The Girl On The Balcony

Everything was brighter, more colourful. Even the sky seemed blue, rather than the pale grey haze that often denoted summer in London. This is what love did for you, Matt thought. It made you more aware. Did it hell. He had forgotten his camouflage. His glasses were still in his pants’ pocket. He glanced round automatically. There was nobody near them but without his sunglasses he felt as though he were trapped in some arid, featureless landscape and could be spotted from miles away. Love also ensured that his intelligence was taking a back seat whilst his emotions, and other organs, were driving along gleefully and erratically without control, helped by slender fingers which had found their way beneath his shirt and were teasing his skin and his senses. “Laura, are we going anywhere in particular?” Her hand angled along his rib cage. Matt sucked in a breath as she said, “Buckingham Palace probably.” “We can’t. I forgot the invitation. Wouldn’t do to turn up without it. Lapse of protocol. We’ll have to have a rethink.” Matt left the path and led the way under a convenient stand of horse chestnut trees with wide spreading branches. Here it gave the illusion of privacy. He dropped to the ground and lay on his back using Laura’s rucksack as a pillow. He drew her down towards him and lay there looking up into her eyes, the colour of early morning mist, savouring her softness, her scent. Laura gazed at the intense blue eyes above her. Time stilled. Stopped. Their eyes locked. They could see nothing but each other. The only sound was the intake of their breath. The world outside their retreat was silent as though behind a wall of glass cutting off the noisy, sprawling metropolis beyond the gates. Their lips met. Gentle. Welcoming. Warm. Had a kiss ever been this sweet before? So captivating? This is what love meant. He was no longer a separate entity. His life was tied, irrevocably, with another. Laura felt cherished; gently and joyfully her heart was entwined with his. A piercing wolf whistle splintered the glass. Sound and awareness roared back. Two cyclists waved cheekily as they flew past. A plane roared past on its descent. Two joggers slapped past, breathing noisily. Laura broke away, flustered, and sat up. Matt rolled over on to his stomach and buried his face in the rucksack. He needed some time before it was physically practical to meet the world. He heard the sound of footsteps which slowed and hesitated. Stopped. “Hello Miss Marshall, what are you doing here?” Jess had been concentrating on trying to see the face of the figure lying on the ground rather than on what she was saying. Then her brain caught up. Her face went the colour of the highlights in her hair. Laura froze. Jess imitated a statue. Silence hung as sharp as a paper cut until it was broken by a muffled explosion of laughter from the direction of the rucksack. Jess came to life and rushed on before her other foot connected with her mouth, “I’m waiting for my mum. We’re going to Buckingham Palace to see the State apartments. The Queen’s not there though. I wondered whether you were going to the same place.” Her voice petered out. She dared a glance in the direction of the rucksack. All she could see were shoulders shaking accompanied by the sound of muffled laughter. Laura stood up. “Where exactly are you meeting your mother, Jess?” The temperature must have dropped at least ten degrees. Oops. Jess decided this was not the best idea she had ever concocted. “She said St. James’s Park. I hadn’t realised there was quite so much of it. I was just mooching around wondering where to go when I thought I saw you. Perhaps my mother meant the entrance or something. I’d better check. See you, Miss Marshall.” “Goodbye Jess.” Footsteps retreated, slowly at first then gathering speed. Laura exhaled loudly. “Well, that was a bit embarrassing to say the least.” Matt turned over and looked up at her. His hair was shooting out at all angles and his face was creased where he had pressed it into the rucksack. A frisson of memory edged into Laura’s consciousness. She had seen that quizzical expression before somewhere. A faint image of Leicester Square came into her mind but was pushed away. She was too upset to pursue it. Matt suppressed a grin and managed to exert sufficient self – control to ask in a reasonably coherent sentence, “A student of yours?” “Yes.” The reply was clipped. He suppressed another laugh and rising fluidly to his feet, hugged her. “Well that settles it, Miss Marshall.” “What does?” “There’s no way we’re going to Buckingham Palace now.” He smiled wickedly at her and, despite herself, Laura managed a quick laugh when he continued, “It’s bound to be a lot quieter in Bloomsbury.” He let her go while he searched for his glasses. Laura retrieved her rucksack. As they left the shelter of the trees Matt asked casually, “Incidentally, Miss Marshall, you never answered the question. What exactly were you doing there?” The rucksack was dumped on his head.