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“I am not,” I said firmly, “running away to God knows where with a man I met less than a week ago. I have a life, you know.” A life of sleeping on friends’ sofas and in strangers’ beds. Of feeling too cold, always. And the wind howling through the wilderness of my heart. “And I don’t need saving,” I added, for good measure. “You arrogant prick.”
Leo held my gaze for a long moment, the seconds landing in icy droplets upon the back of my neck. I was afraid my eyes were flashing emotional semaphore at him:don’t believe me, ask again, ignore my bullshit.But in the end he only smiled, a little wryly, a little sadly, as if he knew it had been a long shot all along. “We’d better get dressed, then. It’ll take me a little while to get Demoiselle ready to cruise.”48
My stomach lurched, like I’d stepped forward and missed a stair. Suddenly everything felt too much. And too soon. Far, far too soon.
12
I had to borrow—or take, I supposed, given I wasn’t coming back—a pair of Leo’s trousers because none of the jeans Mum had packed were suitable. Even with my ankle better than it was, I wouldn’t be able to shimmy into any of them without help, and being helped into impractical clothing by the man I’d just rejected—rejected and called a prick, in fact—was a hard no from me. Especially given I’d also had to text my ex to come and pick me up.
Under any other set of circumstances, I’d have baulked at asking Edwin for help but, with my phone at the bottom of the river and my contacts in the cloud, I didn’t have much choice. Even if I’d been able to pluck a number from the dregs of memory, it was hard to imagine that any of our Oxford friends would welcome a favour-seeking call from me after several years of silence and at least one ill-advised threesome. There was always my parents, of course. Except Mum would ask too many questions. About me and what was I doing, or not doing, or what had changed or not changed, and was I okay, and what did I need, and how could they help. And, worst of all, what about that nice boy I’d left on a boat.
Leo, meanwhile, in his outside hoodie and unflattering beanie—I had to remember the unflattering beanie—had the engine hatch in the stern open and was… Actually I had no idea what he was doing with it. And I was restless with the need to be away. Or rather, my need to be away was infinitely less pronounced than I thought it should be—than I had claimed it was—and that made it vital for me to go as soon as possible. So the choice was made. And I couldn’t make a fool of myself.
“It’s a good job,” I said, “this isn’t our getaway vehicle.”
He glanced up from his tinkering. “Are boats often used as getaway vehicles?”
“I bet they are for crimes in Venice.”
“Okay, but we’re not in Venice.”
I’d told him I didn’t need saving. But I did. I needed saving from my mouth. “I’m sure James Bond sometimes jumps onto speedboats while being pursued by bad guys.”
Leo’s expression was getting increasingly bewildered. And increasingly amused. “The keyword in that sentence isspeed. I don’t think anyone’s ever attempted to flee anywhere on a narrowboat. For starters, you’re not supposed to go over four miles per hour on the canal, and mostly I cruise at two to three.”
“Isn’t that walking pace?”
“Yep.” Leo extricated himself from the engine and went to fit a key in what I assumed was the control panel. He turned it, and the engine putt-putt-puttered into life, loud against the quiet I’d somehow grown accustomed to, yet not as loud as I expected. With the engine running, Leo peered back into the hatch. “But you don’ttravel by narrowboat because you’re in a hurry. You travel by narrowboat because youaren’t.”
“You know,” I remarked, not done failing to needle him, “I’m also moderately certain they send people into space with less fuss than this.”
“You could help,” he suggested.
“Still trying to introduce me to the wonders of life afloat?”Say yes.
“No. You just seem to be in a rush.”
“Well”—I flicked away the sharp, silly pain of that no—“I do love getting my hands dirty. But I’m not sure my foot is up to it.”
“You can take the tiller.”
“I cannot take the tiller.”
There was a clonk as Leo finally closed the engine cover. “Just come over here. And try not to fall in this time.”
If there had been even the slightest trace of malice in his voice, I would have known how to respond. But there was just thisteasing, as soft and insubstantial as spring’s marshmallow clouds. And so, irritated—flustered—I hobbled out to join Leo on the back deck. It was unexpectedly spacious, the tiller arching gracefully over the guardrail like the neck of a swan.
“Throttle.” Leo pointed at a nearby lever. “It’s in neutral at the moment. Push in and pull back to reverse. Forward for forward.”
It sounded pathetically simple. And yet I was pathetically intimidated. Perhaps because standing at the back of the boat made it seem a lot bigger than it felt when you were inside it. In a moment of determined bravado, I made a grab for the tiller.
And Leo smiled like he saw right through me. “Turn it left to go right, and right to go left.”
I tore my hand away from the tiller. “Wait. What?”
“You’ll get used to it. I’m just going to push us off.”
“Wait,” I said again. “Don’t—” Thankfully I managed to cut myself off before the rest of that sentence escaped. It would have been too easy for it to turn intodon’t leave me.
