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“Aw …” pout.
“But,” he says quickly, squeezing me tight, “in
Washington they have the Lincoln Memorial, the Pentagon
and the White House!”
“Wow!” grin.
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“And they have the Smithsonian—the largest
museum complex in the world!”
“Much better!” smile up at him. Actually, couldn’t
give
monkey’s where we go as long as we’re together.
Just the two of us, back how we used to be. Better. beam,
thinking about the hotel. Me and Andy against the world,
finally traveling the world—just as we always pla
grin. can’t think of better way to spend my birthday.
Nana couldn’t believe I’d texted her from the top of
the Empire State Building—“You should have gone on
Valentine’s Day!” she chided when
called her this
morning. “You might have met Cary Grant!”
squeeze Andy’s hand. Who needs Cary Grant?
Andy winks. “So long, New York. No more silly
statues and pitiful little buildings …”
“No more tiny breakfasts and early nights …,” join
in, gri
Andy laughs. “No more posters for tacky Broadway
plays, no more smelly cabs—hey!” Andy yelps as Casey
throws him over his shoulder and runs off round the
station, Andy’s legs flailing in the air.
laugh at the two of them goofing around, and my
eyes flick over the poster— Midsummer Night’s Dream—
an awful version, by the looks of it. The guy playing
Oberon looks like drug addict, and the woman—
freeze. It can’t be.
Kitty’s green eyes meet mine as
stare at her,
unable to believe it
It’s her. Here. In New York
My
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heart pounds as scan the poster—the play’s been on all
week and finishes tonight. She’s been here all week …
And now we’re leaving …
‘Starring For Richer, For Poorer’s Kitty Clare,’
Casey reads, shuddering. “Thank God Lola didn’t hear
about this—she’s her favorite!” He grins, grabbing me in
hug. “Good to meet ya, Rosie.”
“Oh—yes—yes, you too.”
We wave goodbye and
follow Andy numbly
toward the ticket barriers.
How is this possible? How could this happen? feel dizzy, sick.
“Andy …”
“Hmm?” he mumbles, checking the screens.
“Platform three.”
“Andy.” stop dead. “I—can’t do this. can’t leave
New York.”
He grins. “It’s been fantastic, hasn’t it?” He kisses
my nose. “But wait till you see everywhere else!”
“No.”
pull on his hand, stopping him. “No, you
don’t understand.…”
He frowns. “What?”
“Andy.” look at him sadly. “I can’t come with you.
Not now.”
“What?” He looks at me, his blue eyes filled with
confusion. “But—why?”
sigh. How can tell him?
“Rosie, what is it?”
“I …” take deep breath, trying to find the words.
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“Is it us?” he asks seriously, looking deep into my
eyes. “It’s last night, isn’t it? We shouldn’t’ve—I
shouldn’t’ve—it was too much, too soon. I’m so sorry, I—”
“No, no—it’s not that at all!”
kiss him quickly.
“You’re amazing—last night was amazing.” squeeze his
hands. “So was this morning.”
“Then what is it?” Andy’s eyes flick to the clock.
“Can’t we talk about this on the train? We haven’t got long,
Rose.”
“I know, but—”
“The seven- oh- five Vermonter to Washington, D.C., isboarding at platform three”
man a
intercom.
look at Andy. “You’d better go.”
sigh, turning
away.
“Rosie!” He grabs my handbag strap and it snaps,
the contents spilling everywhere.
“Oh God, I’m sorry.” He starts gathering up my
things.
“You’d better go,” say again, scooping my bag up
off the floor. “You’ll miss your train.”
“I’m not going without you.”
“I can’t, Andy—”
“Rose, no—you’re not doing this to me again.” He
holds my gaze determinedly. “What is it? What’s wrong?
Tell me.”
“It’s …” My eyes fall on the photo of Kitty, which has
fallen out of my bag. sigh, then hand it to him.
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“I don’t understand,” he says. “Who’s Kitty Clare?
An actress?”
nod, swallowing painfully. “She’s Katharine
Sinclare.”
“Katharine who?” Andy stares at me, then at the
photo. “I don’t under—” His expression changes.
“It’s her, Andy, she’s here—”
“Don’t.” Andy interrupts, shakes his head. He stares
at the photo, his features tense. “This
this is why you
came?” He looks at me hard. “Of course it is!” He turns
away angrily. “God, how stupid am I?!”
grab his hand. “You’re not stupid!”
“Yes
am!” He pulls his hand away roughly. “I
thought you—I thought we …” His jaw tightens. “Never
mind what thought. was wrong. Obviously.” He turns
away.
“Andy, wait!”
“I’ve got train to catch.”
“Andy!”
“Goodbye, Rosie.
hope you find what you’re
looking for.”
“Andy, please—”
He marches through the ticket barrier.
“Andy!”
watch him slowly disappear into the crowd, my
insides ripping in two—desperate to run after him, to be
with him, to explain
but somehow frozen to the spot.
have to do this
tell myself, blinking fiercely as
finally force myself to turn away, my chest tight. It’s what 133
came here for— the reason
came with him in the first
place
So why does it hurt so much?
It takes me ages to find the theater. It’s not on the
main Broadway strip at all, but tucked down little side
street, opposite McDonald’s. cross my fingers and rush
up to the box office, breathing sigh of relief as finally
slide into my seat beside
group of teenagers. They
chatter and giggle, passing around photos of Kitty, while
young couple in front share
program, their heads bent
close together as they whisper and kiss.
My stomach tightens painfully and
look away,
blinking quickly as the lights dim and the curtain begins to
rise.
The first few scenes are
blur.
sit impatiently
through courtly disputes and lovers’ squabbles, waiting
for her to appear. And then, suddenly, there she is—a
whirl of wispy chiffon, surrounded by glittering fairies—
and everything else fades away.
It’s her. It’s really her. There, live onstage in front of
me, just meters away. Kitty Clare—Katharine Sinclare—
my mother—gliding around the stage, her dark hair
gleaming in the spotlight, her melodious voice ringing
round the auditorium. watch, mesmerized, drinking in
every precious moment, hooked on her every move, every
word, every emotion—her tears, smiles, frowns—etching
her into my mind.
Finally, the curtain drops, and still can’t breathe.
push my way out of the theater, down the stairs, through
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the foyer and out into the rain, my rucksack bulky on my
shoulders as
weave clumsily through the dark busy
street, heading for the stage door. There’s
crowd
gathered already, and stand on tiptoe, craning my neck,
trying to get better view.
Suddenly,
thousand flashes go off as the stage
door opens—and there she is!
burly bodyguard holds an umbrella over her sleek
black bob as, beaming, she waves at the crowd.
The girls go crazy, squealing and jumping and
pushing, thrusting photos toward her, begging for