Meet Me in London: The sparkling new and bestselling romance for 2020. Perfect escapism, for fans of Lindsey Kelk and Heidi Swain.

by Georgia Toffolo

  GEORGIA TOFFOLO is a broadcaster and British media personality. Meet me in London is the first book of her quartet. It is her second book and first fiction novel. She lives in South West London with her dog Monty.

  Copyright

  An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  First Published in Great Britain by Mills & Boon in 2020

  Copyright © Georgia Toffolo 2020

  With thanks to Louisa George

  Georgia Toffolo 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.

  Ebook Edition © October 2020 ISBN: 9780008375867

  Version 2020-08-25

  Note to Readers

  This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:

  Change of font size and line height

  Change of background and font colours

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  Text to speech

  Page numbers taken from the following print edition: ISBN 9780008375850

  For Bertie Toffolo,

  You are the peregrine falcon in my sky!

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Note to Readers

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  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

  Acknowledgements

  Extract

  Chapter One

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  OLIVER RUSSELL COULD WRANGLE a wayward balance sheet back into the black, take failing stores apart and breathe new life into them, make difficult calls on staffing and personnel issues, make his shareholders happy and very, very rich. But he had never managed to curb his mother’s meddling in his private life.

  Some things were just impossible.

  Earth to Oliver. This is your mother asking about your Christmas Day plans. Will I need to set an extra place at the dinner table? Hint, hint. Your mother xx

  Sitting on a stool at the bar in the upmarket wine bar The Landing, Oliver groaned as he interpreted the ‘hint’ as yet another badly veiled attempt to discover his relationship status. Great one, Mum. Way to put pressure on a guy.

  Could this week get any worse? He threw his mobile phone onto the sticky, beer-stained counter, gripped the tumbler in front of him and took a sip of a much needed fifteen-year-old Scotch. As the honey-coloured syrup oozed down his throat and hit his stomach with a warming buzz he silently counted all the ways things had gone wrong in such a short space of time.

  First mistake; allowing his mother to believe he was finally settling down when in reality his love life could only be described as… non-existent. And now having to think up all the ways he could appease his parents over the holidays without going quietly insane.

  Whereas other families had jolly traditions of games and church on Christmas Day, his parents’ idea of fun was to corner him in the lounge, pin him down with laser stares and interrogate him for signs of commitment, a potential wife and progeny. A grandchild, or preferably many grandchildren, to spoil and give meaning to their later years, someone to carry on the family name and also an heir to entrust the business to. As an only child Oliver was expected to do so, as his father had done before him.

  Trouble was, after his last romantic failure, settling down was not on Oliver’s bucket list. At least, not for a very long time.

  Second mistake: in the spirit of keeping the family business afloat he’d agreed to clean up the mess his cousin was making of the new build. Ollie should have let him fall on his sword, but that would have meant his parents suffering too and there was no way he was going to allow that. So, here he was in a rowdy bar in Chelsea at ridiculous o’clock at night – or was it early morning? – having only just finished work, with the prospect of another seventeen-hour day tomorrow and the next day, and the next…

  He took another sip of whisky but almost choked as someone bumped into his hip, jolted his arm and sloshed the Scotch, rich but burning, down his throat.

  ‘Hey, gorgeous.’ A woman old enough to be his mother – and even though deep down he loved his mum, Lord knew he didn’t need two of them – appeared at his shoulder and beamed at him. Her eyes were wine-glazed and the lipstick smudged over her mouth almost up to her nostrils made her look like a startled fish. ‘I’ve got mistletoe, you know what that means, right?’

  ‘That it’s time I left?’ Scraping his stool back he stood, steadying the woman as she swayed, and then handed her into the waiting arms of her friends who were all dressed as… well, he wasn’t entirely sure, but there were glitter wings and feathery haloes involved, so he imagined they were supposed to be Christmas angels. In November?

  As if knowing all about his work stress and family dilemmas even the music in the bar seemed to mock him. Too loud and too cheery and all about being home and in love at Christmas. He shuddered. No thanks.

  Which brought him to his third mistake: choosing the bar from hell to drown his sorrows in. It wasn’t even December and yet here they all were screeching Christmas carols at the top of their tone-deaf voices. Christmas was everywhere. In the glittery tinsel that hung in loopy garlands across the ceiling and the fake tree in the corner. The soundtrack to the evening. The clothes people were wearing. Christmas was hurtling fast towards him and he was running out of time. He had so much to do to fix his first mistake before the doors of the new Russell & Co department store opened, way behind schedule, but in time for the busiest, and therefore most lucrative time of the year.

  He just needed some kind of miracle to make it happen.

