You've Got My Number: Warm your heart this winter with this uplifting and deliciously romantic story!

by Angela Barton

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  Dedication

  ‘The least initial deviation from the truth is multiplied later a thousandfold.’

  Aristotle.

  Acknowledgements

  Huge thanks to everyone at Choc Lit Publishing for all your support, hard work and encouragement. Special thanks to the Tasting Panel for believing that You’ve Got My Number deserved to be published, particularly those readers who passed the manuscript: Claire W, Debbie J, Jenny K, Peggy H, Joy S, Samantha E, Bianca B, Rosie F, Dimi E, Karen M, Margaret M, Cordy S, Vanessa W, Isabel S, Melissa B, Hannah T, Stephanie H, Stacy R, Elisabeth H, Katie P and Liz R. Thanks also must go to my editor, whose talent and sharp eye enabled me to polish my book.

  Thank you to the Romantic Novelists’ Association and their New Writers’ Scheme. Your feedback, support and guidance are invaluable to aspiring authors and your readers’ critiques are second to none.

  Heartfelt thanks go to Frances, Andy, Gaynor and Paul, members of my fiction group, Ampersands and Ellipses. Your positive criticism, optimism and encouragement helped me with every chapter.

  I’d like to also express my gratitude to fellow Choc Lit authors, Twitter and Facebook friends, Apricot Plots’ members and my fellow admin at Love Forties Fiction, Clare. I appreciate your support, faith and friendship.

  Lastly, to my wonderful family. You’re always there to support me and never complain when I’m glued to my laptop. Thank you. You’re my world.

  Copyright © 2020 Angela Barton

  Published 2020 by Choc Lit Limited

  Penrose House, Crawley Drive, Camberley, Surrey GU15 2AB, UK

  www.choc-lit.com

  The right of Angela Barton to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying. In the UK such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, Barnards Inn, 86 Fetter Lane, London EC4A 1EN

  EPUB: 978-1-78189-448-4

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  Magnolia House

  by Angela Barton

  CHAPTER ONE

  April’s unexpected heat-haze danced as it levitated above broiled pavements. Shiny black slugs of melted tarmac dribbled into gutters, smelling as sickly-sweet as pineapple chunks. The news channels were proclaiming that it was going to be the hottest spring on record for the past seventeen years and the damp skin on Rowan’s back was testimony to that fact.

  Rowan and her husband, Tom, were in Clapham, standing across the road from Magnolia House and looking up at it in disbelief. It was a neglected and weather-worn building and its flaking central front door didn’t bode well for the rest of the house. The sash windows looked rotten where paint had peeled and rain had drenched the exposed wood. The low parapet that was built around the edge of the roof was crumbling in parts and missing in others. Its only redeeming feature was a mature magnolia tree standing in the diminutive front garden.

  Rowan unfolded the page from the newspaper that Tom had shown her at breakfast the previous morning and, after great excitement, they’d decided to drive to London for a viewing.

  ‘It says here,’ Rowan read, ‘elegant semi-detached Georgian town house with basement accommodation. In need of some modernisation to bring it back to its former glory. Full of original features. Pretty courtyard to the rear of the property. Dated decor requiring attention throughout.’

  ‘Dated! I think they mean delapi-dated,’ said Tom, rubbing the stubble on his chin. It was a nervous habit he’d developed since recently establishing his own photographic business, The Wider Picture.

  Nearby church bells chimed half past the hour as the estate agent fidgeted impatiently next to the front steps.

  ‘Do you still want to take a look?’ asked Rowan.

  Tom pulled a face and shrugged. ‘We’re here, I suppose,’ he said, taking her hand and pulling her across the road.

  ‘Tom and Rowan Forrester?’ asked the agent as they walked towards her.

  ‘That’s us,’ said Tom.

  ‘Great. Let’s get in out of this heat, shall we?’

  As the woman turned a key in the lock, Rowan noticed that a line of perspiration had seeped through the back of the agent’s olive dress, staining it dark green. Once inside the cool hallway, they gave a collective sigh of relief. Hues of red and yellow painted their skin like tribal markings as the sunlight shone through the stained-glass window in the front door. The smell in the dank entrance hall was musty and sweet, almost like a perfume.

  They followed the woman into the kitchen where they discovered several cupboard doors hanging from their hinges, exposed pipework and an oven that had created its own biosphere of living organisms. Strange amorphous splodges were sprouting fungus and threading their way around each of the gas rings.

  Tom and Rowan traipsed around tumbledown rooms where ceilings were decorated with damp patches, floorboards were broken and strips of ripped wallpaper hung like clusters of catkins. Although some rooms were in better condition than others, all had retained their ornate cornices, ceiling roses and wide floorboards that shone with an aged patina. They lingered on the top floor, taking in the view of rooftops and neighbouring manicured gardens, before moving to the next sash window that was littered with hollow husks of dead bluebottles.

  ‘Look over there. Can you see the church spire?’

