MIRACLE AT THE MUSEUM OF BROKEN HEARTS
By
Talli Roland
PRAISE FOR TALLI ROLAND
Talli Roland is rapidly running up my ladder of favorite authors . . . If you haven't read anything yet from Roland, get her on your list!
Chick Lit Plus
All of Talli's books are funny, romantic and easy to read, and you find yourself constantly turning the pages, becoming involved in the story and wanting to find out more.
Kim the Bookworm
Talli’s writing is fresh, lively and different. Her words carry you along and her characters make you care what happens to them.
Bookersatz
She's a fantastic story-teller and I really can't wait to see what's next as she has the potential to become a huge chick lit star.
Chick Lit Reviews
Bestselling novelist Talli Roland is also the author of Build A Man, The Hating Game, and Watching Willow Watts. Her novels have been shortlisted for industry awards and placed on Book of the Year lists by review websites Chick Lit Reviews and Trashionista. A former journalist, Talli is now a full-time author and lives in central London, UK, with her husband (who she’s still trying to convince to buy her a cat!).
Visit her Amazon author page on Amazon.com or Amazon.co.uk.
CHAPTER ONE
‘You can’t be serious.’ My best friend Mel shoved up her glasses, peering at the newspaper ad I’d handed her. ‘A Museum of Broken Hearts? You working there?’ She snorted, and a crumb of cranberry muffin flew out from between pursed lips, landing on the small table in front of us. ‘You might as well stick Gandhi in a war museum.’
I shook my head and grabbed the ad. ‘No, it’s perfect. It’s in my field of expertise, and it’s a great chance for me to get involved in a project right from the get-go. Exciting new opportunity for assistant curator at London’s newest attraction,’ I read aloud, my excited voice echoing around the tiny coffee shop. ‘The ideal candidate will have a degree in sociology or anthropology, with experience coordinating and organising display materials.’ God, it really was ideal. ‘See?’
Mel sipped her espresso. ‘Sure, you’ve got the right degree and experience. But aren’t you forgetting something?’ Leaning back, she raised an eyebrow.
‘What? Oh, the notice period at my job?’ I made a face. ‘I wouldn’t worry about that. I could walk out tomorrow and no one would know.’ Stuck in a dusty room in the basement of the British Museum, I was more used to seeing arrowheads and fern fossils than actual human beings. I’d even started talking to Ernie, an ancient skull in the corner, for a bit of company. It was definitely time to move on.
‘No, no.’ Mel waved a hand in the air. ‘You, Rose, are the living, breathing definition of an incurable romantic. A poster child for happy endings. A—’
‘Okay!’ I interrupted. ‘I get the picture.’
‘For goodness’ sake, you almost didn’t pass your thesis defence because you didn’t want to downgrade the importance of romance in relationships.’
‘Mel, you’ve made your point.’ For once, I wished my friend didn’t feel the need to be so bloody direct all the time. My cheeks coloured as I recalled my thesis advisor’s words that while my paper was certainly one of the most creative they’d seen at the University College London, a little thing called biology undermined my theory that humans partnered primarily for romance. I’d barely scraped by, only just managing to graduate and land my horrendous job at the British Museum. Two years later, and I was still there. This position at a new museum could be my chance to escape Ernie and the arrowheads. Sure, I believed in happy endings. And yes, I thought romance was highly underrated. But so what? You didn’t have to believe in, um . . . the Berlin Wall to work at the Checkpoint Charlie museum, now, did you?
I downed my cappuccino and pushed back my chair. ‘I’m going to apply.’
Mel sighed. ‘Fine. Just don’t come crying to me when you run across a broken heart that can’t be fixed.’
A few hours later, on the Tube back to the tiny flat I’d shared with Gareth, I turned Mel’s words over in my head while trying to avoid breathing through my nose – something you never wanted to do in the sweaty rush-hour confines of the Central Line. In my educated opinion (and after six years of university and two degrees, I was nothing if not educated), no broken heart or relationship was beyond fixing.