  On the counter his phone vibrated. He picked up and grimaced at another text, knowing what was bound to be coming but also knowing if he ignored her it would only get worse:

  Oliver? It’s a simple question. Blink once for yes. Twice for no. Are we finally going to meet your new girlfriend? Your mothe
r xx

  Uh-oh. She was dropping the veiled interest and taking a more direct approach. This was serious.

  He flicked a text back:

  When your message flashes onto my screen it identifies you as my mother. There is also a little photo of you smiling at me at the top of your texts. You don’t need to tell me who you are.

  He added two kisses, because, well, she was his mother: Ollie xx

  A pause while he watched three grey dots dance on his screen and then:

  Not a single blink. How do I interpret that? We just want to see you happy. Your mother xxx

  By happy, she meant married. As if you couldn’t be otherwise. Although he knew just as many people who were married and miserable as married and happy.

  How was he even meant to send a blink by text anyway? He rolled his eyes instead. Nothing confirmed as yet.

  Before he could say ‘Baa Humbug’ her reply flashed on his screen:

  When will you know? Your mother xx

  I don’t know.

  If he told her the delightful Clarissa had moved on to a more malleable boyfriend his mum would be trying to arrange dates for him.

  As if on cue another text arrived:

  Is there something you’re not telling us? Is it over? So soon? Again? Oh, Oliver.

  He could feel the disappointment coming through the airwaves as her next text quickly followed:

  Perhaps I should invite the Henleys over on Christmas Day. I heard Arabella’s back from her Indian ashram trip and SINGLE. And stop rolling your eyes at me. Your mother xx

  He couldn’t help but laugh at that, despite his growing frustration. He tried to stay noncommittal. Apparently, according to his ex, noncommittal was a strength of his:

  Do NOT set any more dates up for me. Nothing’s confirmed re Xmas. I’ll let you know when I know.

  At the new store opening then?

  Just a matter of weeks away. She clearly wasn’t giving up. She never gave up. She wouldn’t give up until she was holding his first child. Or maybe his second – his second set of triplets.

  That was the problem; she wasn’t giving up. He just needed to appease her. Or ignore her. So, he chose the latter.

  Realizing he hadn’t finished his drink and grateful that the bar staff were now shuffling the off-tune singers outside he sat back down and resumed his contemplation of the whisky in front of him. At some point the staff would shuffle him out too, but for now he craved this brief peace and quiet, save for his mother’s infuriating but well-meaning texts and a muted conversation between the servers coming from a little room off to the side of the bar.

  He could hear Paul, the guy who’d served him earlier say, ‘Hey, Vicki, are you OK to close up tonight? I promised Amanda I’d get home early. It’s our anniversary.’

  ‘Of course,’ a soft voice filtered through. ‘You helped me out by taking the early shift so I could teach my class, so I’m more than happy to hang around here for the stragglers. Sara said she’d stay on and help me clear up.’

  Stragglers? Is that what he was now? Ollie looked around the bar at the three other solo drinkers – all male, all staring hopelessly into glasses of alcohol. He laughed to himself. Yeah, damned right he fitted that description; moving slowly. He didn’t want to hurry because the sooner he went home, the sooner tomorrow would arrive bringing with it all his problems.

  ‘So how did class go today?’ he heard Paul ask the owner of the soft voice. ‘Any more visits from the local cops?’

  Police? Interesting. Ollie leaned forward to hear mystery woman’s answer.

  ‘Oh, that was all just a misunderstanding. Her brother gave her the iPad, Jasmine didn’t know it was stolen.’ A pause. ‘Um. By her brother.’ A rumble of soft laughter that sounded so free and bright had Ollie straining to see who the voice belonged to. It wasn’t the other woman who worked here because she was now collecting glasses from empty tables and her accent was Cockney through and through. This Vicki woman was from somewhere else. South-west maybe, a tiny hint of something he recognized from holidays down in Cornwall. Laughter threaded through her intonation. ‘We sorted it out. The police dropped the charges against her.’

  ‘So, one of the kids you’re teaching is harbouring stolen goods. Great. You really need to stay away from trouble like that, Vicki.’ Paul came back into the bar and started to wipe down the counter with a dishcloth.

  The woman followed. ‘If I stayed away there’d be even more trouble for her, I’m sure. She’s so talented. You should see her designs, they’re stunning. Really fresh ideas. She could go a long way with the right guidance. I’m pulling out all the stops.’

  ‘You’re too good to those kids.’ Paul frowned. ‘Instead of focusing on your own career you’re spending all your energy on a bunch of no-hope teenagers who probably have never even heard the word gratitude.’