  Rowan looked beyond Tom’s pointed finger. The church’s conical tower tapered towards the bare blue sky.

  ‘Look, Clapham Common?’ Rowan pointed, directing Tom’s gaze towards patches of grass that were exposed behind the houses on the opposite side of the street. ‘I didn’t realise the house was so close to it.’

  They followed the agent back downstairs to inspect the basement. It was surprisingly roomy and light, with lemon sunshine spilling in from windows set high in the walls. The glass frames were too high to see the front garden, but oblong strips of cyan sky filled the panes as street sounds filtered in through the loose casements. Occasionally, a disembodied passer-by walked past the house, the limited view from the basement revealing only their legs.

  Tom grinned. ‘This is perfect. I can even use one of these rooms as a dark room and expose some of my photographs the old-fashioned way. And there’s so much storage space.’

  Rowan knew that if any floor would hook his interest, it would be this one. She watched him stride from one basement room to the next, planning and imagining his new business. When he’d finished pacing and stroking the surprisingly dry walls, they trooped in single file back up the narrow staircase to the hallway and back into the dining room. Tom ran h
is hand over a wooden fire surround, tracing his fingers along the carved swags and shells. He crossed the room and stopped against the double doors, looking out.

  ‘Can we go outside?’

  ‘Of course. It’s unlocked,’ said the agent.

  They stepped outside into a small courtyard garden, the glare of the midday sun making them squint. Aircraft droned above them, leaving white streaks slashed across the sky, criss-crossing existing contrails. The courtyard was full of pots containing withered brown plants, from which a handful of delicate yellow flowers gasped for life. The pale flagstones were decorated with star-shaped fans of dandelion leaves and at the far end of the modest enclosure stood a crumbling wall garnished with an overgrown wisteria. Despite its unkempt state, it was full of promise.

  Rowan had loved everything about the house’s ramshackle interior and envisaged a happy future living in it with the man she loved. The atmosphere was one of serenity and calm. Their four-year-old spaniel, Jet, would be safe in the enclosed courtyard and could run on the huge expanse of grass on the common. Rowan looked at Tom and saw a smile play on his lips and knew that he felt the same way.

  ‘What do you think?’

  He nodded slowly before answering. ‘Potential. Lots of potential.’

  Rowan clasped her hands together, as if in prayer. ‘Shall we?’

  ‘We should come back again on a dull day and have another look.’

  ‘Tom, we’re in the middle of an unprecedented heatwave. Forecasters are saying it could last for another fortnight. By the time a dull day comes around we’ll have missed the auction.’

  The agent interrupted. ‘There is a lot of interest in this property.’

  ‘See,’ said Rowan.

  Tom leant forwards and whispered in her ear. ‘She would say that, wouldn’t she?’ He rubbed his thumb against his fingers to illustrate that there would be a commission to be had if she sold the house to them.

  ‘But it’s a perfect family home, isn’t it?’

  ‘Hmm. It’s expensive and it’ll need a lot of work.’

  ‘But I told you, I want to invest Grandma’s inheritance,’ whispered Rowan. ‘I know it’ll still be a struggle for a while, but I’m sure my jewellery designs will sell for more money in London and you said you’d have a lot of extra work if we moved here.’

  ‘I know.’ Tom’s forehead furrowed in thought. ‘If you’re sure about your grandma’s money and we stick to our limit at the auction, then perhaps …’

  ‘Perhaps we can?’

  Tom smiled. ‘Perhaps we should give it a go.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Tom’s sister, Libby, lay prone on her double bed, resting her chin on her cupped palms while staring at the screen of her laptop. She’d arrived back from work ten minutes earlier, having spent a boring day trying to avoid her bad-tempered boss at the flower shop. She glanced at the alarm clock on her bedside table. David wouldn’t be home for another half an hour, so she had time to fan out a plastic rainbow of multicoloured credit cards on the pillow in front of her.

  She typed in the account number from her red credit card, added her password and waited until her account details were displayed in front of her.

  ‘Yes!’ Libby clenched a fist in celebration.

  Her credit limit had been increased. Rolling onto her back she held the card above her head, smiling. Now she could afford to buy Tom and Rowan a house-warming gift if they were successful at the property auction. She kissed the card and closed her eyes, resting it on her lips. Within seconds her pleasure was replaced with a groan. Libby’s moods swung from elation to guilt as regularly as her carriage clock chimed each quarter hour. She knew that she owed thousands of pounds on her credits cards and that her need to shop had worsened.

  Why did a visit to Covent Garden or Oxford Street give her a high she was unable to give up? She craved the buzz. The anticipation of the journey. The bright colourful shops, playing feel-good music. Shelves and rails full of tantalising objects and clothes that would make her pain more bearable. The purchase was the highlight. Her heart would beat faster as she watched her bargain being wrapped in tissue paper or rolled in bubble wrap. It would be carefully placed in a pristine carrier bag and handed to her like a trophy.

