Playing for Keeps: A fun, flirty romantic comedy perfect for summer reading

Playing for Keeps: A fun, flirty romantic comedy perfect for summer reading Rosa Temple Love, Life, and a Whole Lotta HandbagsHaving papered over the cracks in her relationship with artist boyfriend Anthony, Magenta Bright is fully focused on opening her first shop on the King’s Road – and on coaching her best friend – vodka-swilling, catty supermodel Anya – through her unexpected pregnancy.But with Anthony away in Italy on a lucrative commission, the distance between them is more than metaphoric. And then Magenta’s ex, Hugo, shows up, the man she once lost her heart to. At one time there was nothing more important to Magenta than fashion and fun, and throwing herself into every drama that passes her way. But now Magenta’s world is rocked by questions of life and death, and how she would cope if the people closest to her were gone for good.At work, she can’t seem to put a foot wrong, but in her personal life she’s her own worst enemy. And the stakes have never been higher…Readers love Temple:“A great little series…most enjoyable”“I loved these characters”“an enjoyable read”“A light hearted read” Love, Life, and a Whole Lotta Handbags Having papered over the cracks in her relationship with artist boyfriend, Anthony, Magenta Bright is fully focused on opening her first shop on the King’s Road – and on coaching her best friend – vodka-swilling, catty supermodel, Anya – through her unexpected pregnancy. But with Anthony away in Italy on a lucrative commission, the distance between them is more than metaphoric. And then Magenta’s ex, Hugo, shows up, the man she once lost her heart to. At one time there was nothing more important to Magenta than fashion and fun, throwing herself into every drama that passed her way. But now Magenta’s world is rocked by questions of life and death, and how she would cope if the people closest to her were gone for good. At work, she can’t seem to put a foot wrong, but in her personal life she’s her own worst enemy. And the stakes have never been higher… Also by Rosa Temple (#ue5692c53-3eed-573d-a51c-c41edbc36d59) Playing by the Rules Playing Her Cards Right Playing for Keeps Rosa Temple ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES Copyright (#ulink_07bc1f01-6280-5222-a859-a68db5a8a1ce) An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018 Copyright © Rosa Temple 2018 Rosa Temple asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. E-book Edition © February 2018 ISBN: 9780008260583 ROSA TEMPLE is the pseudonym of writer Fran Clark. A ghostwriter of romance novels, Fran was awarded a Distinction in her Creative Writing MA from Brunel University in 2014. To date, Fran has penned five publications as Rosa Temple: Sleeping With Your Best Friend, Natalie’s Getting Married, Single by Christmas, Playing by the Rules, and Playing Her Cards Right. A mother of two, Fran is married to a musician and lives in London. She spends her days creating characters and storylines while drinking herbal tea and eating chocolate biscuits. Dedication (#ue5692c53-3eed-573d-a51c-c41edbc36d59) For Mum. I miss your stories. No one can ever tell them the way you did. Contents Cover (#ueafc0284-7cea-5536-9107-93bf0e712bae) Blurb (#uc6c2723d-6a81-5df1-895e-be904f315c39) Booklist (#u8a7dba94-c217-5b3d-bce7-83468fd50ec2) Title Page (#u0bb4b1a9-e8e7-5a72-bf84-e530d58ce384) Copyright (#ulink_d1abc529-8186-58d5-bcce-6fc409063851) Author Bio (#u52c506f2-6d6b-56ea-a328-37f4fdeaeeed) Dedication (#udbb2677a-f85c-5dca-a3b0-9203ac3098e5) Prologue: Then (#ulink_9bc9dffe-b580-552f-acb1-205f36de129e) Chapter One (#ulink_80e8f92c-edc4-55db-8fbe-7b115ebd4c00) Chapter Two (#ulink_abe37d83-61d8-5e9b-99c7-3f58d5095711) Chapter Three (#ulink_335e5993-0f3b-5c50-8287-06b4a8d01867) Chapter Four (#ulink_ed39d414-52b7-5573-b03f-e78b01b246e0) Chapter Five (#ulink_efdc58b9-a5f4-5280-b0b4-194ddfde467c) Chapter Six (#ulink_7d1248a8-faae-5512-971b-e131f47d6371) Chapter Seven (#ulink_3e35a00f-637c-50e0-b5a3-b5af1b0f85a7) Chapter Eight (#ulink_2b04888e-82d3-5602-905e-c04c5e55a9d1) Chapter Nine (#ulink_6ac16b6e-98f9-585b-9965-cf936fe18594) Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo) Epilogue: After (#litres_trial_promo) Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo) Endpages (#litres_trial_promo) THEN (#ulink_5fe431a1-6809-5e6a-b076-a529bab69fbe) It was the hottest day of the year. He stood on the top step at the front of my house. I didn’t dare cross the threshold, put my arms around him, apologise one last time. He had desperation in his eyes. He really loved me, I knew that, but the way he stood there, not moving an inch, I became scared he might pick me up, carry me away and I’d never see my friends and family again. I was wearing a top from Primark (don’t ask), and I didn’t want to spend years as an abduction victim in a ?1.99 T-shirt for goodness’ sake. If the police ever found me the press would be there to take pictures of me in that T-shirt. Anya would be mortified and I’d never live it down. I looked down at the mat, breaking his intense gaze by tracing the well-worn pattern with the toe of my Converse trainer. I wondered if a plan for my abduction had entered his mind and would he have thought to buy face cream, shampoo or conditioner for my life in captivity. ‘Magenta! Say something. You can’t just glaze over. This is important.’ He raised his voice and I snapped back to reality with a jolt. ‘This is our life we’re talking about.’ Making decisions. Something I thought I’d become a bit of an expert at. Any woman having a choice between two fantastic men would be happy, and I had been more than happy with the choice I’d made. But there, on the doorstep of the house, on a leafy, sweltering street in Holland Park, was the man I’d let go. And he wasn’t taking it well. ‘What if you regret this… this decision of yours? How can you tell me one thing one day and suddenly, out of the blue, you just change your mind? I went back, sold up practically everything to be with you, Magenta. You expect me to just go home? We were supposed to be starting something… together. This is just unbelievable.’ He didn’t drop his gaze, not once. Piercing blue eyes boring into mine. Of course, he deserved an explanation. ‘I’ll always hate myself for this,’ I said. ‘It wasn’t fair on you but I can’t keep apologising. I made my decision and it was a life-changing one, you know that, and it wasn’t easy. I promise you. I’m still reeling.’ ‘Exactly. That’s why I want you to think about it. Think about what you’re throwing away. I told you before I went away – I need you, Magenta. You’re my life. I don’t know what happened in the few weeks I was gone for you to stop loving me. I never stopped loving you from the day I met you, you have to believe me.’ ‘But you still left me. Ten years you were out of my life.’ I took a breath, stopped myself getting worked up again. This was no time to apportion blame. ‘Look, I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end… how it feels not to be the one.’ I was just about keeping it together. I didn’t want to cry. Not again. ‘So is this your revenge? You’re leaving me because I was the one who walked away the first time? Magenta, that was ten years ago and I was an idiot back then. Since we got together again, you can see, I’m a different person.’ I shook my head and folded my arms around my body. ‘I don’t know what to say any more. It’s over. You have to believe me. I can’t go on doing this with you, having the same conversation over and over again. Anthony has no idea you’re even in London.’ I had chosen Anthony over him. This was supposed to be the exciting start to a new life with him. It was fortunate that Anthony had had to fly out to Italy for work, which meant I only saw him on occasional weekends, so the fact I was being pursued by my ex could be hidden from him. I was a wreck. Here was I, trying to find a new flat in London for Anthony and me to move into when he returned from Italy, and here was Hugo, my ex, not taking no for an answer. I couldn’t count how many sleepless nights I’d had, how hard it had been to tell him I’d chosen Anthony and was leaving him, after promising him so much. I’d promised him me, my heart, my love, but one kiss from Anthony after Hugo left temporarily for Brazil to sell up his business and I knew I’d made a mistake. Anthony was the one for me. Hugo being back in London all the time Anthony wasn’t – it was flattering, it was heartbreaking, annoying and so totally, totally wrong. As my best friend, Anya, would say, ‘This is messed up, Madge.’ And she’d be right. Needless to say, the messed up-ness of it all went on for the whole time Anthony was out of the country – three months to be exact. I never came clean to Anthony about the phone calls, letters, texts and virtual stalking during those three months. And just when Anya had convinced me to take out a restraining order, Hugo disappeared. Gone. Poof. I could finally exhale. I assumed he’d gone back to his life in Brazil and I hoped that, after having sold his business to be with me, he could somehow put his life back together, forget me, forget the plans we’d made. I assumed that’s what must have happened, that he was in Brazil, that he’d stay there. And so a week went by and there was no Hugo, and then a whole month. Nothing. I’d not heard a word from Hugo and I thought I never would again. That was over three years ago and I remember thinking to myself at the time, now my life with Anthony can finally begin. It was such a relief not to have to look over my shoulder any more. NOW Chapter 1 (#ulink_21c3e0d4-80ce-5d9e-a1a4-090098db2d43) It was crazy really, or simply hard to imagine: my best friend was having a baby and I was opening a shop on London’s King’s Road. If you’d asked me three years ago if I’d thought such a thing was possible I would have laughed in your face. In fact, I would have been holding a Margarita and laughing in your face because I would have been swinging off a stool in a cocktail bar, half cut, sipping an endless stream of cocktails with my best friend, the now very pregnant supermodel, Anya Stankovic. I turned the corner into Anya’s street, driving the flashy red Ferrari she’d brought back as a souvenir for me after one of her many trips abroad. Only weeks ago, or so it seemed, pink and lilac blossoms had filled every branch of every tree along the long, quiet road. And then, in the blink of an eye, the blossoms were scattered along the entirety of the pavement and road like a carpet of confetti. Now they’d been swept away by the breeze, disappearing as if they’d never taken pride of place on the overhanging trees. In no time we’d been catapulted from spring to mid-summer. It was hot, and I had the roof down in the car. The road gleamed with the heat. Each time I’d visited Anya at her four-bedroom, two-and-a-half-bathroom house I’d found her flicking through old copies of Vogue, luxuriating on the sumptuous sofa in the lounge, her dazzling green eyes made larger behind pale skin and chiselled features, her pencil thin body (bar the five-month baby bulge), unwilling to leave the house. She was mourning her life as an international model and spent the days ignoring calls from her agent and personal manager. Anya was convinced her life was over now she was starting to show. ‘You’ve had offers to pose with your baby bump in several magazines, Anya,’ I’d said to her last time I visited. ‘But I’m the size of an elephant,’ she’d replied. ‘Vye vould I do it to my public?’ I’d had to bite my tongue. I desperately wanted to shake her and tell her to stop being so vain. I called her often, becoming more and more worried she might do something silly. I’d often follow up the call with a visit, no matter how brief, just to make sure she was all right. The truth was Anya was becoming increasingly miserable; she was missing Henry, I could tell, although she’d never let on. She and her ex-partner, the baby’s father, had parted ways since she became pregnant. A complicated story, really, but her middle-aged ex had four daughters, all just a few years younger than Anya, and he couldn’t face nappies and teething again. But instead of giving up the baby, Anya decided to get rid of Henry. She hadn’t heard from him in months and, maybe because of vanity, she needed to hear from him even if it was just so she could tell him to drop dead. Anya thought Henry had moved back to his Chiswick apartment and she was rattling around in their big house. She’d contemplated giving up the house in Richmond upon Thames and moving back to her empty one in Hampstead. I’d convinced her that this place, with its manageable garden and airy rooms, would be fabulous for raising a child. But then what did I know? The closest I’d come to being a mother was having a miscarriage at six weeks. A fact that nearly broke me and Anthony up for good. But Anthony and I were hanging in there. Just. I wouldn’t say things were wonderful between us. Months ago we’d flown back from my parents’ second wedding in the Caribbean. It had been wonderfully romantic but just before the wedding took place Anthony and I had broken up. Our getting back together was as dramatic as the breakup and we’d returned to London vowing we’d be open and talk about our feelings all the time. Good – I know communication is vital in a relationship, but the moment we landed in London our feet never quite touched the ground and all of our good intentions (well, most of them) fell by the wayside. Anthony was taking great strides towards building on his budding career as an artist and I was capitalising on my success as a business owner by opening a flagship shop for my leather bags for men and women. So you see, we still had a few creases to iron out, made harder by the fact we were so busy we were leading separate lives. Sounds bad, I know. We hadn’t talked about trying for another baby; it just hadn’t come up since we’d flown back from the Caribbean. So, instead of discussing having another baby with Anthony, I had thrown all my mothering instincts into helping Anya get through a very challenging time in her life. And I don’t mean giving birth and raising a baby with an absent father. Pregnancy problems for Anya meant having to wear clothes that were larger than a size ten. That in itself was a lot for her to deal with. ‘Hello, bitch,’ Anya said as she opened the door to me. I’d left the Ferrari on the front drive in the space Henry used to park his Jaguar and stepped up to the shiny red front door. There were two large pillars either side of the porch of the double-fronted house. The tall Georgian windows were now being dressed with silk moire nets – yet another precaution Anya had probably taken to block out the world. She was becoming more reclusive with every passing month. ‘Hello, bitch?’ I replied as I went in and shut the heavy door behind me. ‘Is that our thing now? Is that what we’re calling each other?’ I followed her into the lounge. The sofa in the middle of the room was Anya-shaped. She’d probably sat there all morning. The Vogue magazines in a pile on the floor beside the sofa were dog-eared. ‘It is now,’ said Anya, signalling to a chair for me to sit. ‘Since you can still carry off Gucci in a size twelve.’ ‘We don’t do jealousy, Anya. We never have,’ I said, flopping into a leather armchair. ‘Besides, I’ve been so busy trying to open a shop for the first time in my life I’ve had to comfort eat. The stress of running Shearman Bright and getting a flagship shop off the ground means extra pounds – all on my tummy.’ ‘And your hips by the looks of things,’ Anya said. She raised the June issue of Vogue to her face as she slid back into her Anya groove on the sofa. ‘Thanks a lot.’ I tried to suck my stomach in. We couldn’t all have thigh gaps. Anya knew only too well I’d been feeling the pressure of maintaining the buzz my new range of handbags had caused in the fashion-buying world. Add to that launching a flagship shop, having a refurb of said shop and wondering how to staff it, and everything was proving to be a nightmare. I tried never to complain to her, though, just fill her in on the ups and downs. Otherwise I was totally devoted to Anya and trying to keep her finger off the self-destruct button. ‘Wait, Anya,’ I said just as I’d settled into my chair. ‘What is that sound?’ She took the magazine away from her face. ‘Vot sound?’ ‘That sound. That growling noise. Can’t you hear it?’ My eyes darted around every corner of the room. ‘And come to think of it, I think I hear scratching. Do you have rats?’ ‘Don’t be silly. That’s just Storm.’ ‘Who the hell is Storm?’ I lifted my feet off the floor, tucking my legs underneath me, expecting to see a tiger leap out from behind the curtains. ‘I bought a cat,’ she said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. For most people, perhaps, but not Anya. ‘I realised I’ve never looked after anything in my life before. I buy plants, they die – even that cactus. I vonce had a fish as a child but ven I came home from school I found it floating on its side in the bowl. My baby could end up the same if I’m not careful, Madge.’ ‘Er… I’m just guessing here but I think if you don’t leave your baby in a bowl of water all day you shouldn’t have to worry.’ ‘Don’t patronise me. I’m not sure I’m the mothering type, Madge.’ She sat up properly. ‘I mean it. I’m beginning to think that maybe I shouldn’t have kept the baby after all.’ She got up and started looking under the chair I was sitting on. I hooked my arms around my knees. ‘I thought I could practise on the cat.’ She looked under the other sofa. ‘But the cat hates me. Look.’ She raised the bottoms of her wide-legged sweat pants. There were long, pink scratches on her lily-white legs. I shuffled as far back into the chair as I could. ‘Not one to put a negative spin on things, Anya, but I don’t think a wild pussy is going to help you become a good mother.’ ‘That cat only turned crazy since I brought it home. It was cute as anything at the shop. You see, the cat hates me. It threw up the Purina I bought and runs to the other end of the house if it sees me.’ ‘Oh, Anya.’ I got up and walked her out of the lounge, closing the door firmly behind us. We went into the dining room and sat on the chaise longue by the French windows. The gardener was out pruning roses at the far end of the garden. Anya slumped forward, her hair falling over her face. I pulled the long, dark strands away and leaned towards her. ‘I think it’s great you left the house to buy a cat, Anya. That’s progress. I was beginning to think you were becoming a recluse.’ ‘Actually,’ she sighed, turning just her big eyes to me. ‘I didn’t go out to buy the cat. That vos Heather, my manager. She turned up at the front door vith it, holding it in her arms. The cat took von look at me, screeched and legged it into the boot room. I’m a horrible person. All the things people say about me: cold, icy, aloof. It’s all true. The cat sees it and the baby… I can’t do it, Madge. I’m going to call an adoption agency.’ ‘No, you’re not.’ I sprang to my feet and pulled Anya to standing. ‘Don’t flake out on me. I need you, Anya. I’ve got so much I need to organise to get this new shop up and running and you’re a vital part of all of it.’ She looked down at her feet, pouting like a hormonal teen. ‘You’re just saying that to make me feel better.’ ‘Don’t flatter yourself. I need someone to help me interview staff for the shop and… and I’m starting a new range of really trendy mum bags for carrying baby things around and you’re going to model them.’ ‘Really? You’d be happy for me to model your new bags?’ I shook Anya. ‘Darling. You’re a top international model, have been for over a decade. You think there is one person left in this world who hasn’t heard of you? Now stop it. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. So you’re pregnant. Big deal. You look slimmer than me! You’re five months gone and your tummy is flatter than mine. You, my dear, are glowing. That’s what you are. You’re glowing and you’ve never looked more beautiful. Now get on the phone to your agent and tell them you’ll take all the baby-bump shoots they can throw at you. Then I want you to call the hospital and tell them you’re ready to arrange the eighteen-week scan you missed. Let’s find out if we’re painting this nursery pink or blue.’ I let go of Anya’s hands with gusto, making her hop back and almost fall into the chaise longue. ‘You really think I can do this, Madge? Be a proper mother?’ ‘You already are a proper mother. For one thing you actually eat food these days, every day; no more starving yourself for photo shoots. You see? That’s how it starts. It’s called motherhood and you’re nailing it already. You and I are going to see this thing through together and in four months’ time you’ll have mother of the year awards coming out of your ears.’ She pinched her lips in, nodded sternly and crossed her arms. ‘I can do this,’ she said and marched out of the dining room and into the kitchen where she picked up her mobile from the breakfast bar and started tapping the keys. ‘Who are you calling?’ I asked. ‘My manager. First I’m going to tell her to get that mad cat out of my house and then I’ll let her know about your new mum bags. I can see myself as the face, and bump, for them. Thank you, Madge. I love you. You know that, don’t you?’ She put her finger up before I could answer and began busily chatting away to her manager, making plans for a comeback. I gestured that I’d see myself out. I moved stealthily out into the hallway and darted for the front door before the cat, who was either throwing himself at the closed living-room door or hurling ornaments at it, could get out. Outside in the sweltering late morning I got back into the car and turned on the engine. As I pulled out of the drive I made a mental note to myself. Well, two actually. First: arrange some advertising for shop staff so there would be actual candidates available for me and Anya to interview. Second: rush back to the office and start designing these so-called ‘mum’ bags I’ve asked Anya to model. They didn’t exist ten minutes ago and now I’d have to make them happen. Damn. Chapter 2 (#ulink_3725264f-3490-591e-83a4-84726d27c07b) Shearman Bright is hiring! Do you have what it takes to manage and run London’s next fashion extravaganza? Are you a sales assistant with an eye for detail and a lover of accessories? If so, we need you. Applications are open for a manager to deal with the day-to-day running of the Shearman Bright flagship shop. We are also looking for a talented sales assistant. Experience is essential. Call and ask for an application form and job description today. ‘That sounds great, Riley. Just add the bits about salary, hours and start date and get this advert out as quickly as you can.’ ‘Will do, boss.’ I went to leave the reception but my assistant, Riley, called me back. Riley had bunched her auburn hair into a top knot and wore clip-on studs that matched her overly large blue eyes. Her vintage, sleeveless blouse was tied above her navel, the outfit completed by fifties pedal pushers and kitten-heel mules. ‘Have you been doing some shopping for Anya?’ she asked, looking down at the Mothercare carrier bag I was holding. ‘Oh that.’ I held up the bulky plastic bag. ‘Research. I was thinking about designing baby-changing bags for trendy mums.’ ‘That’s a bit of a departure from the current lines but it sounds like a great idea. I suppose it’ll be a while before they go into production though. You’ve got so much on at the moment.’ ‘Actually, they were a bit of a brainwave. Thought I could knock something out in a week or two.’ ‘You what?’ Riley’s eyes widened more. ‘Magenta, are you sure? You’re meeting the architect at the shop in an hour and then there’s—’ ‘I know, I know,’ I said, backing out into the hallway. ‘But it’s ideal.’ I was at the foot of the stairs, about to dash up to my office. ‘We’ll have Anya Stankovic modelling the range. It’ll be great. Trust me,’ I called as I ran up the stairs. I hurtled into my office before Riley could remind me of my ever-growing to-do list, and that I had to launch a new shop in three months, and that I had yet to find the right builder to start work on the major refurbishment at the shop once I’d approved the architect’s drawings. I sighed and kicked the door shut with the heel of my Alexander McQueen sculpted wedge sandal, leaned back against it and exhaled. I should have started wearing trainers to work really, considering all the running from pillar to post I’d been doing. I spent the next half an hour staring at the Mothercare baby-changing bag. If Burberry and Moschino could sell designer mummy bags at over ?300 a throw, so could I. Another five minutes of hair-tearing moments with my sketch pad and pencil and Riley buzzed me to say the taxi was waiting to take me to my meeting with the architect. Jack Sun Carter, the architect, was standing outside the shop on a corner of King’s Road, all six-feet-six of him. He was an imposing figure with broad shoulders, casually dressed and carrying a large portfolio under one arm, mobile in the opposite hand. He was staring into the empty shop as I rushed up to him. Only five minutes late. Not bad. I’d taken an instant liking to Jack, who was recommended to me by Indigo, one of my three sisters. We had gelled immediately, sharing stories about our mixed parentage and comparing notes. His father, like mine, was Jamaican, but whereas my mother was a lily-white Englishwoman, originating from Ireland, his was a Chinese American who’d met Jack’s father at a New Year’s Eve bash just off Times Square in New York. Jack, part raised in the States, East London and Jamaica, had an engaging accent. And did I mention his magnificent skin colour? Jack had cheekbones to die for and don’t get me started on those eyes. While we exchanged banter on our origins it was clear that Jack’s mixed parentage was a continued source of intrigue to the women who were queuing for miles, not only to experience the culinary skills he’d acquired as part of a bohemian existence, but to wrap their legs around his athletic frame. I was genuinely fanning myself from the rush up to the shop and because it was a humid afternoon and not because Jack was a vision of gorgeousness. He kissed my cheek. We were old friends by now. ‘I’ve reworked the drawings as per your specifications, Magenta. I hope you’ll like them… and not change your mind again.’ ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that, Jack.’ I was rattling the large bunch of keys I’d accumulated since I bought the leasehold on the shop. I’d fantasised about owning this shop for ages. It was formerly owned by a classy woman who sold classic handbags and accessories but whose styles didn’t bring in enough business and she’d had to sell up. I was now able to realise my dream of bringing handbags as well as my signature man bags to the King’s Road. ‘I just wasn’t sure about the first idea. Hopefully it won’t delay things too much and we can still be on schedule for an autumn opening.’ ‘I’ve got that list of builders I said I’d recommend. As long as at least one of them is free, you should be open in October, as planned.’ ‘That’s great.’ We went to the back office where there was an old, but large, wooden table Jack could open the drawings out onto. I needed Jack to walk me through the concepts in situ this time. Last time I’d looked at the drawings at his office and hadn’t got a clear visualisation of where I needed shelves and racks to be or the best place to set up the cash desk. I wanted tweaks made to the depth of the window spaces so that my display shelves would stand out from the street but still give a clear view of the inside of the shop. I wanted a wall moved to create more space than previously and to give the small shop the impression of grandeur. ‘Here we are.’ Jack had several blueprints in his portfolio which he took me through methodically, speaking to me as if I were a complete moron (at my insistence because I didn’t want to mess up). If this shop looked bad, I had to live with it, so I needed all the guidance I could get. Back out on the shop floor we walked around, Jack holding up the drawings and giving me a rundown of what the finished shop would look like after pulling up virtual sketches on his MacBook Air. I was impressed. I looked around the dusty shop. More and more motes had settled on the old dust. The musty atmosphere had a stale odour about it. I’d left the door open for that reason. Any passers-by who couldn’t get a good view inside the empty premises via the dirty window could now see the neglected wooden floorboards and empty shelves. As Jack and I talked and as I became convinced that these latest drawings were spot on, I couldn’t help but notice a woman with very tanned skin walk by outside. Her dirty blonde hair was so long she could probably have sat on it. She moved slowly, staring into the shop so intently she seemed to want to stop and come in. I wondered if she was a fan of our bags. They were only on sale in select outlets around the UK and parts of Europe now; otherwise worldwide sales were all online. Maybe she had seen the numerous Tweets and posts about the upcoming opening and was curious. I returned my attention to Jack who was now telling me about his plans for a late summer holiday. ‘I’ve just been working nonstop,’ he was saying. ‘Originally I thought I’d chill out on a beach somewhere but then it occurred to me there’s family in China I’ve never even met.’ Just then the curious woman with very tanned skin walked by again. She was probably in her late twenties, early thirties, wearing an off-the-shoulder white cotton top and tight, white jeans. Her sandals were high and she had a flashy straw bag, the shoulder strap across her body. She stared at me but just as I was about to smile she was out of view. ‘China, huh?’ I said to Jack. ‘I’ve never been.’ ‘Me either, like I say. I expect I’ll be quite a novelty to my relatives out there. Mind you, half my mum’s family have disowned her since she married Dad so… I’m not boring you, am I?’ I shook my head. ‘Sorry, Jack. I am listening. It’s just that there’s this woman who’s walked by a few times. Keeps looking in or looking for someone. It’s not one of the girls from your harem, is it?’ Jack turned to the window. ‘Where?’ ‘Wait, let’s see if she does it again.’ In less than a minute, there she was. When she noticed that both Jack and I were deliberately waiting to see her this time she put her head down and hurried off. Jack and I went to the open door and looked out. She seemed to have vanished completely from the King’s Road. Maybe she’d dodged into a shop and might return. ‘Did you see her?’ I asked Jack. ‘Yes, I did. Good-looking girl. Lovely hair.’ ‘Not one of your admirers then?’ ‘No. Shame. If anything, I thought she was more interested in you. Sure you don’t know her?’ Jack went to switch off his MacBook. ‘Never seen her before,’ I said. ‘She looks like she’s been travelling though. I haven’t a clue who she could be. Maybe she was one of the people I had to outbid to get this place. Maybe she’s come to put a curse on me.’ I followed Jack back to the office where he proceeded to gather his drawings. ‘You don’t believe in all that rubbish, do you? Curses and things?’ he said with a laugh in his voice. ‘I know they love a good spell or two in Jamaica. China, too, I believe. I think if you don’t believe in all that, nothing can touch you.’ Jack was all packed up now, ready to go. He pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his back pocket. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Builders. Call as quickly as you can for a quote. This is a busy time of year for these guys and if none of them is any good you’ll have to do a search. If you do, get recommendations. Safer that way.’ We walked back to the open door. I was rubbing my arms, feeling a shiver as if someone had walked over my grave. ‘You’re not worried about being cursed by the woman in white, are you?’ Jack was grinning at me. ‘She didn’t look much like a witch. Not unless you get some smoking-hot witches these days.’ ‘We didn’t see her close up. She might have had a wart.’ Jack kissed my cheek again. ‘I’ve got another meeting lined up, Magenta, I should go. Let me know who I need to get the drawings to when you sort out a builder.’ ‘Will do.’ ‘And don’t worry. No one can touch you. Your place will be sound and you’ll do great.’ ‘I… I hope so.’ I waved Jack off, looking out along both ends of the road before closing the door and going out back to retrieve my bag. I called Riley. ‘In case you need me, I’m going straight home. I’ll work on these baby-changing bag ideas from the kitchen.’ ‘No worries,’ Riley said in her usual bubbly way. I wasn’t feeling bubbly as I locked the shop up, double-checking it was secure and peering through the glass to make sure I hadn’t left a light on. I took another look up and down the road before heading to my mews house just two blocks away, glancing over my shoulder and trying to shake off the feeling that I was being followed. Chapter 3 (#ulink_eac8f581-c326-5d72-8545-475de4394188) ‘I’ll have the Fats Waffle with maple syrup.’ ‘And I’ll have the Nat King Corn Bread and Scrambled Eggs.’ The brunch menu at Rhythm ‘N’ Brews was new and so was the waiter who took our order – without writing it down. Anthony and I sat at our usual table by the window that overlooked what had once been Veronique’s but was soon to become my flagship shop. We had been playing footsie under the table as we ran hungry eyes over the menu. The new waiter, with several piercings in his lip and ears, stood at our table looking bored as a Herbie Hancock album soothed overhead. Playing footsie was the closest Anthony and I had come to actual sex lately. As I said, we’d been like ships passing in the night for weeks on end because of the various projects we both had on the go. We were too exhausted to have sex at night time, too fast asleep to have sex in the mornings, and too washed-out to be the one who made the first move. Along with not having meaningful conversations, no sex either became the story of our lives. ‘Do you want to have sex?’ ‘You feeling horny?’ ‘Kinda.’ ‘Do you want to go upstairs or just do it here?’ ‘I don’t know, what do you think?’ ‘Let’s wait until Law & Order finishes and we’ll see how we feel.’ ‘Sounds like a plan.’ We’d both fallen asleep on the sofa before Law & Order finished and I believe that highly seductive conversation happened over a month ago. I had watched Anthony looking over the menu, smiling at the way his lips were moving as he read. His dark hair was cut short now; he’d become annoyed by the cloying heat that came with the unusually long summer us Brits were having. Never being able to find one of my scrunchies to put his hair up when he was working on a painting, he took himself off to a local barber and got them to do the deed. His chocolate-brown eyes looked tired behind his glasses and his clothes were characteristically splashed with paint. Every Saturday we took time out to have brunch at our favourite caf? bar. The intention was for us to catch up on our week. I know I spent a lot of the meal yawning and I also knew that, straight after we ate, Anthony would be back in his studio and wouldn’t surface until the evening. On our walk to Rhythm ‘N’ Brews we had, however, started quite a serious conversation, only to have to stop it mid-sentence when we saw how busy the place was. Luckily someone was just about to vacate our favourite table and we’d made a beeline for it, giggling along the way and bumping into a chair. Once we’d ordered and settled down I got back to the conversation. ‘I’m not saying you shouldn’t go, Anthony. It’s just that the timing sucks. What if you’re not back in time for the Grand Opening of the shop?’ ‘Of course I will be. I’m only going for a month and the money I make on this commission could buy me the art gallery I’ve been thinking about opening.’ ‘I never knew you were thinking about opening a gallery.’ I was amazed. ‘Since when?’ ‘I’m sure I’ve talked about it before. I know you’ve been preoccupied with opening; maybe it slipped by you.’ He stared out of the window at my empty shop. So did I. Yes, I had been preoccupied. I remember him mentioning his studio closing in on him and that he was thinking about moving to a bigger space. I also remember saying it was a good idea, but I didn’t remember him bringing up either the studio or the gallery again after that one time. Were we drifting so far apart I was losing focus on what was happening with Anthony? I heard our waiter at a nearby table. ‘Fats Waffle with maple syrup and Nat King Corn Bread with Scrambled Eggs?’ ‘Over here,’ I beckoned. ‘Don’t worry, Magenta,’ Anthony said as the food was placed in front of us. ‘Nothing will stop me being here for the opening. And as far as the art gallery idea goes, it is only an idea at the moment… Magenta? You still with me?’ ‘I… er…’ She was there again, the woman with the super-tanned skin and long hair. This time she was dressed all in black. Weird for a warm day. Maybe she was a witch after all. After seeing her pass the shop when I was with the architect, Jack, so much had happened I’d almost forgotten about her. I’d had a big response to the adverts for a shop manager and sales assistant, I’d found a builder who was due to start work in a few days and made some headway in my designer baby-change bags. Also in that time Anthony had announced his intention to fly out to Italy again to complete another art commission for a rich lawyer who’d seen the paintings he’d been working on for an Italian film producer when Anthony and I first got together. But it was the strange woman who occupied my thoughts just then. If I thought back, I did remember seeing her again after that first time. It was the day I’d met with the builders. Yes, she had been there and I wondered then if she came on regular visits to the empty shop. I had put the idea out of my head, reasoning it was just coincidence. But not this time. ‘It’s her,’ I said to Anthony. ‘Her who?’ ‘The one I told you about. The witch who’s come to put a curse on me.’ Anthony looked up from his large brunch plate and over at the shop on the opposite corner. ‘She does look a bit like a witch. Is that an incantation she’s murmuring under her breath?’ Anthony said before shovelling in a mouthful of food. I peered closer, almost leaning an elbow into my waffle. Her lips weren’t moving at all. ‘Stop teasing me, Anthony. Do you think I should go over there and ask her what she wants?’ ‘She’s probably just curious. Maybe she was a fan of Veronique’s and wants to know who’s taking over.’ ‘Probably. But can’t she just wait like everyone else?’ The tanned woman turned to walk away, facing our direction and then looking from left to right before crossing. ‘Do you think she sees me?’ I asked moving back from the window. ‘Well, if she does, and she was there looking for you, then maybe she’ll come in.’ We both turned to the door but she crossed the road and walked straight past the caf? bar. I watched her leave, screwing up my brow, racking my brain to try to remember if and when I’d ever met her before but drawing a blank. Besides which, had she been looking for me or thought she knew me, wouldn’t she just have come in and introduced herself that first time? She’d had a second opportunity when she saw me with the builders. Even today she could have put a note through the letterbox at the bottom of the door. I was baffled and still not convinced she wasn’t a witch. Chapter 4 (#ulink_96984c72-14d1-5f54-8c07-9849a2f49567) The following week I went with Anya to the hospital for her scan. She’d ignored the letter inviting her for this eighteen-week scan and, at approximately twenty-five weeks pregnant, even I felt sheepish walking into the private hospital on Brompton Road with her. Anya, though, marched through the automatic doors into reception and demanded to know where they did scans these days. ‘What department is doing your scan?’ the receptionist asked. ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Anya glared across the reception desk with green eyes blazing at the now-cowering man on the desk. ‘Er, n… not really,’ he blundered, losing confidence by the second. ‘We need maternity,’ I said, because I could feel Anya was about to demand to see the owner of the establishment in her usual Anya way when she wasn’t happy with the service. ‘D… down the corridor,’ he signalled. ‘Follow the red line to the end, t… take a left and you’ll see the sign.’ ‘Thank you,’ I said, pulling Anya by the arm. Her large eyes trailed behind, shooting evils at the receptionist until he was out of her view. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘If this is how they treat their customers then maybe I’ll give this a miss.’ I continued to link her arm as we followed the red line. ‘Anya, don’t flake out on me. You need antenatal care. You don’t expect me to deliver this baby, do you?’ She looked at me, hopeful. ‘Anya! All I’m going to do when you go into labour is hold your hand and fetch ice. The professionals will be taking care of you.’ ‘But I trust you, Madge. These places give me the creeps, you know that.’ ‘I know, but I’ve got your back, darling. You don’t have to be scared.’ ‘Who said anything about being scared? And anyvay, it’s probably better to have a C-section. Victoria Beckham has had about nine of them now and she looks great.’ ‘Caesarians are major operations. Natural childbirth is best.’ ‘Fuck that,’ she said. ‘We’re here, Anya. And you’ll have to stop swearing – the baby can pick up on it.’ ‘And fuck you too, Madge.’ I pushed Anya to the counter where a skinny nurse in a dark-blue uniform beamed a massive smile at her. I could tell she recognised Anya but the staff must have been trained to act cool; a very famous and very rich clientele walked through these doors on a daily basis for all kinds of procedures. Except, as Anya pointed out, no one did face lifts in the UK any more. Everyone was going to far-flung places in the world. Even Victoria Beckham flew three thousand miles for her Botox injections, Anya had whispered to me once, telling me I had to keep it to myself. We didn’t have too long to wait before Anya was called in. But when her name was called she looked to have shrunk before my eyes. She bit her bottom lip. Her supermodel cool faltered and I wondered what was happening to the real Anya. Hormones had changed much of her icy demeanour and I knew she needed me more than ever. I winked at her and discreetly put my hand in hers before we stood and followed the nurse down a long corridor. Somehow, in private hospitals, they manage to eradicate the hospital smell. You feel as if you are walking into a spa retreat and I’d probably opt to go private if and when I have a baby. The stenographer and I waited a long time while Anya fussed about climbing onto the bed for her scan, stalling because nerves were getting the better of her. I wanted to tell her the scan was the easy bit but I didn’t want her running for the door saying she’d changed her mind. ‘Well, now, let’s see how baby is doing, shall we?’ The stenographer, a tiny woman with shiny, black hair knitted into a French braid, swooped a probe over the small, tight lump on Anya’s lower abdomen. This child was going to grow up with a very privileged life, unlike Anya’s but very much like mine. Having been born into a very rich family I never learned how to work hard for anything until now. I knew Anya would be relying on me to help her raise this baby and, one thing was for sure, I’d do my best to make them understand how lucky they were and I’d certainly make sure he or she wasn’t going to let the first twenty-eight years of their life go by in a wave of cocktail parties, unfinished degree courses and absolutely no direction at all. ‘This is supposed to be an eighteen-week scan, isn’t it?’ the stenographer asked. Both Anya and I nodded, our eyes glued to the screen. Just then a fuzzy outline of a baby curled in a ball appeared. ‘Is that it?’ Anya gasped, propping herself up onto her elbows. I leaned across. ‘Yes, that’s your baby. But you’re a lot past eighteen weeks.’ ‘Maybe I am a little further along. Does it matter?’ said Anya. She shot a look at the stenographer. ‘I’ve been busy, okay?’ ‘It’s fine,’ the stenographer said, glancing quickly at the notes. ‘But looking at the dates I’ve got down here, I think your baby is due a lot sooner. Did the doctor give you the estimated due date?’ ‘Actually they’re my own calculations on that form. I didn’t come for the first scan either.’ ‘Not a problem.’ The stenographer smiled at Anya. ‘But judging by this scan, prepare to meet this little one a good three weeks sooner than you thought.’ ‘You’ve got to be joking.’ Anya was sitting up fully now. ‘Lie back, Miss Stankovic, and we’ll listen for his heartbeat, shall we?’ ‘Of course,’ said Anya, looking at me with bulging eyes. I smiled, hoping to assure her that the dates didn’t matter. Very quickly we heard a tiny rumble of sound and the very definite beat of the baby’s heart. Anya’s smile was uncontrollably wide and her eyes almost glassy with delight. I squeezed her hand. ‘I told you it would all be worth it,’ I whispered. ‘I’ll try to establish an actual due date if I can just get some measurements,’ the stenographer said. ‘Baby is on the move today. He’s on the small side but doing extremely well. Nothing at all to worry about.’ ‘Just now you said, "his" heartbeat,’ said Anya. ‘And "he’s" on the move.’ She grabbed the stenographer’s hand. ‘It’s a boy?’ ‘I’m sorry.’ She looked again at Anya’s notes. ‘I thought you wanted to know the sex.’ ‘It’s fine,’ said Anya, waving her away. She looked at me. ‘I’m having a boy.’ ‘I know, isn’t it amazing? We could stop at Harrods on our way home and order some furnishings for the nursery. What do you think?’ ‘Great,’ Anya said, turning away from me before a tear could escape. Anya and I almost skipped out of the hospital, slowing down at reception so she could scowl at the receptionist in the main foyer. He withered again as Anya screwed up her eyes, aimed her fingers at them and stabbing her fingers towards the receptionist. Out in the late summer morning Anya gripped my arm. ‘If anything happens to me, Madge, it’ll be up to you raise Bruno for me.’ I had a puzzled look on my face. ‘What? What are you saying? Nothing is going to happen to you.’ ‘You don’t know that, Madge. This is the reason I didn’t come for a scan before. I’ve had this feeling. I’ve been fretting about the baby’s health. Now I know he’s fine, I’m thinking maybe the problem is me.’ ‘What are you talking about, Anya? You’re scaring me.’ We were face to face now. I was searching her eyes to see if this was just another in the line of problems Anya was creating when there weren’t any there to begin with. But I could see she was being deadly serious. ‘Call it model intuition,’ she said. ‘I just have a deep-down feeling that something is going to go wrong. Dreadfully wrong.’ She put a hand up before I could protest. ‘I mean it, Madge. Just promise me you’ll be there if anything… if anything happens on the day. Okay?’ ‘I promise I will.’ I shrugged and pulled her along the Brompton Road. I needed to lighten the tense atmosphere. ‘But if you don’t make it I won’t call him Bruno. Sounds like the name of a pitbull. How about Agamemnon?’ I waved down a taxi, still chilled by Anya’s feelings of foreboding. We climbed into the back of the taxi but Anya wouldn’t let it rest. ‘I can’t shift this feeling, Madge.’ She drew in a deep breath. ‘I’ve spoken to my lawyer and I’m changing my—’ ‘Please, Anya. Don’t be so morbid. I can’t have you talking like that. Wills and things like that. We just saw your baby, heard his heartbeat. We should be celebrating. Look, I promised I’d be there for you, no matter what. And no matter what, I will. Whatever that means, okay? But let’s just go and buy a crib. Do you realise your baby is due one week after the shop opens? It’ll be a week of celebrations, let’s just leave it at that.’ She gave me a tight smile and we both knew to drop the subject. I never did do tragedy well, my melodramatic side going into overdrive at the merest sniff of disaster. ‘It won’t be long before we’re interviewing for my shop staff,’ I said. ‘You still up for that?’ I needed to change the subject. ‘You try stopping me. It’s a big decision. Staff. Let’s not bother to shop for baby things,’ said Anya, looking out onto Knightsbridge as the taxi approached Harrods. ‘Let’s just spoil ourselves. Are you in?’ We gave each other that "Let’s shop till we drop" look and jumped out of the taxi so we could do just that. Chapter 5 (#ulink_0043f81f-4a79-5424-a175-f0d0eb824975) I’d been hard at work for weeks, scarcely time to catch my breath, when all of a sudden Anthony left for Italy. It rained on the way to the airport the day he left. Long-awaited rain that had been falling so heavily since the night before. I could feel the city breathing at last; the days had been humid and the nights unbearable. I’d come back from the photoshoot with Anya as she modelled my newly designed baby-changing bags full of enthusiasm, bursting to tell Anthony all about my day as he finished off his packing. He nodded every now and again and made sounds that told me he was listening. I was exhausted after the shoot so goodness knows how Anya must have felt. But like a true professional she held up well under the lights and the photographer’s constant commands to tilt this or bend that. I just couldn’t believe how quickly the time had flown since Anya’s scan. During that time I’d finished the nifty little baby-changing bag designs and sat with production for hours to decide on a colour scheme and appropriate fabrics. I had them rush through the prototypes and was able, along with Anya’s business manager, Heather, to arrange the photoshoot with Anya as the glamorous mummy model for the bags. I did a mini-launch and enlisted the support of a handful of journalist and a string of fashion bloggers to talk about Anya and the bags and the fact that they were exclusive to the shop and not available online. This bought me time to have the actual baby-changing bags made up because they didn’t have to be on sale until October. The media also gave us coverage of the shop opening and the fact that the name of the shop would be unveiled nearer the day. I’d always enjoyed going along to fashion shoots with Anya. I had been her sidekick, wing man and fan club of one ever since her career took off when we were both nineteen. She had taken to the lifestyle with ease, acting like royalty, asking for over-the-top riders like pink champagne, dark-chocolate-coated cherries and a tin bath filled with milk for bathing in her changing room. I’d never known her to take a milk bath nor eat the chocolate cherries but she consumed a great deal of champagne and so did I. The shoot for the baby-changing bags was somewhat different. Pink champagne was replaced with bottled water, the chocolates became fruit, and instead of a bath of milk Anya much preferred a cosy chair and a footstool. The photos were taken between a studio in Covent Garden and a fabulous garden setting courtesy of her manager’s boyfriend at his house in Epsom. We did the whole shoot in a day. Anya said she would have to sleep all day the following day but I knew the photos were going to be amazing thanks to her. I’d prattled on for ages about my work while Anthony packed, lying on the bed with my arms behind my head as he looked for his passport. ‘What about you? How was your day?’ I remembered to say. ‘Oh, you know, same old, same old.’ We spent a quiet evening together, making a stir-fry late at night and finishing off an open bottle of red wine that must have sat on the kitchen counter for over a week. As I said, Anthony and I were both on autopilot when it came to our work and there wasn’t much time for sitting, talking, eating or drinking together, let alone anything else. The next morning, I’d put off a meeting so I could take Anthony to the airport. ‘You didn’t have to do this, you know,’ he said after checking in. ‘Didn’t you have something on?’ The ‘something’ I’d put off was a meeting with my sales team, but I’d had Riley reschedule after seeing the time of Anthony’s flight. I also had to pop into the shop to check on the builders. ‘As if I’d let you leave without saying a proper goodbye,’ I said hugging Anthony as tightly as I could around the waist. A couple with a wonky trolley dodged around us and we had to swerve out of their way. We exchanged clumsy apologies and Anthony pulled me aside so we weren’t in the way of the bustle of passengers darting here, there and everywhere at Heathrow. ‘Got everything?’ I asked Anthony after a few moments of silence. He didn’t answer, just nodded his affirmation. ‘And will you…?’ ‘Have you got the…?’ We spoke at the same time, laughing and saying the obligatory ‘You first, no you… It wasn’t important’. Again at the same time. ‘What was it?’ Anthony asked, looking up at the departure board and checking his flight details – again. ‘Oh, nothing,’ I said. ‘Just don’t go running off with some Italian girl behind my back.’ If it was meant to be a joke it was far from funny. All Anthony did was give an awkward laugh and say something about trying his best not to. ‘By the way,’ Anthony said, ‘I may have a lead on a new studio.’ ‘Really?’ I said, turning away and checking the departure board myself. ‘That’s good news. You never mentioned it last night. Did I tell you about the plans I had for the Grand Opening?’ ‘Only a million times, Magenta.’ ‘Sorry. Of course I have.’ ‘Looks like we’re boarding,’ Anthony said. It sounded as if Anthony couldn’t wait to get on the plane. I walked him to the gate and helped him fish out his boarding pass as if he were my son off to start school and leaving for the first time. ‘It’s fine, I’ve got it,’ he said. We crashed noses together as we both went in for a farewell kiss. ‘Call me when you land.’ ‘Yes. You said. And I will. Hope it all goes to plan. You know, the shop and everything.’ ‘But Anthony, you’ll be back for the opening, right?’ ‘Of course I will.’ Anthony was holding up the queue because I was talking to him so he pulled away, waved and winked at me before turning to leave. My heart sank to my shoes. What was wrong with me, talking about my shop opening and him not going off with Italian girls? Those weren’t the things I wanted to say to Anthony at all. Deep down, I’d wanted him to have changed his mind and stayed in London while I had so much big stuff going on in my life. Isn’t that what boyfriends did? As I made my way out of the airport, people barging into me and not bothering to apologise, I wondered what the strange feeling was I was having about Anthony leaving. Surely he had to have a life as well as me? It was just that Anthony had always been there for me whenever the big things happened. In a selfish corner of my heart I think I’d hoped he would put off his commission, delay it for a while just until the shop was open. He had no idea how just having him near me made me feel strong. It’s not that I couldn’t do it all without him. I could take on the world single-handedly if I put my mind to it. I only wished I’d told him how I was feeling before I let him go instead of all that nonstop chat about me, me, me when all I wanted was to ask him to hold me one last time and tell me I could do this. But that was it. His flight took off and I would have to bite the bullet and just get on with things. The first week without Anthony was perhaps the longest of my life. I never thought I’d get over the pain of missing someone so much. But as Anya rightly pointed out, we weren’t joined at the hip and if I didn’t give him the space he needed I’d regret it. That was the last thing I wanted. With things so strained between us I didn’t want the distance in miles to add to the distance I knew was forming in our relationship. I set my sights on working hard, launching the shop and starting to rebuild whatever was missing between me and Anthony. Chapter 6 (#ulink_45be3b84-a8b5-507c-aa9f-098ce1e80e89) The day of the staff interviews for the shop arrived. Since asking Anya to help me with the selection process she’d been super-keen. She arrived at the shop draped in a Dolce and Gabbana cape dress. She was revelling in the fact that she had cleavage now she was pregnant. To me Anya only looked to be able a fill the bra of a newly budding teen. But I didn’t want to burst her bubble; it was an improvement on an otherwise flat chest. The dress was mustard-gold and had a low-cut front. The fit was A-line from the bust. The fabric caressed her body in gentle ripples and showed off an eight-month bulge, her make-up done to perfection. ‘I know it’s not hard for you, Anya,’ I said as we arranged ourselves at the table in the back office. ‘But did you have to outdress and outmake-up me? It is my shop after all.’ ‘Oh, darling,’ she said looking me up and down. ‘I thought you intended to be understated.’ Anya was holding a compact up to her face and smoothing down firmly gelled and slicked-back hair. It was scooped into a long ponytail that hung far down her back. I whipped out my compact and mirror and topped up my matte Mulberry Kissed pout then stood to run my hands down the tight, forest-green dress I’d decided to wear. The shop fitting was close to completion and it was less than a month until the opening. I wanted the manager and sales assistant to be onboard quickly so they could stock the shop with me and put last-minute finishing touches to the overall appearance before the Grand Opening events I had lined up. The events would take place over three days beginning with the unveiling of the shop name on the Thursday afternoon followed by a celebrity evening bash on the Friday evening and then the official opening day on the Saturday in the shiny new shop. A lot of our followers were wondering what the shop would be called. I was keeping very quiet about the name but had lined up as much press to cover the unveiling event as I could. I’d also managed to arrange an interview with a local radio station just for good measure. The response to the advertisement for the posts of manager and sales assistant had completely blown my mind and I was pretty sure I’d shortlisted the best the long list had to offer. The tension was building as the shop opening drew nearer but I found I was coping perfectly fine not having Anthony around. Meanwhile he had broken the news to me that one month wasn’t going to be enough time for him to finish. His commission had spiralled into a much larger project and, when pressed, I gathered he was having the time of his life. Yet we still insisted over the phone that we missed the other terribly. He’d called me that morning from a clifftop in Salento to wish me luck with the interviews. The back office of the shop had been reinvented from the crumbled-down state it had been in, barely used by the last owner, I’d imagine. The new desk was large and slick, in walnut, and Riley had positioned two office chairs on one side and one for the interviewee on the other, just inside the office door. She’d arranged a supply of tea, coffee and water for me and Anya, and the application forms and curricula vitae were in a pile on the desk between our chairs as well as notepads and a camera for snapping each candidate to remind ourselves of who was who. Riley popped her head round the door. ‘The first of the interviewees have arrived. Three of them and they’re early. They must be eager to please.’ ‘Thanks, Riley. Give us five minutes before you send in the first,’ I said, doing a quick rechecking of my make-up. It was a Tuesday morning. Autumn had kicked in with a bang. My quiet mews had been scattered with bronze and copper leaves when I’d set off earlier, as if we were in a rush to get to winter. I was in no hurry. As far as I was concerned I still had masses to do before the first customer crossed the threshold. I had shaken off images of the shop standing in the middle of King’s Road devoid of any passing trade, all the stock gathering dust until it withered away, untouched and unsold. ‘Ready for this, Madge?’ Anya asked. ‘How about a strategy? Good cop, bad cop? Who should I be?’ I opened my mouth, about to say, ‘Well, what do you think?’ but Riley knocked on the door and introduced a woman called Babette Morrier for the position of manager. I smiled at the tall blonde who’d walked in on a wave of Calvin Klein Eternity. but before she reached the chair and could take a seat Anya bellowed, ‘Next!’ ‘Sorry?’ Babette asked, looking from me to Anya. I screwed up my brow and turned to Anya for an explanation. Riley popped her head back inside. ‘Did you say something?’ she asked. ‘I said, "Next",’ said Anya. ‘This interview is terminated.’ ‘Anya! What the…?’ I began, but there was no time to finish my sentence before a red-faced Babette barged past Riley and left without another word. Riley came in and closed the door. ‘What was that all about?’ I demanded of Anya. ‘Madge, please. You know better than I do that leggings are not trousers. No matter how slim your legs are, you don’t expose legging-clad legs in public. They are for indoors only, or lazy dressers and mothers whose children have vomited down their dungarees.’ She shuddered at the word ‘dungarees’. ‘Riley, bring in the next contestant.’ Riley and I were speechless. She looked at me for assurance and I nodded for her to go ahead and call the next interviewee. Mind you, Anya was spot on. What was I thinking? I was blinded by Babette’s cute jacket and swishy hair. I hadn’t taken in the full picture. The next to enter the room was a short woman, reasonably decked out in high-end, high-street attire, perfectly acceptable. I waited a moment for Anya to bellow ‘Next’ but as she didn’t I offered the woman a seat. ‘Hi.’ I gave her my biggest ‘good cop’ smile. ‘You’re Pauline Bennet?’ ‘Yes, nice to meet you and I wasn’t expecting you, Miss Stankovic.’ Pauline blushed a deep shade of crimson and couldn’t take her eyes off Anya for the whole time I tried to talk to her. Anya never opened her mouth. At the end of the interview, once Pauline had left, Anya grabbed her application form, screwed it into a tight ball and threw it over her shoulder. ‘Er …?’ I said, palms up to the ceiling. ‘Did you see how close together her eyes vere set? You seriously think I could trust her to be in my best friend’s shop?… All day?… You and I not here to keep an eye on her?’ Anya shook her head from side to side and got up. ‘Where are you going?’ I gasped as she walked to the door. For one moment I feared Anya was going to the front of the shop and was going to line up the candidates and do an inspection. ‘The toilet, Madge. This baby is pressing on my bladder like you can’t believe.’ ‘See you in five.’ It was my turn to shake my head. I poured some coffee for me from the Thermos and filled Anya’s glass with water. It was going to be a long day. By the afternoon Anya and I had conducted sixteen interviews. We were tired and frazzled and even the perky Riley was a bit on the flat side. ‘That’s it,’ she said flopping into the interview seat. ‘That’s everyone. Do you think you found the right people?’ I looked at Anya and we smiled at each other. ‘Pretty sure,’ I said. Though it was true that Anya had reduced at least two people to tears, had enraged an ex-employee from French Connection who was probably overqualified for the post of manager anyway, and had asked one interviewee if she wouldn’t mind lowering the actual tone of her voice because it was causing the baby to kick, we’d come to a mutual agreement about who would fit the bill. For the shop manager we would offer the post to Jaime Silverman, a twenty-seven-year-old manager from Warehouse in Kensington High Street who had three years experience of running the family shoe shop in Bethnal Green until it closed down a year ago. ‘I was as pleased as anything when that happened,’ Jaime had told us during the interview. ‘I didn’t want to get tied down by the family business so I had to put Dad right on that one. Dad decided to take early retirement, and we’d already moved from East London to West so Mum could be near her ageing family. It was time for me to move on. When I started at Warehouse my parents described it as the time I ran away from home. But I literally live around the corner from them now.’ She’d raised her eyebrows and tutted. ‘The Warehouse job is great but I feel I can put my own stamp on things at Shearman Bright. That is what you want, isn’t it?’ I had nodded wholeheartedly. Jaime, a tall, elegant brunette, had a captivating smile. I think Anya liked her for her brusque, no-nonsense manner. I liked the fact that she was experienced and competent and seemed the ideal person to help me understand how a shop was supposed to operate, therefore taking away the amount of input I’d have in the day-to-day running. Our new shop assistant had breezed through the door, shoulders flung back and head held high. He was a five-foot-six-inch guy in a Hugo Boss suit, dark grey with a salmon-pink shirt and flamingo-pink square in his top pocket. His tie was peacock blue. He made his way, purposefully, to the chair and fell into it like the dying swan in Swan Lake. He smiled and put his hand in front of his mouth before shrieking: ‘Oh my God, you’re Anya Stankovic. I’ve been following your career since you were the face for L’Or?al in 2010. I was fifteen years old and you turned my life around. I was sorry about those semi-nudes that found their way into that French magazine, whatever it was called. I choose to forget because they didn’t get your lighting right anyway.’ ‘I told them the exact same thing,’ Anya enthused. At that stage she’d got up to shake his hand. ‘Zac Choudhary,’ he’d beamed, standing and bowing. ‘It’s an honour to meet you.’ It was a curtsey more than a bow he gave but he had Anya wrapped around his little finger. I did, however, manage to extract from him what experience he’d had in sales and it was vast. He was working for a luxury men’s footwear concession in Selfridges but insisted that Shearman Bright bags, especially the women’s handbags, spoke to him and he could sell them in his sleep. ‘Trust me, I know leather and I know how to match a person to a bag.’ ‘I’m convinced you can,’ Anya had said, turning to me with a ‘my work here is done’ expression on her face. She picked up Zac’s application form and drew a big star on it. She slapped it down on the desk in front of me while staring at Zac’s pink ankle socks. ‘I love a man who can carry off pink.’ She was falling in love with this flamboyant man by the second. ‘Thank you for coming in, Zac,’ I said, getting to my feet and offering him my hand. ‘We’ll let you know.’ ‘Ahh,’ he gasped looking closely at my fingers. ‘Did you get this manicure at Peter Jones?’ I looked over my shoulder at Anya, who had a raised eyebrow, then back at Zac. ‘As a matter of fact, yes I did.’ ‘They do a to-die-for French polish. Have you tried it?’ ‘I… er…’ ‘Then do,’ he went on. ‘But make sure you ask for Candace. Love that girl. Great at waxing too.’ He left then, swishing his way through the door and turning back to wave his fingers at Anya. She did the same. Once all the interviews were done, Anya left me and Riley to clear up the shop-floor-cum-waiting-room and interview-room-cum-! office. Riley took charge of the application forms and we planned to contact everyone the next morning. I thanked Riley for all her help and watched her leave with the box file of forms to drop off at the office, and went to get my handbag and keys to lock up. I spotted another screwed-up application on the floor under the desk. It belonged to the girl who’d dared to come before Anya carrying a mock-leather handbag. ‘Could it really have hurt her to spend a few pounds more to impress the owner of a leather handbag shop?’ she’d ranted. As I went to unravel the piece of paper so we could contact her in the morning with a ‘thank you but no thank you’ letter there was a timid knock on the door. I was pretty sure we’d interviewed everyone we had to. I went to the door. My mouth dropped open when I saw who was standing behind it. Chapter 7 (#ulink_7e0b5b21-9bf2-5cdc-adb9-89bf15ebdee9) I didn’t know if I should panic at this point. I was looking into the eyes of the woman I’d suspected of trying to curse me or my shop because she was a witch or, failing that, an inexperienced stalker. ‘If you came for the interviews, I’m afraid you’re a little late,’ I said, knowing full well she wasn’t at the back of my new shop for that reason. She stepped a little closer as if she was expecting to be asked into the office. Her skin was clear and smooth but not as tan as when I’d first seen her walk past the shop. She was in white again. She wore a wide-skirted summer dress, a man’s navy sweater over the top. I wondered where she could have come from. It seemed strange that her clothes were out of season, almost as if she’d turned up in London in the summer and stayed longer than she’d intended, only having packed for a summer vacation. As we stood there, just staring at each other, her mobile phone began to ring from the straw shoulder bag she was carrying. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘No one ever calls.’ She was British from what I could make of her accent, maybe from the south west despite the obvious foreign look to her clothes and accessories, which were more exotic. More hippy chic than anything else. I watched her long hair fall across her face as she plunged into her bag to turn off the phone. She seemed agitated. ‘There,’ she said before looking up at me red-faced. ‘I… I hope you don’t mind the intrusion but I was passing by… yet again… and when I saw you wave off that girl with the red hair and go back in I decided to take the plunge.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, taking a step back and folding my arms. ‘But have we met?’ ‘No. Never. B… but I know who you are. Magenta, right? Magenta Bright?’ She put out a small hand for me to shake. I took her hand, which was limp in mine, and which she withdrew fairly rapidly. ‘Stella. Stella Knowles. You’re going to think this a little odd but we have a mutual friend.’ ‘Do you want to come in and take a seat.’ She exhaled, in relief it would seem. Had she expected me to boot her out right there and then? Not when she mentioned the mutual friend. I was intrigued. As she took a seat in the interview chair and crossed her legs, which were still pretty suntanned compared to her face, I contemplated staying by the door… you never knew. Instead I took a seat in my interviewer’s chair, leaned my arms across the table and smiled at Stella, who seemed too embarrassed to look up at me. ‘So, who is this mystery mutual friend? Do they owe us money? Do we like them?’ She finally raised her eyes and smiled. ‘We loved them. Well, I still do and you did… once.’ I sat back in dread. This was the girlfriend of one of my exes. Was she coming here for notes? Had he dumped her and she wanted to see if I knew how to win him back? ‘Well…’ I gave a nervous snort of a laugh. ‘I haven’t been in love that many times.’ I was racking my brain but I had a feeling I knew who she was going to dredge up. Here was a girl who had come from abroad, tanned skin and summer clothes. A dead giveaway now that I thought about it. I held my breath. ‘Hugo,’ she said just before I said the name for her. ‘He’s a great friend of mine. He doesn’t know I’m here.’ ‘What? In the country?’ ‘He knows I’m over from Brazil but he has no idea I tracked you down.’ ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but why on earth have you tracked me down? Hugo and I are old news. Our relationship ended a long time ago. In fact you could call it the relationship that never really was. I met him as a teenager.’ ‘I know.’ ‘Then you know it lasted all of a week and then he got on a plane and left my life for good. Well, for ten years anyway, and then came back again for a short fling. A very, very short fling.’ ‘Magenta, it was more than a fling. He told me all about it. How he tried to make it up to you, wanted you so desperately he gave up practically everything he owned in Brazil to be with you.’ ‘He said that?’ She nodded and looked down at her fidgeting hands. ‘He also told me that when he thought you were back in love with him and that everything was going to be okay, you bailed.’ ‘He used those words? I bailed?’ ‘N… no. Hugo didn’t say bailed. Look, I’m kind of nervous. I don’t know how to say this and I don’t know, now, why I came when…’ I stood up, becoming uncomfortable. I didn’t want to be reminded of my near miss. Of how I almost let Anthony go because Hugo had done such a great job of convincing me he and I should never have parted and that it was the greatest mistake of his life. I walked to the wall and leaned on it for support. The tiny office window above me was open and I reminded myself to close it after Stella left. I wanted her to leave. I didn’t want to talk about Hugo. Not now. Not after all this time. Stella tentatively rose to her feet. Great, I thought, she’s leaving and taking with her whatever reason it was that made her come here in the first place. Did Hugo send her? ‘I’ve gone about this all wrong,’ Stella said, wringing her hands. She stooped to pick up her bag, hooking it over her shoulder but stopping to make eye contact with me. ‘Hugo doesn’t know I’m here. If he did, he’d kill me.’ ‘Why would he kill his girlfriend?’ Maybe I’d had a lucky escape after all. ‘I’m not his girlfriend.’ ‘You said you were in love with him.’ ‘I didn’t. I said I loved him. As far as Hugo is concerned I love him as a friend. We’re the best of friends in fact.’ ‘Stella, I don’t mean to pry but you look like a woman in love.’ ‘Do I?’ She bowed her head. ‘Not that Hugo would ever notice. And I’ve never told him. It would be a complete waste of time. He hasn’t loved anyone, or allowed himself to, not since you. No one could hold a candle to you, Magenta. Not in his eyes. No one.’ I swallowed hard. I began to tidy away imaginary things on the otherwise tidy table, straightening the interview chairs, tucking them under the table so tight the front wheels were almost off the floor and would surely tumble backwards. ‘I had to come,’ Stella went on. ‘Hugo is back in the UK. For good this time. Or so he says. He’s up in Cumbria at the family farm, staying with his dad for a few weeks longer before…’ ‘Before what?’ ‘Well, he’s coming to London. There’s a part of London that’s dear to him and that he’s been missing a lot lately.’ ‘You mean he’ll be living here now? Permanently?’ My mind cast itself back to the months following my and Hugo’s absolute and final breakup. Hugo didn’t take no for an answer at first. He continued to try to change my mind and take him back. But I’d told him, over and over, I couldn’t go back to him. I was in love with Anthony. He finally let me go. Stella cleared her throat and began tracing a finger over the grain in the wood of the table separating us. ‘He’ll be here permanently,’ she said. ‘But maybe temporarily too.’ ‘Well, that makes no sense.’ I gave a weak laugh. Stella looked me in the eye again. ‘Hugo is sick, Magenta. Very, very sick. He would never have contacted you himself. He wouldn’t want pity or anything like that. He promised himself he’d try to forget you but I know he never really did. He went out with a few women, once or twice, you know? But I think it was only ever physical. He never told me he’d fallen in love.’ ‘Not even with you?’ ‘No one since you, Magenta. I know. Like I say. We’re the best of friends. It’s how he sees me and I accept that. But… but I wouldn’t consider myself a friend if I didn’t come and tell you about his health now. He’s going through a bad time and it’ll only get worse.’ ‘I’m sorry to hear that, but I can’t…’ ‘Please, Magenta. Go and see him. When he comes back to London. Just once. That’s all I ask. I know how much it would mean to him.’ It was my turn to look down at the lines running through the wooden table. My immediate reaction was, yes, of course I’ll go and see Hugo. How could I know he was sick, living in London and never once go and see him? But in the split second that followed and before I could ask Stella for his address, I thought of Anthony. He wouldn’t be happy about it. I know there was a lot of jealousy there as far as Hugo was concerned, and I think the feelings of jealousy and hate were mutual between them. That’s why I’d never told Anthony Hugo had been in London at the very start of my relationship with him. As far as he was concerned, Hugo was out of my life, out of the country and back in the place he’d called home for nearly ten years. Brazil. ‘You know, I really think we should let sleeping dogs lie, Stella,’ I said. ‘What could I do for Hugo that a good hospital couldn’t? I’ve got the addresses of some good hospitals over here. I could—’ She shook her head and sighed. ‘That side of things is already taken care of.’ ‘I’m glad,’ I said. ‘Look, I appreciate you’re trying to do a good turn for a friend and everything but it’s just not a good time for me and it’s not a place I should go. Not now. You know I’m seeing someone, right? It’s been, what, over three years since I saw Hugo and I’ve been with my boyfriend for as long.’ ‘You mean Anthony?’ ‘Yes, I mean Anthony. Jesus, if you know so much about my life then you’ll know it took almost for ever to get over Hugo that first time around. I did a lot of soul-searching before agreeing to meet up after ten years. I have… I had a lot of feelings for Hugo when we got back together. But it wasn’t going to work. He didn’t have my heart, Stella.’ I put my head down again. ‘I only wish you had his and he had yours, then we wouldn’t be having this conversation, would we?’ ‘Oh, I’ll be there for Hugo, no question about that. But I had to come here. I had to at least try to make you see he needs you right now.’ She held her palms up to me. ‘But I should go. Like I say, this wasn’t his idea, it was mine, and now I know I should never have come. It was crazy. This whole thing is crazy. Just forget I was here. Would you?’ I nodded. ‘And please, before you go, please understand why I’m refusing.’ ‘I do.’ Stella backed away to the door and opened it softly, stepping out while still looking into my eyes. ‘Look, before I go… please just hear me out.’ She put up a hand and then dipped into her straw bag, pulling out a well-used notebook with a pen clipped to the inside sleeve. Flicking through, she turned to some coloured pages at the very back that all seemed to have notes and scribbles on. She tore the corner off the red notepaper and started writing. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked. ‘It’s my name and number. You know? If you change your mind.’ I looked at her as if to say, please don’t do this, and she read that, very plainly, through my eyes. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Forget it. I understand.’ She looked around the room one last time and then over her shoulder. Nervously she tried to return the pen and notebook and the torn-off piece of paper to her straw bag. ‘He’s very proud about what you’ve accomplished. Good luck, Magenta. With everything.’ Without a look back, she was gone. She left a wave of incense and lavender behind her and also the little piece of paper on which she’d written her number. Somehow we’d both missed seeing it flutter to the floor when she was fussing over her bag, nervous and looking very much on the verge of tears, or maybe angry with herself for coming here in the first place. I stooped to pick up the number. I held it over the wastepaper bin for a few seconds but something made me stop. Think. I decided to hold on to it just for a while and then I’d shred it at work for safety reasons. You know, confidentiality and all that. My conversation with Stella was definitely the strangest I had that day. Even stranger than the one with the homeless woman who had found her way to the back office while Riley’s back was turned and asked me and Anya if we wanted to score some weed. Anya had contemplated the offer but when I said we were busy seeing candidates for a job, she sat down in the interview chair and refused to budge until we agreed to see her audition piece for Les Miserables. ‘It really isn’t that kind of job,’ I’d told her. She’d finally left saying we were biased and did we want a copy of the Big Issue instead of the weed. When I stood outside the shop, locking up, I couldn’t help thinking of Hugo and the way Stella spoke about him. I thought about how tragic it was that Hugo still loved me and here was a woman who would seek out his ex just to make him happy while he was on his sickbed. As I headed for home I pondered the woman who had walked past the shop on so many occasions. Since seeing her the first time and since our conversation it was clear Stella must have walked by at random times just so she could meet me. I knew for a fact that Hugo wouldn’t have known about the shop, so how could she? Then again, anyone googling Magenta Bright would have seen the new store location and eventually found me there. But why not just come into the office? I was usually always there. Having said that, there might have been times when she walked by the office but failed to get up the nerve to come in. Without a big window at ground level I might have missed seeing her go by a thousand times. To have made so much of an effort and to have built up the courage it took to go against what Hugo had said, which was not to tell me he was in London and extremely ill, made me wonder if there was more to this visit than she was letting on. Why was Stella so jumpy and nervous? At times she’d looked as if she wanted to cry. Maybe she was tearful because of how sick Hugo really was. In which case, shouldn’t I just give in and go and see him, bring him grapes? Surely seeing him in his time of need was the most decent thing I could do. I rounded the corner into our mews. The house would be empty because Anthony was still in Italy. I put the key in the lock and contemplated visiting Hugo without Anthony having to be any the wiser but quickly thought otherwise when I saw how my and Anthony’s coats hung so closely together on the rail just inside the front door. The sleeve of his blue rain jacket looked to be holding hands with the sleeve of my red M&S mac. I thought of Anthony as I flopped onto the sofa in the living room and kicked off my shoes. It had been a long day, I’d achieved a lot in a short space of time, and going to see Hugo would only be a setback. A complication our relationship could do without. I leaned my head back and looked up at the ceiling. Something wasn’t adding up about Stella’s visit. I just hadn’t worked out what. Chapter 8 (#ulink_90adf4b0-0ecf-5252-a4ee-a31bb67ffeba) ‘I miss you so much.’ Before I knew it, the evening had drawn in and I was still on my back on the big red sofa in the small living room, looking up at the shadows cast by the tree outside the window. The shadows had formed the shape of a tall, thin man dancing on the ceiling above me but had changed shape and angle as the sun began to disappear from behind the rooftops opposite. My mind had gone off at weird tangents as I thought about Stella’s visit and subsequently my relationship with Hugo. It hadn’t been a bad relationship, not really, but it had always been tinged with a hint of disaster. It was clear Hugo and I were never meant to be, but I still couldn’t stop wondering about his mysterious illness and why it would bring him back to London. Maybe he hoped to run into me by chance and start the whole pursuit thing again. That could be why he didn’t want his friend Stella to give the heads-up about his visit. I thought about how different my life could have been with Hugo. He was as artistic as Anthony but as a musician, not a painter. He was also as keen as Anthony was for me to fulfil my dreams. He could have been just as supportive of my career choice as Anthony, just as helpful, just as proud of my achievements. I did love Hugo once, so deeply I thought I would die when he walked out on me. But my love for Anthony was so different. So complete, I suppose you could say. Just when I thought loving a man with all of my heart would be impossible, there he was. And there he was on the other end of the phone to me now. ‘I miss you too, Magenta.’ Anthony had been busy on his commission all day but he hadn’t been happy with the results of two of his paintings. He was on the penultimate one, at last, and he’d extended his stay by another two weeks. I worried that the time would run out and he wouldn’t finish the job in time and end up staying even longer. That would mean him missing the Grand Opening of my shop and I’d be really upset if that happened. ‘Are you close to finishing the paintings?’ I asked, making imaginary circles in the air with my toes. ‘You know it doesn’t work like that, darling. I want to be finished, I want to be home with you, but you know I won’t be happy until I’ve thrown everything into this series.’ ‘Yes, I know. Only too well.’ ‘I’m pretty sure I’ll be back for the opening.’ ‘Pretty sure?’ When did definitely sure become pretty sure, I wonder. ‘I know, I know. I’m not grumbling. I just want you to be here.’ ‘How about you coming down at the weekend for a day or two?’ ‘No, I’ll just hold up the process and delay you even more.’ I sighed, trying to move the mouthpiece out of range so I didn’t sound pathetic. I was being mature and accepting that this was his life. Yet I loved coming home to Anthony when I was stressed with work and it was a very stressful time. ‘Besides, I finally have staff for the shop. As soon as I get their acceptance letters I’ll need them with me stocking up the shop and arranging it so it looks fabulous. You still haven’t seen the finished job on the refurb.’ ‘I got the WhatsApp photos.’ ‘But that’s not the same. Okay, sorry.’ I sat up. ‘I’m not going to moan. It’ll only make the time drag if I stay miserable because you’re not here. I’ll let you go back to your work and I’ll speak to you soon.’ ‘You don’t have to rush off already, do you?’ He sounded sad. ‘No, I don’t. It’s just that I haven’t eaten and I could do with a bath.’ ‘Okay, call me from your bath and talk dirty to me.’ ‘Isn’t that a bit of an oxymoron?’ ‘Maybe. Why don’t you get naked and we can discuss it further?’ ‘How about we both get naked now and…’ My mobile rang from my bag. It was Anya’s ring, R. Kelly’s ‘Bump N’ Grind’, her favourite song. ‘Shit. It’s Anya. I need to take this… you know, with the baby and everything?’ ‘That’s okay. Answer it. Call me when you can. I’m going to get some food.’ I imagined Anthony at the seafood restaurant just a mile up the coast from where he had been painting the seascape series for his client. He’d described to me the overweight owner and how she pinched his cheek between her chubby fingers and told him he needed to eat like a man and not a bird, as if Anthony had been her own son. Sea birds swooped past the open windows and cawed loudly. The sea was rough, big waves pounding against the rocks just below. The whole frontage of the restaurant was concertinaed open and all he could smell was the sea, fresh fish and balsamic vinegar. Anthony would be speaking Italian to the owner and anyone he met while out dining. Even though he told me every time we spoke that he missed me and loved me, I knew he’d be totally happy and well settled with everyday life in Italy. I was far too busy to fly out there, even for a day. Sure, as the time stretched on, the independent woman in me was doing well, but the nights grew lonelier than I wanted them to be. But I was coping. I was strong. It made me wonder, if I wasn’t a crumbling mess, then did Anthony really miss me that much? During our first week of separation I went about my day as if a big part of me was missing. Anya thought it soppy and kept reminding me about what great ‘miss you’ sex we’d have when Anthony finally finished that bloody commission. Of course I didn’t tell her that there had been very little action in the bedroom when Anthony was here, so that wasn’t the issue. It was ironic he should say anything about my talking dirty because, prior to his leaving, our love life was just that: all talk. All I was really longing for was for Anthony and me to sort out what was missing. Something certainly was. ‘I love you, darling, but I’d better go,’ I said, looking at the image of Anya and her baby bump, posing for a Marie Claire article, on my phone. ‘No problem,’ said Anthony. ‘Love you too.’ ‘Oh, you are there,’ said Anya in a clipped voice when I picked up. ‘Is everything all right?’ I was sitting to attention now. ‘Actually I need you to come over. I’m having Braxton Hicks contractions.’ ‘Do you even know what Braxton Hicks contractions are, Anya?’ ‘Not entirely. But the baby might come at any moment and you’re supposed to be my birth partner.’ ‘The baby isn’t coming at any moment, hon. You’ve weeks to go and you were perfectly fine today at the interviews.’ ‘Those interviews must have brought on the Braxton Hicks.’ ‘Darling, Braxton Hicks are the practice contractions,’ I said relaxing into the sofa now I knew it was nothing serious. ‘You’re not about to give birth if those are the kind of contractions you’re having. They just let you know your body is getting ready for the big event. That’s all. I remember Amber going into labour – both times – and believe me, you’ll be in no doubt when it’s the real thing.’ ‘Frighten me, vye don’t you, Madge!’ ‘I’m sorry, but you know this whole giving birth thing is a bit more involved than a few ripples in your tummy, right?’ ‘Okay, great. Now I’m really freaking out.’ ‘Anya, I think when the time comes, you’ll surprise yourself. Just chill. Run a bath. That’s what I’m going to do.’ ‘Madge, I’m getting so bored. I vish this baby vould come already.’ ‘Just relax and bide your time. He’ll be here sooner than you know.’ I retired to my own bath after talking Anya down from the ledge. Sinking beneath the bubbles I whisked myself to the seafront in Italy, holding hands with Anthony, walking along the beach and watching waves beat in against the wet rocks. I finally began to chill out. I could feel the tension leave my face, my neck and my shoulders. I let out a long sigh and felt sleepy in no time. My eyelids closed and opened involuntarily, lingering sweeps of my lashes on my cheeks, blotting out the candlelit bathroom and taking me off somewhere far away from Chelsea. I allowed my eyes to close for a while and suddenly I saw Hugo. He was sitting on the rocks by the sea, wearing a white cotton shirt that flapped at the collar because of a strong wind. He was pale and he was waiting for me but he hadn’t noticed me making my way along the rocky beach. Just then Anthony walked right by him, blocking Hugo from sight. Anthony didn’t notice me either. I suddenly felt cold. I waved my arms so they could both see I was there. Somewhere nearby I heard water by my ear and felt myself sinking beneath it. I woke with a start only to find I’d drifted off to sleep in the bath. The bubbles had melted and one of my candles had flickered out. Chapter 9 (#ulink_02d4d4b9-a9ef-5226-9014-a3b747a93720) I was beginning to run out of energy. Each day of my life seemed to be jam-packed with things to do, all of them pressing and needing my constant attention. Riley was proving to be a whizz around the office. She still had a haphazard way of going about things, was terribly scatter-brained and forgetful at times, but that was the girl I’d hired, hoping she’d morph into a super personal assistant. She hadn’t. But nowadays, when Riley said ‘leave it to me’ and tapped the side of her nose, she always came up with the goods – even if coming up with the goods was only at the last minute. Competent but rather idiosyncratic is how I would describe her now. No matter how she made things happen I was just so grateful to have some pressure taken off my shoulders. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/rosa-temple/playing-for-keeps-a-fun-flirty-romantic-comedy-perfect-for-sum/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.