  The Vicki woman turned and put her hands on her hips, giving Ollie full view of her face. Wow.

  She was wearing a dress that looked like it had come straight out of the nineteen fifties; all slash neck and cinched waist in a fabric of cream and scarlet flowers. Her glossy, dark hair was loosely tied into a ponytail that was pulled forward over one shoulder. She had bright red lipstick on full lips – not smudged in the slightest, and the most intense dark eyes he’d ever seen.

  In stark contrast her skin was pale, he wasn’t sure whether it was make-up or natural and he didn’t care. Oliver Russell had known a lot of beautiful women in his time, but she was next level. Quite simply, she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

  That gorgeous red mouth curled into a smile, but a little frown appeared over her eyes. ‘Paul, honestly, they’re struggling in so many ways. They have so much hope and potential and no one else seems to care. If I don’t help them then who will?’

  ‘I’m just saying, be careful, that’s all. Your heart’s too soft, Vicki, you’re going to get hurt.’

  ‘It’s a fashion design class for underprivileged kids, Paul. Not target practice in the ’hood. Trouble is, we’re fast running out of opportunities for them to showcase their work. All the design schools have organized shows already and we’re lagging behind. I’m going to have to be creative with my thinking.’ Her eyes wandered over the bar and settled on Oliver, just for a moment.

  Instinctively, he smiled. She gave him the faintest of smiles back and didn’t look away immediately. A look of surprise flickered behind her eyes. Even from here he could see the flush of her cheeks as their gazes met and, as if someone had flicked a switch, a rush of heat hit him too. Interest. The flicker of awareness. Brief. So brief he checked himself; maybe he’d imagined it?

  All too soon she dragged her eyes away. Swallowed. She turned to her workmate and took the cloth from his hands. ‘Right. Well. Things to do. Off you go, Paul, we’ve got this. See you tomorrow.’

  With that she bent to stack more bottles into a small fridge behind the bar, giving Ollie a front-row view of her graceful, slender neck, the gentle slope of her shoulders, the pearls of her spine trailing into that curve-enhancing vintage dress. Even the back of her was more interesting, more alluring than anything he’d seen in weeks. Months. Ever.

  In his peripheral vision he sensed movement. As Sara put a fistful of dirty glasses next to him on the counter, she caught him looking at Vicki and grinned. Her eyes widened in something he could only interpret as mischief and he could almost read what she was thinking. Yeah, he was checking this Vicki out. So sue me.

  But damn, the last thing he wanted was to make anyone uncomfortable. He drew his eyes away but there was something about her that made him want to take a second glance and keep on looking. She was stunning, had a gentle confidence about her, and was helping poor kids in her spare time… his kind of perfect.

  Not that he was interested in perfect. Or anyone at all right now. He had far too much to do to save the family business to be distracted by a woman. Still, a guy could look, right?

  Vicki was oblivious. Vicki? She was more
a Victoria, he thought. Victoria smacked of gravitas and class and she had both in spades.

  Sara was still grinning. She opened her mouth, no doubt to say some smart-ass comment, but right on cue his phone vibrated again. Phew. Saved by the ringtone. But sadly, saved by his mother was way more of a crush to his ego than being caught admiring a beautiful woman.

  How about Jecca Forsythe? She’s lovely. Just come out of a messy divorce, so I imagine she’s keen to get dating again.

  Your mother xx

  The latest in the line of single women his mother kept parading in front of him. They were all perfectly nice women, all fitting his parents’ ideal of what a Russell wife should be like; preferably the daughter of business associates to strengthen the Russell brand, clever, pretty but not showy, happy to support him in his business, keen for a family. But none of them made him feel… whatever it was he was supposed to feel. The kind of thing his grandparents had had. The laugh together, play together, grow together love. That wasn’t something they shared in his Russell household. Loyalty, yes. Proximity… if necessary. Closeness, not so much.

  No, Mum. Not Jecca. Or Arabella. Or anyone else for that matter. I can sort out my own love life, thanks.

  Another ping on his phone. He didn’t want to look, but he had to, because ignoring her wasn’t working.

  Well, from where I’m sitting you obviously can’t. You need an intervention. I’m worried about you, Oliver. It’s not good to be alone. Your father is so invested in your future, we both are. We miss you. Your mother xx

  Oliver read it twice and cursed while his heart crushed at the mention of his father. The reason for this most recent intense interest in his love life suddenly crystallized: his parents had so much to worry about – too much – that they were looking for a distraction. And why the hell not? They didn’t have much else to look forward to, so a marriage and babies and a rosy future for their son was all they could hope for.