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

by Angela Barton

  ‘This house you want in London,’ said Chrissy, ‘what’s it like?’

  ‘Old. It needs a lot of work but it’s got so much potential.’

  ‘Potential! Don’t estate agents just love that word?’

  ‘It’s code for this house will eat your money and give you a nervous breakdown.’

  Chrissy leant away from a cloud of steam. ‘I love decorating. I’m actually quite good at wallpapering.’

  ‘It’s a long way off decorating. It’s solid enough but the builder’s quote is terrifying. It’s a bit like a giant jigsaw; it needs breaking up before putting back together again.’ Rowan checked her finger again before she dared pick up the white material.

  ‘Sounds expensive. Thank heavens for grandmothers, eh?’

  Rowan carefully set the gown aside using her wrists and lifted a small first aid box off a shelf. ‘Grandma’s inheritance and the equity in our apartment have made it possible, but we still need a big mortgage. I’m just praying my new business takes off and Tom finds plenty of work or it’ll be on the market again next year.’

  Chrissy hung up the wedding gown she’d pressed. ‘Have you made much jewellery since your silversmith course? It’s a brave move to change career paths and move at the same time.’

  ‘Now’s as good a time as any.’ Rowan wound a plaster around her finger. ‘I love the freedom of designing and making my own pieces of jewellery.’

  Rowan’s mobile rang, interrupting their conversation. Flustered, she searched beneath swathes of lace and silk before finding it. Her heart was racing.

  ‘Tom?’

  He sounded ecstatic. ‘Guess what?’

  ‘My God, we didn’t?’

  ‘Oh yes we did. Magnolia House is ours.’

  It seemed such a huge upheaval to move from Wilmslow to the capital, but Tom had been adamant that he’d find more lucrative photographic work in the heart of the city. Despite a little anxiety at leaving the North behind, the excitement of moving from the gentle buzz of Wilmslow to the deafening roar of London, filled her with excitement. The lure of a grown-up house close to the hubbub of the metropolis had smothered any sentimental regret she might have in leaving their first shared abode. To add to Rowan’s excitement, Tom’s sister, Libby, and her husband David, would live ten minutes away. Rowan and Libby had hit it off from the moment they’d first been introduced six years previously. Tom had almost needed to prise them apart in order to take his new girlfriend to the cinema as planned. Now Rowan couldn’t wait for her sister-in-law to show her the sights and sounds of the city.

  During the first few weeks of the renovation project, Tom spent many days away in London. He constantly drove backwards and forwards to do fashion shoots and check on progress at the new house, telling Rowan that he felt like he was attached to a piece of bungee elastic. The project manager had shown him what had been done, but for a long time progress was hidden behind plaster or beneath floorboards. Damp proof membranes were laid, pipework connected and crumbling walls were re-plastered. The basement staircase had to be replaced and the majority of the original sash windows needed extensive work in order to save them.

  It had taken four long months, while living in rented accommodation nearby, but finally Magnolia House was ready. The teams of builders, joiners, electricians, plumbers and painters had left, having renovated it from a dirty stone in the ground to a polished gem. Windows gleamed, the crumbling parapet had been restored and the new front door shone with a high gloss finish.

  Inside, the house had also been transformed. Smooth walls wore a fresh coat of pale pistachio, porcelain sinks sparkled, sash windows hushed smoothly open and shut. Oak floorboards no longer creaked, ceilings were no longer splattered with damp patches and the basement was now an all-dancing-all-singing photographic studio. Rowan had transformed the previously neglected courtyard and had converted it into a sanctuary of peace and serenity. Raised beds made from old railway sleepers were filled with fragrant herbs and glazed pots were full of brightly coloured pansies.

  The biggest excitement of the following week had also been Rowan’s biggest shock. She had put her recent headaches and nausea down to the smell of paint and wood varnish, but it was only when she’d hung a calendar on the kitchen wall that she realised she was late. The red star that predicted when she’d been due was etched onto a date ten days earlier. She’d been too busy to realise. A mixture of elation and fear flushed through her veins. It was what she had dreamed of since marrying Tom, but he’d set up his new business and a baby would certainly be a distraction. She could decorate a spare room as a nursery, but how would she tell Libby who was finding it difficult to conceive? And what about the expense? How could they afford a baby?