Okay, so my parents were still divorced. Dad was currently shacked up with a twenty-year-old hippie in a housing co-op (i.e., squat) after “tuning in, turning on, and dropping out” of the corporate rat race. Mum couldn’t even bear to utter his name. But I knew one day, Dad would miss his old life and return to the spacious home in the affluent London suburb of Virginia Water, where Mum still lived. She’d drop the defensive act, throw her arms around him, and that would be that. All it needed was a bit more time. All right, loads more time.
Men had to have their own little rebellious phase before truly settling down, didn’t they? Just look at me and Gareth. There we were, sailing along for almost three years in a wonderful relationship chock-full of flowers and chocolate. Well, the first year was chock-full of flowers and chocolate. The second was pretty much just chocolate, and by the third, I was lucky to get a half-eaten Gummi Bear. But that was simply the normal transition phase from romantic love to solid, unshakeable love – or so I’d thought. Turned out that for Gareth, it had been a transition from London straight to Vietnam, where he’d been inspired to build a community school and teach for the past year.
Despite the besuited man beside me pressing his willy against my leg, I couldn’t help a tiny smile as I thought of Gareth’s latest postcard, picturing a village in the midst of lush vegetation. Although it hadn’t said much (or anything, besides “Hiya”), Gareth had signed it “lots of love”, and even strewn a whole row of x’s under his name. Obviously he was starting to miss me; about time. Even though he’d stuck me with all the rent and bills – not to mention taking off without a proper goodbye – I knew that when he returned, our relationship would be back in that heady romantic phase once again. The two of us were a perfect match, despite Mel’s constant admonition that I’d be a fool to let “that bloody tosser” back into my life.
The Tube rattled into Queensway station. I unglued myself from Willy Man (really, if you did feel the urge to shove your groin against someone, at least have the decency to ensure it was a respectable size) and pushed through the packed carriage toward the exit. Out on the street, I drew in a deep breath of diesel-scented air, then dodged the tourists and souvenir stands for home. It was already seven, and Beano had probably ripped the sofa to shreds by now in retaliation for his late dinner. As much as I loved to complain about the ginger cat Gareth had also ditched me with, secretly I was glad for the company. I’d never admit it – I kept up a brave face, even with Mel – but that first month after Gareth leaving had been sheer torture. Eventually, my optimism had kicked in, but only Beano’s presence in our silent, echoey flat had kept me from going to pieces.
I turned the key in the lock and swung open the door to our one-bedroom, first-floor abode, with large sash windows overlooking the tree-lined street. I loved this part of the city. Even though the main drag was full of greasy Chinese restaurants, shops selling scarves for one pound, and dingy hotels, after turning onto any side street you’d be worlds away. Neat white Victorian terraces marched down the quiet leafy road, and lanterns cast a soft glow against the late November sky.
‘Hey, Beano.’ I kicked off my shoes, leaning down to give my kitty a quick scratch on the sweet spot under his neck. After pouring some
food in his bowl, I cracked open the laptop and pulled up my résumé. A few tweaks and a spell check later, and it was ready to go. Holding my breath, I typed in the address from the newspaper ad and hit “send”. I didn’t want to get too excited, but I knew I was perfect for the position. Just perfect.
Right, now what to do? There was only one thing for it. I shoved An Affair to Remember into the DVD player, flopped onto the sofa, and let the sweet sounds of romance carry me away.
CHAPTER TWO
Two weeks later, I’d almost given up hope on the new job. At Mel’s insistence, I’d even emailed to follow-up and make sure my résumé had been received. Instead of an enthusiastic “we never dreamed we’d get a candidate as qualified as you” response, though, I got nothing. Well, unless you counted several emails in my spam box offering to elongate my nonexistent penis.
I was just slurping my soup (all I could afford, what with covering Gareth’s half of the bills) with Ernie the Skull when my mobile started ringing. After rummaging in my handbag, I pulled out the phone, squinting at the unfamiliar number on the screen.
‘Hello?’ A dribble of liquid ran down my chin and I swiped at it impatiently.
