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Sometimes your sensibilities make absolutely no sense!
Holly James is looking for her big break. A young journalist for BritTEEN magazine, she is dying to write about something more meaningful than pop stars and nail varnish. So when she spots a homeless teenager outside the office, she feels compelled to tell her story. But her evil boss Sasha has other ideas…
Holly is sent to interview a city solicitor she has never heard of. But Alex Barrington turns out to be the very opposite of fusty and boring and Holly’s interest struggles to stay strictly professional!
With Sasha sabotaging her every move, and her story about teens on the street leading her into London’s dark underworld, Holly is chasing both love and success at the same time. But happy endings like that only happen in books…don’t they?
Also available by Katie Oliver
Prada and Prejudice
Mansfield Lark
Love and Liability
Katie Oliver
Copyright
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2014
Copyright © Katie Oliver 2014
Katie Oliver 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.
E-book Edition © June 2014 ISBN: 9781472083968
Version date: 2018-06-20
KATIE OLIVER loves romantic comedies, characters who “meet cute“, Richard Curtis films, and Prosecco (not necessarily in that order). She currently resides in northern Virginia with her husband and three parakeets, in a rambling old house with uneven floors and a dining room that leaks when it rains.
Katie has been writing since she was eight, and has a box crammed with (mostly unfinished) novels to prove it. With her sons grown and gone, she decided to get serious and write more (and hopefully, better) stories. She even finishes most of them.
So if you like a bit of comedy with your romance, please visit Katie’s website, www.katieoliver.com, and have a look.
Here’s to love and all its complications…
To my editors, Lucy Gilmour and Helen Williams, for taking this book from ‘not bad’ all the way to ‘fabulous’; to my agent, Nikki Terpilowski, who believed in me and my stories right from the start; to my Twitter friends, for their numerous reTweets and mentions and follows and favourites; to my coworkers, who read the very first draft (and still liked it!); and lastly, to my dear, understanding, and very supportive husband, Mark. I couldn’t do it without you, Mr Oliver.
Contents
Cover
Blurb
Book List
Title Page
Author Bio
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Endpages
About the Publisher
Copyright
Prologue
The girl stepped down from the bus, clutching the strap of her rucksack tightly. The doors closed behind her with a gassy wheeze, and the N38 rumbled off towards Charing Cross Road, leaving her alone on the pavement.
She eyed the deserted street uncertainly. What now? It was nearly dawn, and she had fifty quid to her name. That wouldn’t go far in London. At least she’d managed to sleep on the bus.
Too bad her sleep had been plagued by nightmares…
No one knew she was gone. Not mum, nor dad. Not Erik. She shuddered. Especially not him. So it was okay. She was in London, and she was safe. She had a bit of money. And — she slid her hand into her jeans pocket just to reassure herself — she had her mobile phone.
Her stomach rumbled. She re-shouldered the rucksack and trudged down Shaftesbury Avenue, intent on finding breakfast somewhere.
It’ll all work out, she reassured herself. Once she had a nice greasy fry-up of bacon, eggs and grilled tomatoes in front of her, she’d figure out what to do next.
There was a restaurant on the corner. It stayed open all night to accommodate hungry theatre-goers from the West End and time-pressed employees from the office towers nearby.
She went inside and slid onto one of the sticky red pleather banquettes and ordered fried eggs, bacon, and coffee.
Twenty-five minutes later, except for a bit of congealed egg yolk, her plate was clean. She pushed it aside and withdrew her mobile, and the black screen sprang to life.
She glanced down at the screen and frowned. The icons looked…different. And the background wasn’t the usual photo of a Himalayan sunrise; it was a snapshot of a blonde woman.
A woman she’d never seen before.
Puzzled, she pressed the “Contacts” icon. She didn’t recognize any of the listed names or numbers.
She scrolled through the list, her frown deepening, pausing on the entry named “My Phone”. She pressed it.
Erik’s picture popped up.
She gasped and dropped the phone with badly trembling fingers, and it landed with a clatter on the plate.
“You all right, love?” the waitress enquired as she paused to refill her coffee cup. “You’ve gone white as a sheet.”
“Fine,” she mumbled, and cleared her throat. “I’m fine.”
As the waitress left she retrieved the phone and found the “Settings” icon. Her finger shook so badly she could barely touch it. A glance confirmed her worst fears.
The mobile was Erik’s. She must’ve grabbed it by mistake on her way out of the door. And he’d enabled the satellite navigation…which meant that if he tracked this phone from another device — which he most certainly would — he’d know exactly where she’d landed.