  Her overriding emotion, however, was elation. The thought of having a baby to grow up in this beautiful house with them had made her hum silly tunes all day, despite her nausea. Libby and David were coming round for some dinner tomorrow after the men had been to football practice, so she’d keep it a secret until they’d left. She couldn’t trust Tom not to mention it in his excitement.

  The next evening, Rowan and Tom were lounging on their sofas opposite Libby and David. Having finished dinner, the French doors had been swung open to let the mild August evening air sigh into the house.

  ‘I forgot to ask who won?’ said Libby, turning to face Tom.

  Tom was leaning back against the sofa deep in thought whilst biting his nails.

  ‘Tom.’

  He blinked and sat forwards. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I was just wondering who won at football?’

  ‘Oh. We did. Nice bunch of lads. I’d like to do it again. Would you excuse me a moment?’

  Tom got up and left the room.

  ‘Is he okay?’ asked Libby.

  ‘He’s been a bit moody recently, but he’s been so busy with the house and his new business. He’s just a bit stressed. Has he said anything to you, David?’ asked Rowan.

  David fidgeted. ‘Nope. As you say, he’s been really busy lately.’

  Tom returned a few minutes later and although he looked pale, alcohol and familiarity eased the friends through an evening of conversation. Despite being quieter and drinking more than usual, Tom joined in with the banter and good-natured gossip. It was nearly midnight before there was any sign of their guests moving.

  ‘It’s been lovely. Thanks so much,’ said Libby, rubbing her stomach. ‘I haven’t eaten so much in ages.’

  ‘And congratulations for staying sane over the last few months,’ said David, raising his glass.

  Rowan began collecting glasses. ‘We could do this regularly. Friday night suppers after football.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ said David. ‘Although I think that lasagne and garlic bread have cancelled out the exercise we’ve just done on the pitch this evening.’

  Libby patted her husband’s stomach. ‘No one forced you to have three helpings.’ She turned to Rowan. ‘Have you given any thought to when you’ll start your new business?’

  Rowan was stroking Jet. ‘Not yet, it’s been too hectic. I’m going to spend next week emptying the last few boxes and then I’ll visit a few gift shops to ask whether they buy direct from jewellery designers. Tom’s going to make me a workbench for one of the spare bedrooms.’

  Libby got up and began to collect screwed up paper napkins and the odd plate. ‘It might be tough as a newbie without a portfolio.’

  ‘Everyone has to start somewhere. Charles Tiffany started out with a stationery store and he’s sold a few pieces of jewellery since then!’ Rowan laughed, then became thoughtful, resting her coffee mug against her lips. She was trying to think of a way of working alongside a demanding baby. ‘I could even set up a website and start a mail order business.’

  ‘I’m jealous. I hate working in the flower shop.’

  Rowan stood up and followed Libby into the kitchen. ‘Tom’s in Scotland next week shooting some spring fashions for next year’s Petticoat magazine. Are you free for a coffee sometime
?’

  ‘Of course. Give me a text. Anything to get away from the boss for half an hour.’

  They wandered into the hall where Tom and David were standing next to the front door. They were speaking in urgent, hushed tones with their heads bowed towards each other.

  ‘They look like naughty schoolboys plotting to raid the tuck shop, don’t they?’ said Libby.

  ‘Definitely shifty.’

  The men stood up straight and glanced back at their wives.

  ‘Just discussing tactics for next week’s match,’ said Tom.

  ‘Thank you for cooking, Rowan,’ said David. ‘It was great.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Same time, same place, next Friday.’

  They waved until Libby and David’s car lights had turned the corner, then wandered back into the lounge where Rowan wrapped her arms around Tom. Now was the perfect moment to tell him her wonderful news.

  ‘Well, Mr Forrester, how does it feel to be the proud new owner of a beautiful Georgian townhouse and the successful host of our first dinner party?’

  ‘Good.’ His voice was monotone.

  She pulled back and looked at him. ‘Just good? Is everything all right?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You don’t sound it.’

  ‘Don’t nag. I’m just exhausted. Leave the dishes and I’ll do them in the morning. Night.’

  Rowan watched him leave the room and heard him walk upstairs. The feeling of rejection and disappointment stung like a bed of nettles.

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