my lipstick.
I smiled. When a man looks at you the way he was looking at me, you smile, believe me. “Almost ready?” he asked, still holding onto my waist.
“Yes. Just need to put my boots on and grab my handbag.”
He kept smiling down at me, not letting go. “You’re tiny out of your shoes, aren’t you?”
“Tiny” was not something anyone had ever called me. I’m five-foot-six. But standing there with James, who was well over six feet tall, and wrapped up in his arms, I did feel tiny. When he popped a kiss on the end of my nose, I also felt cherished. I wanted to forget about dinner and let him cherish me all night long.
He let me go and I felt the sting of disappointment—what a rollercoaster of emotions in just a matter of minutes. I pulled on some socks, then my boots, and checked my handbag for my wallet, tissues, lip balm, phone—the usual. I draped the strap over my shoulder and declared myself, “Ready.” James held the door open, his eyes locked to mine and a sexy smile on his lips as I walked past him.
That smile was going to be my undoing, I just knew it.
We were having dinner at Attiqa, which had a rooftop bar and restaurant where we could watch the sunset while we ate. We wouldn’t have a direct line of sight to the sun setting, of course—Queenstown is firmly landlocked—but we’d be able to see it disappear behind the mountain range, and I just knew it would be spectacular.
When we arrived, a buzz of energy emanated from the warmly lit restaurant downstairs, with people talking and laughing in groups, and tables filled with platters of tapas. Following the host, we made our way upstairs and stepped out onto the sundeck.
Wow. Just, wow.
With Attiqa positioned at the north-east corner of the waterfront, it had a spectacular view of the Queenstown Gardens and of Lake Wakatipu and its surrounding mountains. I paused for a second to take it all in, catching up to James as the host removed a ‘reserved’ sign from a table in front of a low couch.
“Your waiter will be right with you,” she said with a polite smile. I sat down and craned my neck to look around at the other people on the deck. It didn’t seem like the kind of place where you could reserve the best seat for sunset viewing, but James had obviously wangled it somehow.
A waiter appeared with menus and he rattled off a list of specials so fast I didn’t hear any of them, then disappeared. “I haven’t actually been here before, but it was recommended to me,” said James. He didn’t say who had done the recommending. “Apparently, they specialise in c
ocktails.” He flipped through the menu until he found the right page, and I did the same with my own. They had an interesting selection—one was even made with jam—but I’m more of a traditionalist when it comes to cocktails.
“Find something you’d like?” James asked, looking up from his menu. I nodded and as if by magic, our waiter appeared. I ordered the Negroni and James a vodka martini. The waiter disappeared.
“You know, that’s cheating,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“They have this elaborate cocktail menu and you go for something that’s not even on it. A martini.”
He laughed. “Is it too boring for you?”
“No. I mean, I ordered a Negroni. I prefer something simple to a drink that arrives with an entourage.” He cocked his head at me, his expression telling me to elaborate. “You know, those cocktails that show up and you have to hack your way through an orchard just to get to the drink. They should come with a machete.” Wow, I can be quite hilarious sometimes. I can also bullshit with the best of them—I had loved those cocktails in Hawaii. I wasn’t sure why I’d said that other than to be funny. Still, it worked.
“You’re quite amusing, you know,” he said, chuckling. I decided to go with it.
“I think the word you’re looking for is hil-ar-i-ous.” I said, drawing out each syllable for dramatic effect.
He nodded solemnly, “Right, I stand corrected. You are hil-ar-i-ous.” I nestled back against the couch and he put an arm around my shoulders. Here I am, sitting with my handsome boyfriend in an incredible place, and he thinks I am beautiful and hilarious. Smugness is not really an attractive trait, but wasn’t I entitled to a little?
When our drinks arrived, I realised that we’d sat quietly for several minutes enjoying the view and I hadn’t felt the need to fill the silence with frivolous chitchat—maybe it was more of that “growing as a person” stuff.
“To a beautiful sunset,” he said. I clinked my glass against his and took a sip. Oh, my god, that’s strong. Somehow, I’d forgotten that a Negroni is essentially half a glass of full-strength liquor. I’d have to pace myself.