Free Walk a Narrow Mile by Faith Martin

the lie had become a reality, and Steven, after some initial misgivings, was glad that it had.
    And was becoming even more glad the longer it went on. The fact that she was older than he worried him not at all. And he found her no-nonsense independence reassuring, rather than emasculating. But the fact that he sometimes found himself envious of her success and reputation, however, did cause him a few sleepless nights.
    He left HQ and drove the short, barely five-minute commute to the neighbouring village of Thrupp, situated on the Oxford canal. He parked next to Hillary’s old Golf, as usual, impressed by the beauty of the scenery. Kidlington and work was only a stone’s throw away, yet here along the tow path, where yellow iris were beginning to bloom, and ducks were proudly showing off the first of the season’s ducklings, it was a different world. The evening sun made even the khaki coloured water of the canal glitter like silver gilt and the gentle chug-chug of a passing narrowboat added to the sense of calm.
    The more he visited Hillary on her narrowboat, the
Mollern
, the more he could appreciate why she chose to live in such a cramped, narrow environment. There was also something nest-like and comforting about living in such a cocooning space. And knowing that you could just cast off a rope and take yourself and your home miles away whenever you felt like it, was so liberating that it was unbelievable. Since they’d been together, they’d spent most weekends chugging up north to Banbury, or going south to Oxford and beyond.
    Now he walked to the grey-painted boat, with its black roof and white and gold trim. Hillary had already explained to him that
Mollern
was the old country word for heron, and that her boat was painted to reflect that water bird’s colouring. In contrast to the cheerful boats that favoured the more traditional green, yellow, blue and red, it was an elegant-looking boat and, as he approached it, he saw the back metal doors open and Hillary’s head with its distinctive chestnut hair, appeared.
    ‘I thought I heard footsteps. It’s herb omelette, salad and warm fresh baked bread. With some peach ice cream for dessert.’
    ‘Sounds ideal,’ Steven said. ‘We got any of that white wine left?’
    ‘Still in the fridge,’ Hillary assured him. She watched him come aboard, amazed, as she so often was, that someone so talland elegant seemed not to mind the fact that his head was always barely a scant inch away from the ceiling.
    She watched him take off his jacket, slip off his tie and shoes, and make himself comfortable in her favourite chair. The sight of him brought a lump to her throat. He was both sexy and gorgeous, and fast becoming an ever-growing presence in her life.
    And she still didn’t know what she really felt about it.
    She broke the bread apart and put butter on the table, then mixed the eggs. Steven poured the wine.
    They ate easily and comfortably, with trays on their laps in the intimate sitting area, then, after washing up, watched the sunset go down from the roof of the boat, where they lay flat on their backs, watching the swallows swoop and dart.
    Hillary was listening to a blackbird serenading in the nearby willows when she felt Steven stiffen beside her. She too sat up quickly, and saw what had attracted his attention.
    A young man was strolling down the towpath, holding a padded envelope and clearly checking the names of boats. He wore black motor-cycle leathers and stopped when he reached the
Mollern
. He smiled up at them.
    ‘Hillary Greene?’ he asked. He was about twenty, around five feet five, and had impressive acne on his chin.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Package for you.’
    Hillary reached down and took the envelope. ‘Can you sign just there and there please?’ he asked, handing over one of those machines that had a mostly blank grey screen but with a black-outlined box and affixed stylus. ‘Where the Xs are,’ he added helpfully.
    Hillary signed and half-listened