She disabled the sat nav, but she knew it was too late.
Erik already knew she was in central London. And he wouldn’t stop looking until he found her.
She found a Superdrug and went inside. She needed to change her appearance, and fast. She handed over ten quid — money she really couldn’t spare — for a box of cheap hair colour and a tube of hair gel. On her way out she nicked a pair of scissors someone had left on the counter. Ten minutes later she locked herself inside a petrol station lav and set to work.
She stood in front of the dirt-clouded mirror and held out a length of her long, honey-brown hair. After a moment’s hesitation, she whacked it off with the scissors. Grimly she cut off the rest. When she’d finished, her hair lay all over the tiled floor and the sink was stained with black dye. Someone pounded on the door.
“’Ere, what you doin’ in there?” the woman demanded.
The girl paid no mind as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Staring back at her was a fierce creature with a menacing scowl. Her hair, now as dark as boot black, stuck up on top where she’d gelled it into a sort of mohawk; the sides and the nape of her neck were as close-cropped as a boy’s.
Her hair. Her beautiful, long hair…
She unlocked the door and brushed past the woman waiting outside to use the toilet. After exchanging glares, the woman went inside and slammed the door.
Well, she’d done it. Erik would never recognize her now.
How could he, when she barely recognized herself?
Chapter 1
“What do we have for the Christmas issue?”
Sasha Davis stood at the head of the conference table and eyed her editorial team expectantly. “Well? Ideas? Anyone?”
Holly James raised a cautious hand.
Sasha pressed her lips together and nodded at the assistant features editor. “Yes, Holly?”
“What about a round-up of the staff’s worst Christmases ever? You know — missed flights, Christmas dinner disasters…”
“Derivative—” Sasha sniffed “—and predictable. What else?”
“Top five most-wanted Christmas gifts for teenaged girls?” Kate Ashby offered.
“Boring.”
“What about a celebrity round-up of favourite Christmas memories?” Mark suggested.
“It’s been done.”
“Favourite celebrity Christmas songs?” he persisted.
“No.”
“Favourite celebrity Christmases spent in rehab?”
“Look, people,” Sasha snapped, “I know it’s barely July and Christmas is the furthest thing from our minds at the moment, but I. Need. Content.”
Several more suggestions were put forward, only one of which — ten stocking-stuffer items suitable for teenage girls for under £10 — met with Sasha’s approval.
“I want fresh ideas,” she announced as she prowled around the conference table, “not a rehash of the same old tired round-ups and lists. I’m thinking seasonal, but with a girly edge. I’m thinking fiction — perhaps a rollicking good ghost story? I’m thinking—”
Her mobile rang. She glanced at the screen and said, “Excuse me, I have to take this. Five-minute break.” She strode out of the conference room, murmuring into the phone as she shut the door after her.
Kate Ashby, Holly’s assistant and cubicle mate, leaned over and whispered, “Who’s on the other end of Sasha’s phone, I wonder? I bet it’s a new man.”
“Ugh — who’d be crazy enough to date a nightmare like Sasha?” Holly whispered back.
“Someone who’s into BDSM,” Kate murmured. “Think about it — Sasha would be a perfect dominatrix. Black leather bustier, a Swarovski-studded whip, her trademark black stiletto booties—”
They fell silent as the door opened and Sasha, the features editor of BritTEEN magazine, returned.
“As I was saying,” she began, launching back into her editorial vision for the Christmas issue, “I want a harder, less-girly edge in our articles going forward, and I want a fresh slant—”
Holly affixed an absorbed expression on her face and zoned out to study Sasha. In her severe black dress and leopard-print shoes, Sasha Davis looked like a predator…
…a very glamorous, expensively scented predator, to be sure, Holly reflected; but one vicious enough to rip your throat out with her perfectly manicured, blush-pink nails.
“—so I’m assigning Holly to handle the interview.”
Holly blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”
“I apologize for interfering with your customary wool gathering this morning, Holly,” Sasha said as she crossed her arms against her concave chest, “but I’ve just assigned you to interview Henry Barrington.”
“Henry…Barrington?” Holly echoed. She knew the canned bio and name of every pop musician, every actor, and every aristo and quasi-celebrity in London. Yet she’d never heard of Henry Barrington, and she had no idea who he was or what he did.
“He’s a well-regarded financial solicitor in the City. It’s rumoured he might stand for MP during the next election.”
“But I haven’t time to conduct the proper research on Mr Barrington,” Holly objected. She wondered suddenly if Sasha meant to sabotage her by assigning her to interview a dead-boring City solicitor with political ambitions.
