Now he’s been gone five years. I’ve spent the best part of my twenties immersed in dust and struggling to keep my father’s business afloat, dreaming of history beyond my family legacy. Like Sotheby’s and fine antiques. Like auction houses and historical masters of art. Like the tons of books on treasure I’ve immersed myself in. It was all suddenly out of reach. Guilt, grief, and a heavy sense of responsibility kept me in Helston. I felt suffocated. Unfulfilled. Dad’s business struggled more each day, and my sense of purpose was crumbling with it. And then there was a breaking point. The point when I realised I was worth more than I was settling for – both professionally and personally. It was the moment when I walked in on my boyfriend and my best friend tearing each other’s clothes off.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t collapse to my knees in despair. My heart simply didn’t have the energy to beat faster. I turned and walked away, my mind focused on my next move, as David chased after me and Amy sloped off quietly. My next move didn’t involve either of them. In that moment, I realised that I owed it to myself to chase my dreams, and with Mum’s blessing and encouragement, I was ready to do exactly that.
So here I am in London, the busiest and most grand city within my reach. I can’t afford to go back to university to finish my degree, but I’m prepared to start at the bottom and work my way up. I need to get some money behind me and pick up where I left off all those years ago.
I can do this. I’m where I am supposed to be.
I look at the photograph in my hand, the one I always carry on me. It’s of me and Dad. His arm is draped loosely around my shoulders, my long, red hair tangled in his fingers, and my face is screwed up on a laugh from his fierce grip. He never liked letting go of me. ‘I’m in big, scary London, Dad,’ I say to the picture. ‘Wish me luck.’ I tuck it away in my purse and take a deep breath.
The sun is warm on my face, and I’m smiling as I scurry along with my fellow Londoners down Regent Street. I’m in the smartest clothes I could find in my wardrobe— a black skirt that I fear is on the short side for an interview, but it will have to do, a white blouse with a cute black and white polka dot scarf, and a black mac. My toes are pinching in my high-heeled shoes, but I don’t care. I’m jobless, friendless, and I have a limited amount of cash. Surprisingly, none of these things are making me stressed, but it does mean nailing my interview today is essential. The job market is sparse. There are never many openings in the art and antiques world at the best of times, but the market is particularly dry at the moment. My only other option isn’t even an option yet – not until the agency confirms the rumours are true. There are whispers of a very appealing position coming to the market, but until those whispers are confirmed, the agency can’t tell me anything more. So I really do need to nail today’s interview. I can’t depend on an option that might not even be an option. I’ll only survive another month before the rent is due on my flat in South London. Flat? I smile to myself. Two rooms hardly qualify as a flat. Everything – the bedroom, the kitchen, the lounge, the dining area – is in one room. The other room is a poky bathroom. But it’s mine. It’s a start.
I reach the end of the street and stand by the side of the road, glancing around before looking down at my watch. I have fifteen minutes to find my way to the address I have noted down, and I’ve no clue which direction I should be heading in. I retrieve the directions I was sent, but they don’t make any sense, so I grab my phone and bring up Google Maps. Except I don’t have an Internet connection, and it’s all I can do not to throw the damn thing at a wall when I realise why. I have no data allowance left.
‘Shit,’ I curse to myself, diving in front of a businessman. ‘Excuse me, could you tell me where Bond—’ I’m barged aside on a frustrated scowl without a word of apology as he steams past me. ‘Nice,’ I mutter, straightening myself. ‘Oh, could you help me, please?’ I intercept a smartly dressed lady, but she just waves a mobile phone in my face before taking it back to her ear and hurrying away. ‘Great.’ I assess the many people dodging my immobile state as I stand in the middle of the pavement like a clown. ‘Welcome to London,’ I sigh, my shoulders dropping.
I cross the road and cheer when I see a map on the corner. It takes me few seconds to figure out where I am, another few to find my destination, and only a nanosecond to realise it’s going to take me more than fifteen minutes to walk it. Or hobble. My feet are throbbing. Today’s interview is for an amazing position – personal assistant to a curator at an auction house. It’s perfect. I can’t be late.
I dive into the road and wave my arm in the air like a madwoman, searching for an available cab amid the sea of black cars. The indicator of one starts blinking, and it cuts across the traffic, pulling up to the kerb beside me.
Stepping off the pavement, I reach for the door handle, but that’s as far as I get. ‘Oh,’ I cry, as something crashes into my side, knocking me off balance. I stagger, losing my footing on the edge of the kerb, the damn heels that have crippled me all morning dictating my fate. The ground comes towards my face too fast for my brain to catch up and feed any instructions to my hands, which are refusing to come up and save me. Goddamn it.
Accepting the inevitable, I clench my eyes shut and wait for the paving slab to meet my face.
But it doesn’t.
There’s no thud, no pain, no yelp.
Warmth engulfs me, gathering me into a safe bundle and hauling me gently up, saving me from my imminent fall. There is a thud, there’s impact, but my landing is soft, and I’m still vertical. My arms are gathered in front of me, trapped between my chest and something firm. And the smell. Oh, Jesus, the smell. An inherently masculine smell, leather, spice and something lemony. It saturates my nose, makes my head spin.
‘Careful,’ a man whispers, gently setting me down.
My eyes remain locked on his throat – a throat that’s dusted with even, dark stubble. I should be thanking him. I should be straightening myself out. I should be getting in that cab before I’m late for my interview. But no matter how much I yell at myself on the inside to snap out of it, nothing on the outside is functioning. The roar of London around me is nothing but a muffled white noise.
I clutch my bag to my chest like a protective shield as I peek up. His hair is mousey brown, cut neatly and close to his head at the sides, but longer on top, set with what I know would have been a rough muss of wax-coated fingers. Hazel eyes with flecks of green are shining at me from behind thick-rimmed glasses that rest perfectly on his perfect nose. His eyes, framed with long lashes, are heavy and angelic, almost feminine, and look at me with a lazy, almost amused stare. Jesus, it’s all I can do not to step closer and study them. He looks familiar, and I cock my head, wondering where I could have seen him before. I’m being silly. I’ve been cooped-up in Helston for most of my life. I couldn’t possibly know him.
My eyes drop like stones when I realise I’m staring, landing on some smart grey trousers. His stance widens, like he’s aware of the observation he’s under and has decided to showcase it in its best light. The material is pulling on his thighs a little from his hands filling his pockets. He has sturdy thighs. Strong thighs. Rugby-player thighs.