by Nancy Warren
After the giggling and stupid jokes died down, he said, “We are all gathered here to help Chloe find a proper job. Any ideas?”
After a long silence, Miranda Peppertree, who did something in banking and had become rather boring, said, “What experience do you have? What are your qualifications?”
“Well—” She’d given this some thought, not wanting to come to the emergency career planning meeting unprepared. “I’m very good at shopping. I could be a personal shopper.”
“Not bad,” said Gerald, as though Chloe wouldn’t notice that Miranda had rolled her eyes and gone back to picking at a bit of smoked salmon on her plate. “Bit of a crowded field, though.”
“And would it be as much fun, do you think, shopping for other people?” Nicky asked. At least Nicky was thinking clearly.
“Oh, good point. I’d probably forget and keep buying things for myself.”
There were a few more suggestions, but most jobs sounded bloody boring and Chloe didn’t like the sound of any position that included the words entry level. She saw herself more as a penthouse than a street-level girl.
“Too bad you didn’t simply marry one of those rich blokes who were crazy enough to want to marry you,” Gerald said at last.
There was a sudden hoarse laugh from Nicky. “The only thing you’re really good at is breaking up with people.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is. And so creatively.”
“Well, one likes to be original.” She thought of some of her breakups and had to admit she did have flair.
“You even helped me break up with that awful prat from Wales. The one who insisted on quoting Shakespeare when he’d had too much to drink. Do you remember?”
“Of course I do. We wrote him a sonnet. Quite a good one, as I recall.”
Nicky snorted. “It started, Shall I compare thee to a bale of hay.”
“He loved horses and farming.”
“And was blockish and irritating.”
“Why don’t you do that, Chlo? Help people break up bad relationships?”
“But you can’t make a job out of breaking up with people,” Miranda pointed out.
“Why not? We send out our laundry, we pay other people to manage our finances, deliver our groceries, cook our food, fix our cars. Why not pay an expert to break up with someone for you?” Nicky argued. Of course, Nicky was the laziest girl in London, but still.
“And if you could do it without the other person ending up really hurt, maybe you could earn a bonus.”
“Yes. Right. It could be a tailor-made breakup—which, let’s face it, most of yours are,” Gerald said, sounding enthusiastic, for Gerald.
“Expand the concept a bit. People could hire you to break up really obnoxious couples that all their friends know won’t work.”
“Ooh, like Henrietta and Jeremy?”
Everyone laughed. Including Jeremy.
“But—so many people already know me here,” Chloe said, immediately seeing the flaw in this excellent plan.
“Oh, you can’t run your business here, love,” Nicky said.
Chloe felt some of her excitement dim. She glanced around at the flat crowded with her friends. “Leave London?”
“Not London, darling. England.”
“But, where would I go?”
Jeremy said, “You’ll have to move to America. They’ll love you over there. Very entrepreneurial people, the Americans.”
“Go to America?” Why had that never occurred to her before? “That’s a brilliant idea. I was actually born there, when Daddy’s office sent him to New York for a year. Though I haven’t ever been back for some reason. I’m a dual citizen.”
“It would give you a new start.”
She thought for a panicked moment about leaving everything familiar and then, just as suddenly, excitement began to build. “America. Of course!”
It was the perfect answer. There was more scope for her talents there. She’d always wanted to go shopping on Rodeo Drive and lots of her friends loved New York. And, if those television shows were any indication, Americans could use her help sorting out their love lives.
“I’d be a real businesswoman with my own company.”
“How much can you charge? To break people up, I mean?” Nicky wanted to know.
Silence reigned for a moment before Chloe said, “I’ll call some matchmaking agencies. And then I’ll charge double their rates.”
“Double?”
“Of course. As we all know, it’s a lot easier to get into a bad relationship than it is to get out.”
Gerald laughed aloud. “You know, I really believe you’ll do brilliantly in America with this company of yours.”
“My company,” she repeated, not without pride. Then a puzzled frown knit her brow. “But what would I call it?” she asked the assembled experts.
Gerald raised his glass. “To Chloe Flynt, The Breakup Artist.”
Chapter 2
Really, when Chloe thought about it, England was a small island. Too small for her talents. America beckoned—big, sprawling, lovely America with its cowboys and fast food, its freeways and film stars. Chloe felt that she’d finished messing about with her life; she was absolutely done with ancient, draughty castles and men who disappointed one.
She longed for some big, burly cattleman with a very large hat to throw her over his shoulder and call her his little woman. Naturally, she’d have to groom him a bit, and hint that outside the bedroom, she liked very much to be treated like a princess.
She was leaving her past behind her and moving on.
Chloe wasn’t one to waste time once she’d decided on a course of action, but, as usual in her life, the men kept trying to spoil her fun. Daddy wasn’t pleased. “No, poppet. I warned you when you broke off your engagement and traipsed off to France to paint that I wouldn’t fund any more of these ridiculous ideas. You’re going to have to settle down and act sensibly.”
She was so stunned that Daddy had said no that she couldn’t quite take in the rest. “It was Italy, Daddy,” she said. “I painted in Italy.”