No, Holly decided. Not even Sasha could be that petty and small-minded…
“We need a human-interest piece for the next issue.” She fixed a gimlet eye on Holly. “And you’re going to do it.”
“I don’t mean to argue, Sasha — but he sounds…well, dull. No one wants to read about legal briefs and casework. Besides, we usually feature actors, or pop singers, or—” she blanched at the laser-like glare that Sasha riveted on her “—or someone a bit more entertaining to the average British teenager,” she finished lamely.
“So now you, inexperienced and barely out of uni, presume to tell me how to do my job, Miss James?” The room grew quiet.
“I’m sure Holly didn’t mean to do that,” Kate interjected loyally.
Holly flashed Kate a grateful smile before returning her attention to Sasha. “Of course I didn’t! I only meant that it might be difficult to find any entertainment value in an interview with a City businessman. Especially since you want our articles to be—” she curled her fingers into quotes “—‘harder edged’. Besides, teen girls want to read about—”
“I know what teen girls want to read about.” Sasha’s voice was frighteningly calm. “Henry Barrington is your interview assignment. Tomorrow morning, nine o’clock sharp, at his office in the City. Be prompt. And don’t forget to ask the One Outrageous Question; I’ve emailed it to you, along with the address.” She leaned forward. “And make it entertaining.” Her narrowed dark eyes seared into Holly’s wide blue-grey ones. “Or, Miss James, you can find yourself another job.”
And she swept out of the conference room on a cloud of expensive scent and cold fury.
“Why does she hate me?” Holly moaned as they headed out of the door to grab a sandwich at the corner deli. “No matter what I do she finds fault.”
“She doesn’t hate you,” Kate replied. “She hates everyone. I wonder who her new bloke is,” she mused. “She’s been getting a lot of personal calls on her mobile lately.”
“I hadn’t noticed. I’ve been far too busy trying to source cranberries for the Christmas crafts article. Have you any idea how difficult it is to find fresh cranberries in the middle of summer?”
“Yesterday she got a call and left halfway through the planning meeting,” Kate mused. “Valery was not happy.” Valery Beauchamp was Editor-in-Chief of BritTEEN magazine.
“Well, she hasn’t sacked Sasha yet. But there’s always hope.” Holly glanced up at the menu board. “Tuna on wholemeal,” she told the counterman, “with extra salad cream. And carrot sticks, please, no crisps. And a diet Ribena.”
She turned back to Kate. “I haven’t got time to research Henry What’s-his-name. And what’ll I ask him? I know the lyrics of every song the Arctic Monkeys ever did, but nothing about financial stuff. And the One Outrageous Question Sasha gave me — well, I can’t ask him that.”
“What’s the question?” Kate enquired with avid interest when they were both seated.
“You know I can’t tell you! She’d have my arse.” Sasha always gave each BritTEEN interviewer a single “Outrageous Question” to ask, a question that was kept under wraps until the issue went to print.
Kate shrugged. “Charm him! Make him laugh; get him to open up a bit. Then you can ask him the Question.”
“I don’t know…” Holly took a bite of her sandwich and took a dispirited sip of her diet Ribena.
“Look at the interview you got out of Dominic Heath! It’s what got you hired at BritTEEN, after all. No one’s ever been able to interview him properly. How’d you manage that, anyway?”
“I only know Dom at all because he and Nat were together for two years.”
“Nat? You mean Natalie Dashwood, his ex-girlfriend?” Kate demanded. “Crikey, Hols — you act as though you and she are bezzie mates! I didn’t know you ran round with ‘It’ girls and celebs in your spare time.”
“I don’t!” Holly said crossly, and bit into a carrot stick. “My dad is Nat’s godfather. And she’ll be my sister-in-law soon. So she’s practically family.”
“But she’s that department-store heiress, isn’t she? Dashwood and James? The stores almost went under last year.”
Holly nodded. She took a bite of her sandwich and reflected on the past tumultuous year. Her family had almost lost the stores; she’d learnt she had a half-brother, Rhys Gordon; and her sister Hannah became romantically involved with a working-class boy in the stockroom. Their father was furious and forbade Hannah to see him.
It was all very Romeo and Juliet…until a motorcycle struck and nearly killed Hannah, and all was forgiven.
Holly sighed. She’d had enough family drama to last a lifetime. Hopefully this year would be nice and dull.
“Wait a minute!” Kate’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t mean—? Are you Holly James, as in that Dashwood and James?”
