Annoyed at himself for his surly replies, and rightfully humbled, Oliver flicked another text to his mum:
How is Dad?
A couple of moments passed, during which guilt shivered through Oliver’s gut. Then:
Oh, you know. The same. But his doctor says there’s some experimental treatment he wants to try.
That was where they’d got to, experimental treatment when everything else had failed so far.
Give him my love.
His mother was trying, he knew, to forge a better relationship between them all at this difficult time and he welcomed that, but sometimes it could be suffocating. He’d tried I’m fine on my own. He’d tried I’m not ready to settle down and none of it convinced her he was OK. But now she wanted to meet this special woman. Who didn’t exist. Who’d got bored of waiting for commitment.
He didn’t want to let his parents feel that bitter tang of disappointment, not again when they had so much to battle already, but he didn’t want his mother setting up surreptitious dates over Christmas either, inviting the very nice but not for him Arabella or Jecca or any other woman she believed would be a perfect match.
He wanted them to have something to look forward to.
What to do?
Oliver? We’re so looking forward to meeting her. Your father in particular.
So without thinking too much about the ramifications Oliver sent a text straight back:
OK. OK, Mum. I’ll bring her to the opening day.
Oh! Ollie! Love. Ollie! Finally! See, that wasn’t too hard, was it? I’m so excited. Your mother xx
He stared at the screen for a minute and let his actions sink in. Hell. He’d just lied to his mother about a non-existent girlfriend. Great stuff.
He took another gulp of whisky. He had time. Time to find a new girlfriend. Or time to think up another excuse to tell his mother on opening day.
Damn. Because if he didn’t come up with a plan his mum would be hounding him then too. If only he could find someone who was open to a mutually beneficial arrangement of pretend girlfriend then he could get Mummy Dearest off his back.
‘It’s last orders.’ That voice again. Vicki was close enough he could smell her perfume. A playful, flowery mix that made him want to lean closer and breathe her in. As she spoke her hands moved, fluttering over the glasses. ‘Is there anything you want before I close the till?’
So many things but none of them would be found here in this bar.
Unless… Kind. Beautiful. Perfect. The germ of an idea started to form in his head. He looked across the bar into dark caramel eyes that swirled with fun and, if he wasn’t mistaken, a little heat. ‘Actually, yes. There is something.’
She smiled, holding his gaze in a way that made his gut curl in desire. ‘Sure?’
‘Will you marry me?’
Not again.
‘Absolutely not.’ Victoria tried to hide her smile as Mr Tall, Dark and Dangerous’ hopeful grin withered under her death stare. Too often – because she was petite and kind of pretty – she’d been underestimated as being a push-over, but she had a backbone made of steel. She’d had to, just to survive. It served her well dealing politely yet firmly with alcohol-soaked guys. But this one was different, definitely a level higher than the usual punters.
‘If I had a pound for every marriage proposal I got at the end of a boozy night I’d be a rich girl indeed. But a word of advice, mate – as proposals go it needs work. Next time, maybe do some sort of grand romantic gesture like… oh, I don’t know, find out the woman’s name before you ask her to spend the rest of her life with you?’
‘I take it that’s a no, then?’
He grinned and she had to admit that, in another life where she wasn’t jaded and burnt by relationship failure, she might have found him a teeny-weeny bit attractive. There was something about his grey-blue eyes that made her want to keep looking at him, despite his ridiculous question. Something about the scruff of his messy hair that made her want to slide her fingers in and smooth it. She wasn’t even going to think about his strong jaw and stubble. He was dressed in the usual uniform for people working in offices in the Chelsea area – dark suit, white shirt, brown leather boots. He’d hung his suit jacket on the hook under the bar, and sat with his shirt neck open, no tie, and sleeves rolled up. Dressed down for Friday-night drinks.
The linen shirt caressed well-honed muscles. Broad shoulders. A fine body. He had a crystal-cut voice that was as deep as the trouble he’d just got himself into. So OK, maybe he was extraordinary compared to the usual suited and booted or trendy wannabe King’s Road hipster guys that came in after work.