He looked annoyed with her, but she’d bring him round. She always could. But, after half an hour of the sprightly chatter that usually had him chuckling and bending to her will, he had barely smiled.
“Really, Nigel, you’ll have to tell her,” Mummy said, sipping her third scotch.
“Tell me what?”
“It’s the money, sweetheart. We can’t afford you anymore.”
“Can’t afford me? But—but—I’m your daughter.”
“You’re twenty-seven, Chloe. Time you were on your own. We’d so hoped the marriage to the ski racer would work, and he could take you off our hands.”
“I’m sorry I’m such a burden,” she said, feeling huffy on the outside, but underneath feeling a quiver of fear. Mummy and Daddy were the port in any storm. The one place where she always felt safe.
“Of course you’re not a burden,” Daddy said, glaring at his wife. “And we’re not poor, love, we’ve simply got to retrench.”
Mother rose and tottered to the drinks trolley.
“What about my credit cards?” Chloe asked, horrified.
Her father looked ill and for the first time she worried about him. He looked so old and worn out. She experienced a twinge of guilt.
“I’ll pay them up once more. But that will be the last time.”
“Don’t worry, Daddy,” she said, feeling like Pollyanna. “Once I get my new company started in America, I’ll be sending money home.”
She managed to get her first chuckle out of her father. “Of course you will, pet. Of course you will.”
She left her home after the weekend, quite worried.
All right. She had hoped to borrow some start-up money from her parents to fund her new venture, but obviously that wasn’t going to work.
Luckily, the Italian ski racer she’d been recently engaged to hadn’t wanted the vulgar diamond he’d given her for an engageme
nt ring. The thing was the size of a small Alp and brought in a satisfyingly large amount of cash when she got her brother Jack to take care of a private sale for her.
Six weeks later, Chloe was on her way to Austin, Texas.
Jack, who was very annoying but also quite sensible in a way she never would be, and whose advice was usually right, warned her away from Manhattan. “The shopping and parties will do you in in a fortnight,” he’d warned. “And this time you’re on your own.”
Then it turned out that Rachel, his girlfriend the fabulous chef, had lived in L.A. and didn’t think it was quite right for Chloe either. It was her friend Gerald who, once more, stepped into the breach.
“There’s a man I know in Austin, Texas, who owns some property. He’s a decent fellow and he’d look after you. Why not start there? I’ve already talked to him and he has a house for rent that’s much more reasonable than what you’d pay in Manhattan or L.A.”
Chloe wasn’t nearly as stupid as she sometimes pretended to be and she knew that Jack had immediately called Gerald to try to steer her somewhere safe. Instead of annoying her, the thought that these people cared about her made her happy. Besides, something about Texas appealed to her. Maybe it was from watching all those reruns of Dallas and Dynasty when she was a child, but she quite liked the notion of living somewhere so over-the-top. All those acres of land, and men in cowboy boots, Stetsons, and low-slung jeans wandering around with their shirts off.
She’d waffled a bit over Austin, but then she saw the picture of the house. It was a proper house with a pretty garden and three bedrooms, so she could have her office at home.
Texas. Cowboys and oil wells. Ranches and land barons. Stetsons and spurs.
Within a ridiculously short amount of time, she had everything organized. Jack had helped her sort out a visa. She had business cards printed and had placed ads in all the important papers. She even had a website.
Her ads were simple.
The Breakup Artist
Breaking up is hard to do. We can help end your relationship for you. Experienced, professional, creative.
We do the dirty work and do our best to make sure there are no hard feelings afterward.
Discretion assured.
Chloe had enough money for about six months if she was careful. Of course, by that time her business would be established. Perhaps then she’d expand into bigger cities, she thought, filled with the optimism with which she threw herself into every new venture.
So, it was with a light heart that she stepped out of a cab onto a charmingly suburban street in Austin. She was to pick up her key at the house next door to the one she would occupy. All very simple.
She looked around, ready to be pleased with America. The street was lined with some kind of tree she’d never seen before. The houses were neat, mostly brick and with well-kept gardens, the sort of home where a person might raise a family. In fact, now she looked again, she saw some kind of playground in one of the backyards. Once the cab driver had unloaded all her luggage for her, she walked next door and knocked.
So far, the people she’d seen in this country, at the airport and on the street, had been disappointingly average. Then the door opened.
She found herself confronting a long, lean, muscular man with world-weary gray eyes, a tangle of dark brown hair, and a jaw whose toughness was softened not at all by the shadow of stubble.
She knew she’d found Texas.
Or heaven.
“Good afternoon,” she said, “I’m Chloe Flynt. I’ve taken the house next door.”
He blinked down at her and she felt his focus sharpen, which usually happened when men looked at her. It wasn’t that she courted male attention, exactly, more that she would have missed it if it stopped.
She glanced up at him—way up—from under her lashes. She wasn’t particularly short at five feet five inches, but next to this man she felt tiny.
“Gerald’s friend. Right.” He stood there, all masculine and delicious in a T-shirt that showed off lovely muscles, and low-riding jeans. “I thought you’d be older.”
