Книга - 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

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Epilogue: After

Excerpt (#uad7fa3af-3e74-5da7-9ce4-210c91e12273)

Endpages (#u63802200-431f-5fd8-ba84-00c032df4fdd)


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.





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