Oh, and then there’d been that deep, low burn she’d felt as her gaze had clashed with his. Something totally elemental and primal. A prickling awareness over her skin. Something she hadn’t felt in a long time, and she had to admit it was happening again as he smiled.
She shook her head. ‘A definite no. Sorry, not sorry.’
‘Way to break a man’s heart.’ He shrugged.
‘Oh, I’m sure you’ll survive. There are plenty of women looking for what you’re offering.’ Ignoring the tingles zipping through her, Victoria printed his bill and put it on onto a saucer. She pushed it towards him. ‘Here’s your tab. Sara will ring it up for you.’
Then she turned away and busied herself with wiping down the optics. But out of the corner of her eye she watched him scrape back his stool and take out his platinum credit card, pay, then stride confidently towards the door. She pretended not to be gaping when he turned and gave her a woefully sad smile and playfully tapped his ‘broken’ heart before he disappeared into the night.
When the door closed she felt her body sag on a sigh, as if she’d been holding her breath through the whole interaction. Wow. That connection when they first saw each other had been… weird.
Her friend Sara, standing next to her, gave her a nudge. ‘Whoa. Victoria Scott, he is one hell of a hot dude.’
Yes, he is. ‘Says the woman with the uber hot girlfriend.’
Sara laughed and raised her palms. ‘Sweetheart, just because I don’t work that way doesn’t mean I don’t know talent when I see it.’
Victoria allowed herself to enjoy the fizzy feelings inside her, just for a moment. Because it had been fun and playful but that’s all it was. Then reality – fuelled by her doomed romantic history – slid into her brain, so she put those feelings in a box and closed the lid. ‘Gorgeous, but drunk. He must be to propose to a stranger.’
‘Hmmm.’ Sara’s mouth twisted. ‘He nursed one Macallan the whole time he was here.’
‘A cheap drunk, then.’ Victoria laughed. ‘That’s even worse. What a blow to my ego.’
‘Not at all. He seemed entirely in possession of all faculties, as you would agree, having not taken your eyes off him for the whole time it took him to pay and walk out the door. Maybe you should have taken him up on his offer?’
Victoria whirled round to look at her friend. ‘What? Seriously?’
‘Hypothetically speaking. At least, you could have chatted a bit more and seen where it could have gone… drinks, dinner? Bed?’ She grinned and Victoria wasn’t sure whether she was being serious or not.
Sara was relatively new to the bar and they’d started to develop a friendship that was fresh and fun, but with new friendships there was always that lag time of developing a bond, learning to trust, knowing what to say and what to keep secret.
With her tight group of old friends from Devon, Victoria always knew exactly what they meant, what they were thinking, what they were about to say even before they said it. They’d shared years of closeness, had been there for each other during amazing times, bad times and worse, and although they were all spread across the world now – and she missed them so much it made her heart hurt – they still talked as often as they could on group chats. They’d talk her off the ledge or encourage her to take the next step in anything she was considering, even dating, if ever she felt ready to do it again
. Sara was great but Victoria knew it was going to take a little more time before she felt as close to her as she did to Zoe, Lily and Malie.
‘Sara, he asked me to marry him, not go on a date. No drinks, dinner or bed. Just cut straight to the ’til death us do part stuff. No thanks.’
‘He looked more like the for richer not for poorer type, though and he might have been fun, which is just what you need right now.’ Sara appeared to be more excited than Victoria was over this. Which was strange, given that proposals did indeed come thick and fast at the end of a drunken night and normally Sara rolled her eyes and bit her tongue. ‘You never know, he might even be The One.’
‘I do know. He isn’t.’ There wasn’t such a thing.
‘Your loss.’ Sara shrugged. ‘All I’m saying is—’
‘It’s time to mop the floors and then we can go home?’ Victoria closed off this conversation about her hapless love life and looked at her watch. Her feet hurt from standing all day and her brain hurt from teaching lovely but demanding teenagers and then managing the bar into the small hours.
‘On it, boss lady.’ While Sara filled the bucket with hot soapy water Victoria looked at the empty seat where the hot guy had been sitting and something in her belly kind of imploded at the thought of him. Which was irritating, because even though her head could rationalize how someone good-looking could have a physical effect that was purely instinctive, her body was going along with it as if he was the answer to her recent sex drought. He wasn’t.