‘Rose Delaney?’
The voice was deep and smooth – and undeniably sexy. The hairs on my arms lifted and I patted them back down again. God, it had been a while! As soon as Gareth got through the door (and hopefully it wouldn’t be much longer), I was going to jump his bones. Not that he was really the “jumping” kind – more of a tender, thoughtful, “making love” kind of bloke. I got lucky there.
‘Yes, this is she.’ My voice came out all prim and proper.
‘This is Heath Rowan, calling from the Museum of Broken Hearts, about the résumé you submitted.’
‘Oh! Yes, hello.’ My heart started thumping.
‘I’d like to have you in for an interview, if you’re still interested in the position. Does this afternoon at four suit?’
This afternoon? I bit my lip, glancing down at my clothes. Working in a basement, there was never any need to dress up, and today I’d thrown on a crumpled pair of jeans and an old, soft sweater that was a cast-off of Mum’s. Timing wasn’t an issue – I could nip out of here whenever I liked, as long as the work was done – but no way could I rock up to an interview looking as if I’d escaped from The Museum of Derelict Clothes. If I wanted to get there by four, though, I wouldn’t have time to change.
‘It’s fine,’ I said finally. ‘But I have to warn you, my work attire is very casual.’ “Casual” being an understatement. More like fit for the rubbish heap, as Mum would say.
‘Don’t worry,’ Heath answered. ‘I’m not interested in what you look like. I’m interested in your skills. So I’ll see you at four, then. Take the Tube to Liverpool Street station, then follow the signs to Spitalfields Market and turn right onto Brushfield. That will take you close to Fournier Street, and we’re at number sixteen.’
‘Okay, brilliant. I’ll see you at four.’ East London – full of bohemian artists, independent shops, and little cafes – was the perfect location for a quirky new museum. Excitement whirled inside me and I took a deep breath to calm down.
What did this Heath bloke looked like, I wondered? From his voice, he sounded maybe early thirties, tall, dangerously handsome . . . Right, no time for daydreaming if I wanted to leave here early.
‘Back to the fossils,’ I said brightly, smiling over at Ernie. ‘And mate, if I’m lucky, this might be the last batch of boring ferns I ever need to catalogue.’
The next few hours passed as slowly as ever, and finally it was time to head to East London. I bolted out of the British Museum, onto the Tube, and over to Fournier Street. My fingers were shaking and my heart fluttered uncomfortably. God, I wanted this job. I needed this job. No offense to Ernie and his fern friends, but if I had to spend another minute in that pit, I was going to fossilize, too.
Right. Squaring my shoulders, I took a deep breath then marched over to the red-bricked facade of number sixteen. Banging the gold knocker against the blue wooden door, I arranged my face into a smile, praying Heath had meant it when he’d said he was more interested in skills than appearance (because really, does a man ever mean that?). I’d smoothed back my long, curly auburn hair into a ponytail, but the soft pink sweater sadly hadn’t transformed into a neatly ironed white blouse. Ah, well.
‘Rose?’ The door swung open and I tried not to swoon, although I could feel my mouth flapping open. There, right in front of me, was a man straight from a nineteen-twenties black and white film, all broad shoulders, dark wavy hair, and perfect features. It was my daydream come to life.
I snapped my mouth closed when I noticed his brown eyes shooting me a funny look. ‘Yes, that’s me.’ Sticking out a hand, I noted with pleasure how his solid fingers closed around mine. ‘Lovely to meet you.’
‘Come on in.’ Heath ushered me inside, then motioned me to follow him down a narrow corridor. Trying to keep my eyes away from his bobbing bottom, I glanced around the empty rooms of the small, old-fashioned interior. The doorways were crowned with elaborate wood carvings, and a stunning fireplace sat proudly in the lounge. In the late afternoon sun, the floorboards shone and dust danced in the air. I could just envision the walls lined with artefacts, and glass display cases positioned like jewels. A wave of longing washed over me as I trailed behind Heath up some stairs, running my hand over the smooth wooden railing.