  The guilt usually kicked in before she’d even left the shop. She’d ask herself if she really needed more jewellery, make-up, another set of cutlery or any more baby clothes? She and David still hadn’t conceived after three years of trying, so why she needed to start suitcase number three of tiny outfits was unfathomable. She just couldn’t stop herself. Libby hadn’t dared add up her accumulated debt. She only knew that David must never find out.

  She sighed and sat up, rubbing her hands together to ease the pins and needles in her fingers. It was getting more and more difficult to hide all her new items from her husband. The suitcases were in the attic, hidden under an old rug. New suitcases had to be bought each time she filled one so David wouldn’t notice that their holiday cases had gone missing. The spare room’s divan bed was heaving with unpacked carrier bags, as was the back of their garage. Libby was dreading the day they would eventually move house.

  She slipped the card into a purse and secreted it away in her Marc Jacobs’s leather tote bag, another of her feel-good purchases. Picking up six more credit cards she shuffled them like a pack of playing cards. Libby dropped them into an overnight vanity case, zipped it up and turned the key on the miniature padlock. She then pushed the case back into its hiding place underneath her dressing table.

  As she stood up, she caught her reflection in the mirror. Shame made her look away, unable to meet her own gaze. Shopping. What a ridiculous addiction to have. She could never go to her doctor and admit that she needed to shop constantly in order to feel better. The doctor would tell her that all she suffered from was an inability to keep her purse in her handbag. It was too embarrassing to contemplate.

  Libby heard her mobile ringing in the kitchen and hurried downstairs to answer it. She saw David’s shadow walking towards the house through the obscured glass window in the front door and opened it for him before scurrying down the hallway into the kitchen.

  Her sister-in-law’s name and photograph lit up her screen. ‘Hi, Rowan.’

  ‘Hiya.’

  ‘Well, what do you think of the house? Are you going to bid for it?’

  Rowan squealed down the phone, making Libby grimace and hold her mobile away from her ear. ‘I’ll take that as a yes. That’s wonderful. I can’t believe you’re both going to live so close to us.’ Libby grinned at David as he walked into the kitchen.

  ‘Hopefully going to live close by,’ said Rowan. ‘We have to win the auction first, but fingers crossed it’ll soon be goodbye drizzly Wilmslow, hello sunny Clapham.’

  Libby laughed. ‘It’s been known to drizzle in London too, you know?’

  ‘I don’t care. I’m so excited and … hang on, your brother wants a word.’

  ‘Hi, Libby.’

  ‘Tom! You mad man. You’re doing it then?’

  ‘The auction’s a pretty big hurdle but we’re giving it a go.’

  ‘I was telling Rowan, I can’t wait to have you both close by. We’ll be able to spend so much time together.’

  ‘It’s going to be an adventure, that’s for sure. Is David there? I’d like a quick word.’

  ‘Of course, hang on a minute. He’s just uncorking a bottle of wine.’ She turned and handed the phone to her husband. ‘Tom wants a word.’

  She walked over to the fridge to begin preparing dinner, taking out a chilled packet of fresh penne pasta and a jar of tomato and basil sauce. When Libby turned, she was surprised to see that David had walked into the living room and was speaking in hushed tones. What could they possibly have to say that needed privacy? She moved a few steps closer and heard him whisper, ‘You’ve got a nerve.’ David was now hunched forwards sitting on a chair. Something was wrong. She walked towards him and saw him rake his fingers through his hair in an agitate
d gesture.

  She rested a hand on his shoulder for comfort but startled him instead.

  ‘Shit! No, no, it’s Libby,’ he said into the phone. ‘I’ll speak to you tomorrow. I’ve got to go. Bye.’ He pressed the red button and handed it back to Libby.

  ‘What was all that about?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, nothing.’ David stood up and walked towards the kitchen.

  ‘David. You can’t say it’s nothing when you’ve just told my brother he’s got a nerve.’ She raised her eyebrows in question.

  ‘Just football stuff. He’s going to try out for our club when he moves.’

  She frowned.

  ‘We were bantering, that’s all.’ He smiled. ‘Everything’s fine.’

  Libby wasn’t convinced.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Rowan had worked at Filigree Bridal Gowns in Manchester for four years having studied for a degree in textiles. Filigree had a workshop on the first floor above the shop, a room where wedding gowns were designed before being brought to life after weeks of cutting, pinning and sewing. It was here that Rowan was sitting at her workspace, sewing sequins onto a bodice.

  ‘Ouch!’ Rowan sucked her finger and then inspected it.

  Her colleague, Chrissy, was standing at the ironing board pressing a garment. ‘If you stop looking at your watch every two minutes then you’ll stop stabbing yourself with the needle.’

  ‘I can’t concentrate. Tom’s at the auction and I’m imagining new bidders increasing the price with every stitch I sew.’

  ‘If it’s meant to be, it’ll happen.’

  Rowan was sceptical. Chrissy grew anxious if the day’s horoscope didn’t turn out to be accurate and she’d feng shui-ed the life out of every incense-filled room of her apartment.