‘I’m not interested in The One who proposes to a random stranger in a random bar on a random Friday night in November. I’m not interested in anyone, you know that. I’m off men. Off relationships. Off getting my heart stamped on. For good. Right now, all I’m interested in is keeping this job so I can fund my design business and the night classes for the kids. Accepting marriage proposals or dating is lower on my to-do list than getting a root canal.’ She hit the reconcile button on the till and frowned. ‘And we’re twelve pounds seventy-five pence down.’
‘Ah, yes.’
She felt Sara’s eyes on her. ‘Ah, yes, what?’
Her friend nodded and her eyes grew sad as she leaned on the mop handle. ‘Peter.’
‘Oh, and here I was thinking you were going to give me a rational explanation as to why we’re over twelve quid short’ – Victoria shuddered at the mention of her ex’s name – ‘not bring him up. What about him?’
Sara’s hand was now on Victoria’s back, gentle. Supportive. ‘He did a number on you, sure, but why you let that sleazebag have such an influence over you even now I don’t know.’
‘Er… because he taught me a very good life lesson: never trust anyone.’ And never tell them your innermost secrets and doubts, because they’ll use them against you when you least expect it.
‘You were hurt, love. But you have to forget him and move on.’
‘I am well and truly over him. To be honest, I don’t think I ever really loved him, but just when I think I’m over all that – the expectation and the lost time – he parades his new fiancée in front of me as if he’s just won the lottery and all I was to him was some sort of temporary booby prize.’
‘Sleazebag. Although you do have a damned fine rack, girlfriend.’ Sara laughed. ‘And that is something I do know a lot about.’
‘OK, enough already.’ Laughing, Victoria caught a quick look of herself in the mirror behind the bar. Hair smooth, shiny and still in place. Lipstick also still in place. Cat eyeliner… perfect. Boobs enhanced by the dress she’d finished making this morning. Yes, she was looking good today. But she tried to look her best every day in the clothes she fashioned for herself – as a kind of walking showcase of her design talents. She wanted people to look at her clothes, to enquire about her dresses, maybe commission some vintage-inspired pieces.
And he’d been looking. She should probably take a proposal from a gorgeous man as a compliment, right? Just a compliment. ‘I’m done talking about men. Past or present.’
‘What about future?’ Sara winked then laughed at Victoria’s warning scowl. ‘OK, OK, I get the message. No more men talk.’
Although, as Victoria finished closing up, her mind kept flashing back to the stranger’s smile. The confidence in his stance. The way the linen shirt clung to his well-toned biceps…
And it occurred to her that she may be done talking about him, but she sure as heck wasn’t done thinking about him.
Chapter Two
THERE WAS NOTHING BETTER, Victoria mused as she sipped her takeaway coffee and felt the late-autumn sun gently warm her back, than mooching in Portobello market on a rare afternoon off.
Sure, she loved working in Chelsea, with its neat white terraces, and feeling of grandeur from the myriad high-end houses and guarded foreign embassies. She loved the sense of history from the three-hundred-year-old red-brick Chelsea hospital. Loved the new and the old of chain-store shops rubbing shoulders with quirky clothing stores, the sometimes daring offbeat clothes choices. The shock factor and yet the reassuring solidity of it all. Chelsea was her place. Her fit. She felt as if she was destined to have a shop right there. Had almost had one. But now she was back to square one with that plan. Thanks to Peter.
No. She wasn’t going to ruin this lovely day with memories of plans gone awry. She was simply going to make new ones and put them into action instead. Starting today, by focusing on her designs and growing her vintage-inspired portfolio.
And while Victoria loved working and renting in Chelsea, she also adored exploring and shopping in Portobello market. A more earthy, gritty place with its diverse stores, hippy buzz and exotic smells of cuisines from around the world. To her, Portobello was the mischievous anti-authority younger sister to Chelsea’s grown-up older sibling.
