Miranda Dickinson 2 Book Bundle. Miranda Dickinson

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       Chapter Nine

      I remember watching the six o’clock news one time with Mum when I was about eight. When I was growing up there were several things we always did together: watching the news was one of them. Mum disliked the ‘game-show host’ journalists on ITV, preferring instead the serious-faced, crisply spoken newsreaders of ‘the good old BBC.’

      But one occasion sticks in my memory because a very out-of-the-ordinary news event was headlining. Some British hostages were finally released from Beirut. I remember Mum telling me that the three bearded, excruciatingly thin and tiredlooking men had been missing for five years. We saw one of them speaking at a press conference. He was smiling—telling the world how he and his fellow hostages had thought this day would never arrive. I remember commenting on how happy he looked to be free.

      ‘His face may be happy, but his eyes aren’t,’ Mum had replied. ‘Always look at the eyes, Rosie. They’ll tell you the real story.’ Her own eyes were filled with tears—and I remember her going up to the screen and covering the bottom half of the ex-hostage’s face. Sure enough, his eyes showed pain, anguish and fear. When Mum removed her hands, the smile returned but the eyes remained dead.

      I learned to look for those signs in people’s eyes and consequently witnessed awful truths in others as I grew up. I saw it in Mum’s eyes when she heard about Dad. I saw it in Ben’s eyes just before I left Boston. Worst of all, I saw it in my own eyes almost every day since New York adopted me. Sometimes I wish Mum hadn’t told me about the eyes thing. Sometimes the truth is better hidden away inside.

      Ed’s eyes had scared me that day. There was a whole other story going on in those eyes. And I couldn’t read it completely. Their piercing blue was usually warm and mischievous, impatiently awaiting any chance to sparkle. But that afternoon his eyes had been cool, questioning—guarded, even. I hadn’t seen that before and it unnerved me. He had said things were OK. His smile and friendly kiss said things were OK. So I should have believed him—I did believe him—yet that stubborn question mark remained. He had said he was OK, but his eyes maintained their silence.

      On the walk home, I noticed something odd in my brother’s eyes too. Though James chatted happily about his day and joked about the people he’d met, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something he wasn’t telling me. It had been steadily building since he’d arrived and he had done nothing to dispel my suspicions.

      It was still on my mind two hours later, when James and I ventured out again to Blue: One, the current restaurant of choice in New York. I was stunned that James could even get a drink in this place, let alone reserve a table. Celia could normally get a reservation anywhere, but even she had to wait a month for one here. The restaurant sat beneath one of the top hotels just off Broadway and its clientele included theatre stars, television celebrities, directors and lawyers. It was said that Blue: One had a waiting list four pages long for bar and waiting staff, due mainly to the fact that jobbing actors regarded it as the place to be noticed by the People Who Mattered.

      James and I were shown to a table towards the back of the restaurant. Blue was undisputedly the theme here. The walls were painted dark navy and illuminated by aquamarine uplights, whilst tiny blue lights dotted like cobalt stars around the main halogen spots in the turquoise ceiling, adding to the intimate ambience of the venue. Efficient waiters scurried about in white shirts and navy-blue trousers, carrying blue linen cloths over one arm. A large aquarium was set into two of its walls, filled with a plethora of tiny, multihued fish, which appeared to be moving with the same momentum as the staff.

      The waiter brought us each a mojito and we ordered our meals. James took a sip of his drink and looked at me. ‘Right, Rosie, what’s up?’

      ‘Sorry?’

      ‘Don’t give me that. You’ve been quiet all evening.’