She smiled at him. Next to her pout, her smile was her deadliest weapon. “Well, one day I will be.” What the bloody hell had Gerry said about her?
“I’m Matthew Tanner.”
She held out her hand, since it didn’t look as though he was going to. She was pleased to find his grip warm, firm, and manly. Yes, she thought, he might make an interesting neighbor.
“I need you to fill out some tenant forms.” He glanced at her again. “But you look pretty tired. Here’s the key. Get yourself settled and we can do the paperwork tomorrow. Everything’s hooked up and ready for you.”
Tired? She looked tired? And Gerald had made her sound old? Right. The first thing she would do after a good long sleep was to sort the closest day spa.
“Thank you so much,” she said, accepting the key. She turned and put a little extra something into her walk just to let him know she was neither too old nor too young, but just right. And she was certainly not tired.
She hauled her luggage into her new home next door and proceeded to set up house. She loved the place the second she entered it.
The hardwood floors were warm and welcoming. To the left of the entry hall was a cozy living room with basic furniture. All very clean and durable. She’d have to do something to pretty it up. Some throws and pillows and things, she thought. She peeked through, and behind the living room was a dining area and a bright kitchen with a big window and a back door leading out to a back garden with a patio. Of course, some tubs of flowers would brighten up the patio in no time. There was even a gas barbecue tucked to one side.
She ran upstairs and thought how pretty the big front bedroom was. Rather masculine, but at least there was bedding. Something else Gerald had arranged for her, bless him. Her bedroom boasted an ensuite bath with shower.
There were two other bedrooms, one of which was already set up as an office. Excellent. She peeked into the third bedroom thinking it could be a guest room if any of her friends popped over for a visit. And there was another big bathroom. Again, quite utilitarian, but nothing she wouldn’t soon have prettied up.
Tomorrow, she’d worry about groceries. Tonight she was happy she’d packed the absolute essentials. A tin of tea by Taylors of Harrowgate and a box of Cadbury’s Milk Tray.
With the tea made and her essentials unpacked, she set up her laptop in the spare room, where she was delighted with the old oak desk. Since the house came furnished, she’d imagined having to store a spare bed and buy a desk, so the fact that there was already a desk here, and wireless Internet, convinced her she’d made a good choice.
Her luck continued to hang about in the stratosphere when she found in her inbox, among farewell and good luck posts from her friends, a message from her first potential client.
Can you help? I can’t get rid of my girlfriend. I keep trying to break up with her, but she’s not getting the message.
Allan
She shook her head. How people could make heavy work of the simplest things. She emailed him back and made an appointment for the following day. Then she went to bed and thought about her first job as the owner of her own company.
Her strategy would depend both on the man and what he told her of the woman, but already she was playing with ideas. She could re-enact the dramatic breakup she’d managed for Martin Willowbrook when he’d been stalked by that woman he’d met at Oxford. That had been simple and effective.
But where would she borrow a baby?
Chapter 3
Matthew wandered past his front door, yawning and fantasizing about the first strong, black cup of coffee of the day, when he noticed a fat envelope that had obviously been stuffed under the door.
He stood there for a moment regarding it, eyes unconsciously narrowing. It wasn’t part of the regular mail delivery. He’d locked up just after midnight and the envelope hadn’t been there then. He glanced at his watch and wondered who had dropped off a f
at piece of mail in the last seven hours and whether he should be alarmed.
As usual, curiosity was stronger than caution. He picked up the envelope. Chloe was handwritten on the front. The envelope was soft, the flap tucked in but not sealed. A man with strong moral fiber and a healthy conscience would walk right next door and push the envelope through the correct mail slot.
He pulled out the tucked flap and peeked inside, where he found a wad of cash. And a note.
Chloe, thanks so much. Didn’t want this on my credit card for obvious reasons. Everything worked out great. I’d use you again.
Allan
He counted the money. Stood there chewing his upper lip with the unpleasant feeling that both he and his London acquaintance Gerald had been snowed. Then he shoved the money back and walked outside into the cool of morning. Lights were on in a few of his neighbors’ windows and Horace Black, across the street and two down, was backing his new truck down the driveway.
Up and down the street were signs of life, but in his new neighbor’s house nothing. She’d been here for two weeks, and while she seemed like a good tenant, she came and went at strange hours. He had a bad feeling he now knew why.
He strode next door and knocked on her front door, perhaps a little more aggressively than necessary. He’d been conned, and he didn’t like being conned.
Probably he should go back to his house and drink some coffee, give himself a chance to cool down and Little Miss I’ll use your services again time to wake up. But he didn’t feel like doing the sensible thing.
He gave it a minute, then banged again, holding the bell with his finger at the same time.
After an age and a half, the front door opened. Chloe Flynt stood there, her black hair soft and tousled in the sexiest case of bedhead he’d ever seen. Her eyes were the most amazing purple-blue, and they gazed at him in the vaguely unfocussed way of someone who’s not totally awake yet. He had no idea what—if anything—she was wearing, since everything from the neck down was behind the door.