‘Have a seat.’ Heath pointed to a chair in the only furnished room in the house, what looked to be his office. It was stunningly sparse, with a metallic desk, two folding chairs, and a MacBook.
‘Thank you for coming on such short notice,’ Heath began, fixing those dark eyes on mine. A pang of something shot through me and I forced myself to nod. ‘You see, we had the position filled, but they pulled out at the last minute.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t believe someone would let us down like that. Anyway, by the time I’d rung the other applicants I’d interviewed, they’d already accepted positions.’
Disappointment seeped in as I realised I hadn’t been his first choice . . . or even the second or third.
‘What I’m saying is that I need someone committed, and someone who can work quickly. The museum is scheduled to open just in time for the Christmas season.’
My jaw dropped. Christmas season? It was already the twentieth of November, and the building was just an empty shell.
Heath caught the expression on my face. ‘I know,’ he said grimly. ‘You can see how much work needs to be done. But there’s no point sugar-coating it. If I do take you on, we’re going to have to work night and day to get this ready.’
I nodded, my heart leaping. Was he really thinking of taking me on? ‘That’s no trouble.’ It wasn’t like I had anyone but Beano to come home to. ‘What date do you hope to open?’
‘I’ve already invited the media to our grand opening on the fifteenth of December. Christmas is a prime time for relationship breakdowns and broken hearts, you see, so opening the museum during the holiday season really is ideal. Not everyone wants Santa and candy canes.’ Heath’s brow furrowed and his eyes flashed, and I leaned back in my chair. God. I’d never thought of the Christmas season as anything other than Santa Claus and candy canes. And cozy fires, roasted chestnuts, and lots of pressies all wrapped up in shiny foil . . .
Okay, last Christmas had been a bit of a dud, what with Gareth taking off just a few days before Christmas Eve. Mum had been in the Bahamas and Mel had gone up to her parents’ in York, and I’d spent the day sobbing into Beano’s tuna-scented fur. I shoved away the memory, forcing myself back to fluffy snow and dancing elves. That was the true meaning of Christmas.
‘So tell me, Miss’ – Heath glanced down at my résumé – ‘Delaney. I can see you have all the relevant experience. Why do you want to be assistant curator here?’
I twisted my hands in my lap as I considered his question. ‘Well, I delivered a thesis on the whole reason men and women come together
,’ I said finally, deliberately avoiding exactly what my stance had been. ‘I’m particularly interested in human relationships.’
Heath raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes, I noticed on your CV that you majored in sociology. So tell me, why do men and women come together, in your opinion?’ His slightly sardonic tone held a hint of a challenge, and I wondered exactly what had happened in his personal life to make him so sceptical. Unrequited love? A Love Story scenario?
‘Well, of course there is a bit of biology to it,’ I answered delicately, shifting in the chair. ‘But I do think elements of romance and attraction play a major role.’
‘Let me guess, you believe in love at first sight.’ I could tell by his voice that he didn’t.
I thought back to that first second I’d seen Gareth – right outside the flower shop by the Tube – and how I’d known straight away he was the one for me. Him rushing back and buying me a rose once he’d found out my name had helped too, of course.
‘I do believe in love at first sight, yes. But I understand every relationship has its ups and downs, ebbs and flows,’ I added, trying to draw the conversation back to the job on offer. ‘And I would love the chance to bring my skills here, and help display cherished objects from once-happy relationships. Maybe even bring some closure.’ And perhaps a reunion! I kept that last bit to myself, but wouldn’t it be cool to heal a few crushed hearts?
‘Closure. Right.’ Heath rose to his feet and I scrambled up, noticing he towered over me by a few inches. Gareth was a little shorter than me, and I usually had to crouch down to kiss him.
‘Well, despite our differing opinions’ — Heath thrust out a hand—‘Rose Delaney, welcome to the team. If one person can be a team, that is.’ He paused, shaking his head. ‘Here, let me try this again. Welcome to the Museum of Broken Hearts.’
Miracle at the Museum of Broken Hearts (Christmas Novella) Page 1