“My dad and Nat’s grandfather are partners. She’s like a sister. Only nicer,” she added. Her own sister was a pain in the arse most times. “She blagged me the interview with Dom right before they broke up.”
“Shit, Holly! If your dad owns half of Dashwood and James, why are you working for this second-rate teen rag, then?”
“I have to make a living, just like anyone else. I can’t ride on my parents’ coat-tails any longer. And besides — I love working at BritTEEN.”
And mostly, she did love it. Even though she was little more than a glorified intern, and even though her father was always on about getting herself a ‘proper job’, and even though Sasha was a nightmare in high heels who had it in for her…
Despite all that, she loved the work. Besides, writing for the magazine was a proper job, she thought indignantly. It wasn’t her fault that it didn’t pay much.
“Well,” Kate observed as she pushed her chair back, “this interview’s a good chance to prove yourself.”
“I suppose.” Holly sighed and stood up. “But it won’t be easy. Henry Barrington probably has bifocals and a receding hairline. There’s no way to make this interview entertaining.”
“Put your own spin on it,” Kate advised. “Find a way to make the story sexy.”
“Sexy?” Holly echoed. “Dividends and legal briefs are not sexy, Kate. I’m so screwed.”
But as she followed Kate out of the door Holly knew she had to find a way to make it work, or she’d lose her job.
Sasha Davis would see to it.
Chapter 2
Holly noticed the homeless girl as she and Kate left the deli ten minutes later.
“I need the loo,” Kate complained as she hitched the strap of her handbag over her shoulder. “That soda’s gone straight through me.”
“I’ll see you back at the office,” Holly replied. “I need to make a call.”
As she pulled her mobile phone out her attention strayed to the homeless girl once again. She was curled up on a bench across the street, her head resting on a battered rucksack, her feet tucked beneath her, and her eyes were closed.
Her hair was black, cut into a choppy shag that looked as if she’d done it herself with a pair of kitchen shears. It stuck up in a semi-mohawk on top. With a stud in one eyebrow and another in her nose, she looked seriously intimidating.
Holly guessed she was no more than sixteen, seventeen, tops — the same age as her sister.
Who was she? How had she ended up here, sleeping on a bench on Shaftesbury Avenue?
Oh, well — I’ll be late getting back to my desk if I don’t hurry, Holly reminded herself as she scrolled through to her father’s private number and pressed “Call”.
“You’ve reached voicemail for Alastair James. Leave a message.” Holly sighed and dropped the phone back in her handbag. She’d call him later. As she rounded the corner to head back to work she heard a shout ring out behind her.
“Help! Somebody stop him, please!”
Startled, Holly looked up to see a man running across the street, straight towards her. He dodged a minicab and a Fiat, clutching something against his chest, and the homeless girl pelted after him in hot pursuit. Holly realized he’d grabbed the girl’s rucksack. Acting purely on instinct, she sprinted forward to give chase.
“Stop, you!” she shouted.
He saw her and veered to the left. Hampered by her wedge heels, she plunged after him, weaving through the throngs of people on the pavement, gradually closing the gap between them. She was just about to tackle him when a lady walking a dog blocked her way. Holly darted sideways, nearly tripping over the dog’s leash, and fell.
“Are you all right?” the dog-walker enquired.
“I’m fine,” Holly replied breathlessly, with barely a glance at her bloodied knee. “I was chasing a man. Did you see where he went?”
“No, sorry. I was too busy keeping hold of Pip.”
Pip, a bulldog, sat on his haunches and regarded Holly with panting canine indifference.
“Did he take your purse, then?” Pip’s owner asked in concern.
“No. He took a homeless girl’s rucksack, and I was trying to get it back.”
The woman tutted and shook her head. “Stealing from the homeless? Shocking. Whatever is this world coming to? At any rate, he’s gone now.”
By the time Holly made her way back to Shaftesbury Avenue, a crowd had gathered on the pavement in front of her building. Curious, she pushed through the knot of onlookers to see what was going on. Astonished, she came to an abrupt stop.
The homeless girl had chased and tackled the thief and clung to his back, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck.
“Get the hell offa me, you crazy bitch!” he snarled.
But the girl held fast, stuck to him like a determined limpet, until a policeman arrived on the scene.
“All right, miss,” the uniformed officer told her, “get down, now. I’ve got this.”
“Arrest him!” she demanded. “He stole my rucksack!”
“Step aside, please, and I’ll take him in for questioning.”
Scowling, she slid off him and pummelled him with her fists instead. “You thieving piece of shit! Proud, are you, stealing from a street person? How pathetic is that?”