Walking down the hill from Notting Hill Gate she could barely control the fizzing in her stomach at the prospect of finding some amazing fabric or cute notions for her designs. At this end of Portobello Road, antique shops lined the street – their mysterious wonders spilling onto the pavements – before giving onto the beginnings of the outdoor market with back-to-back fruit and vegetable stalls brightened by flowers and gaudy Christmas decorations. Then, further along, at the gutsy, grungy Ladbroke Grove end, was the treasure trove of second-hand stalls and bric-a-brac. Also known as her kind of heaven.
The chatter of tourists and locals, the call of the stallholders and the hum of traffic combined to make an upbeat white noise, interspersed with the tinny blare of Christmas carols. She was in her happy place and the sun was shining.
She just wished she had Zoe, Lily and Malie – her oldest and dearest friends – here to share this. Her heart squeezed a little at the thought of them spread out across the world chasing their individual dreams. They rarely had a chance to be geographically close these days. But when they did, they always had such fun shopping together, laughing, getting ready for nights out.
That night.
Her throat tightened. That night had started just like any other. Four girls getting ready. The conversation was all about the make-up and dresses. Who had the highest heels, who could walk in them. It was about the laughter, the anticipation, about living. Oh, the excitement of a summer ball.
A chill peppered her skin. That night had changed everything: who they were, what they wanted from life, who they’d become. Funny how one blindsiding split second could change you for ever.
Absentmindedly running a hand across her belly she pushed those thoughts away and, now desperate for some seriously uplifting retail therapy, quickened her pace to the first shop she was heading for – The Fabric Store. Popping her now-empty reusable cup into her handbag she pushed the door open.
Betsy, the willowy shop owner, looked up from her phone screen and smiled as Victoria walked in. ‘’Ello, love,’ she growled in a deep voice that Victoria imagined was borne from years of chain-smoking or whisky-drinking, or both. ‘Back again so soon? Looking for something in particular?’
‘No
t really, thanks, Betsy. Just browsing.’ Yes, she came in here so frequently she was on first-name terms with the owner. Victoria’s eyes settled greedily on the bolts of fabric stacked in rows and rows, lining the walls. ‘And drooling.’
‘Don’t blame you. It’s my slice of paradise is this place.’ Betsy ran her palm over some quilting fat quarters as if they were her beloved offspring. Victoria sympathized. Only people who loved fabric, sewing and crafting could understand the allure of a pretty pattern or the soft stroke of well-made silk. Not even Malie, Zoe or Lily understood. But Betsy beamed, knowing she was talking to a kindred spirit. ‘Not got your kids with you this time?’
Victoria’s cheeks flushed. ‘Oh, they’re not my kids. They’re my students. I’m teaching a fashion design class.’
‘I knew you weren’t old enough to have teenagers, but… well, you never know these days, do you? They seemed a nice bunch. Polite enough and didn’t maul the goods with sticky fingers like some people do.’
What a refreshing attitude, compared to Paul’s careful, warning one. Although, Victoria had schooled them in manners and fabric store etiquette before she’d taken them in there, hoping they wouldn’t run amok amongst the shantung silk. In the end they’d done her proud.
‘They are lovely kids. But some of them can’t afford to buy fabric so I’m looking for any cheap samples, offcuts, any cute notions to brighten up some of the recycled clothes they’re using.’
‘Have a look through these.’ With a grunt Betsy pushed a huge cardboard box out from behind the counter into the middle of the room. ‘I’m just having a sort out, making room for a new delivery on Monday. There’s lots of out-of-season ribbon, end-of-line and clearance stuff. I can let you have it on the cheap if it’s for a good cause.’
‘That would be amazing.’ She looked at the box, overflowing with summery offcuts, Halloween fabrics and Easter-themed ribbons, and calculated a cost of well over thirty pounds for the lot. Not much to some people, but a big enough dent out of her salary – which wasn’t much after rent on both her flat and design studio, and once living expenses were taken care of. She wobbled a little but then thought of how much those kids deserved a chance. ‘I’ll take it all.’
Meet Me in London: The sparkling new and bestselling romance for 2020. Perfect escapism, for fans of Lindsey Kelk and Heidi Swain. Page 2