This story is dedicated to;
My wonderful children for putting up with me disappearing into my writing room at odd times!
My friends and family for their unwavering support and belief that one day I would get a publishing deal.
The wonderful members of the Romantic Novelists' Association, the most friendly and professional organisation I've ever been a part of.
The fantastic HarperImpulse team – we've got the love!
And a special mention to my aunt, author Sue Moorcroft, who has been a constant source of support and inspiration to me. Without her clear constructive criticism, valuable advice and emotional cheerleading I'm sure it would have taken me much longer to achieve my dream.
DAY ONE
– Friday –
I should have said no; it would have been the smart – aka sane – thing to do.
But there was a time limit on the offer and Amy caught me in a moment of desperation after I’d woke to yet another thick batch of overdue bills and polite job rejections. The feeling tripped a yes straight off my tongue, and now I’ve realised that maybe this isn’t such a good idea, it’s too late. I’m dashing across the city, yanking my purple case along behind me on squeaky wheels. So I can’t back out now; I’m committed. More importantly the reason for agreeing to this crazy Plan B, on the basis that sensible Plan A isn’t working, stands. It’s probably my last chance to hang onto life as I know it. Sounds a bit dramatic, but there it is.
The bitter wind increases its howling across the West India Quays footbridge, tearing through my belted winter coat. ‘Bugger it!’ I shudder. As well as being freezing, the force of the gale is making staying upright a challenge. My favourite (yes, okay, impractical) stiletto ankle boots are battling for grip in the snowy slush.
I’m so bloody cold it’ll be a miracle if my ears are still attached to my head, in fact they’ve gone completely numb, and there’s also a familiar ache starting deep in my throat. Great. I don’t need to get ill on top of everything else. To finish off my bad mood, the Arctic draught is trying to pick my hair out of the stylish knot I spent ages on. It’s hardly going to look professional if I arrive looking like the loser in a pro-wrestling match or as if I’m stuck in the jungle on I’m a Celebrity …
Glancing at my watch, I speed up, heels rapping out a clank-clank-clank on the metal bridge. Being late will hardly impress, either. Unfortunately, fate is conspiring against me, because as I break into a jog the jolting combined with the wind finally frees my hair. A rain of kirby grips slide into my collar and down my back. Seriously? Come on! Stopping with a skid, I yank my thick red waves into a ponytail, using the emergency hair band from around my wrist.
Setting off again, I pray the anticipated snow will hold back for another few minutes. It’s not looking hopeful; the air has that weird ozone smell to it and the temperature’s dropped loads already, grey-white cauliflower-like clouds crowding in uncomfortably low like a suffocating blanket. Yep, I’m probably going to get snowed on and I can’t help feeling it’ll be fair enough; bad karma for being so sneaky. What I’m about to do makes me want to dig a giant hole in the ground and leap into it head first. But working as a temporary Personal Assistant for the CEO of my ex-employer is an opportunity too good to miss.
Of course, it may all blow up in my face. Jess certainly believes it will, saying I’m making a massive mistake. She might be right, but I think it’s a risk worth taking. I’ve got to at least try: I owe myself that. So now I have one weekend in Barcelona to change things, whatever my best friend thinks, and if I don’t, at least the lump sum I’ll get will keep the rabid debtors at bay a while longer. In honesty, though, I really need the plan to work. It has to work.
Coming to the end of the bridge, I let out a panicked yelp as I step onto the concrete and slip on a patch of ice, regretting grabbing the handrail when my bare hand freezes to the slick metal. Peeling it off, I pick my way across a courtyard, cutting through a narrow concrete alleyway between a Japanese-themed bar and a towering hotel. The multicoloured lanterns and white fairy lights are still hanging in all the windows, even though Christmas was over a week ago. Of course leisure and retail are going to maximise the festive season and people’s celebrations; there’s more money in it for them. God, I’ve turned cynical. Sad, really, because I’ve always adored this time of year. But at the moment merriment and holidays are way down my list of priorities and for the first time I really didn’t enjoy Christmas, even though I was home with my family and friends. I think I understand Scrooge’s pre-ghosts-of-Christmas perspective now. Bah humbug.
I look for the car as I emerge onto the street, feeling sick and sweaty in spite of the chill in the air. Have I missed my ride? I’m only a couple of minutes late. Something cold kisses my cheek and I glance at the sky. Snow begins to eddy and swirl around me, getting in my eyes. No doubt I’ll end up with black Alice Cooper tracks down my face. I’m wearing cheap mascara – haven’t been able to afford the branded waterproof stuff in ages.
A wave of utter weariness drags me down. Perhaps this chance has slipped away. If so, standing here could make frostbite an unwelcome reality. How long to wait before I jack it in and head home? But then a swish black town car turns the corner and pulls in at the kerb with a quiet purr and I know this is it. It’s on. Time to meet the CEO.
Pasting on a shaky smile, I step towards the smart uniformed driver, holding back a laugh at the luxurious vehicle he’s stepped from. The formality reminds me of The Apprentice, when Lord Sugar emerges grumpy and grizzled from a flash car. I was a middle manager, so we were never kept in this style.
‘Can I help you?’ The man meets me at the back of the car, posture as rigid as his voice, whilst the wind whips grit and whirling snowflakes about us.
‘Good afternoon, I’m Charley Caswell.’
He peers down at me. ‘You are?’
‘I am.’ At least, I was last time I checked. ‘Would you like to see some ID?’
‘That would be helpful, thank you.’
Oh. I was joking. This is a bit weird.
Sliding a hand into my bag, I flip my passport open at the last page, placing my fingers strategically along the side to hide Wright, the second part of my double-barrelled surname.
He gives it a quick glance.
I stop breathing.
‘Thank you, Miss Caswell. Wait here a moment please?’
I nod, tucking the passport away and thrusting half-dead hands into my coat pockets. I should have swiped a pair of gloves from Jess on the way out of our flat. She’s used to me borrowing her stuff.
Focusing on the driver as he taps on the tinted rear car window, I watch the glass slide down but can’t hear his conversation with the passenger. The tension in his shoulders as exchanges rattle back and forth between them is obvious, though.
Gritting my teeth to stop them chattering, I scrunch my eyes against the awful weather. What’s taking so long? I can’t be busted so soon, surely? When registering with the latest batch of agencies, I only used the first part of my surname, the one I originally dropped when moving to the city, a