MEET ME AT PEBBLE BEACH
Bella Osborne

Copyright

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © Bella Osborne 2020

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Cover illustration © Shutterstock.com

Bella Osborne asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of 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 ebook 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.

Source ISBN: 9780008331276

Ebook Edition © May 2020 ISBN: 9780008331283

Version: 2020-02-27

Dedication

For Julie – Everything a sister should be and more.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

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

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Bella Osborne

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Regan knew it was going to be a bad day when she awoke to find she was using a half-eaten kebab as a pillow.

‘You’re going to be late again,’ said Jarvis, giving her shoulder a poke.

Regan opened a bleary eye and tried to focus it on the alarm clock. ‘I’ve got loads of time.’ She harrumphed and pulled the duvet over her head. The work do the previous night had been dull so she’d drunk more than she intended to.

‘But I thought you were taking Cleo to the airport?’

‘Shiiiiiiit!’ Regan got out of bed so fast she forgot to put her feet down, and instead tumbled to the floor face first. Jarvis guffawed. ‘Ow! That bloody hurt.’ She jumped up and thrust her face up to the mirror. ‘Shit. I’ve got a carpet burn on my nose.’ She gave it a rub and removed a piece of lettuce from her cheek.

‘Remember you’re picking Cleo up from her studio and not the apartment.’

‘I know.’ Regan hadn’t remembered this, but being reminded by Jarvis was a daily irritant. She began picking things up and flinging them in all directions. ‘Shittity shittington …’

‘Regan, please don’t leave the apartment in a state,’ said Jarvis, adjusting his tie. She was doing a passable impression of the Tasmanian Devil as she tried to decide what she needed to do first. ‘I hate coming home to a mess.’ He sighed deeply. ‘Perhaps we need to have another discussion about this later. Hmm?’ A bra sailed past his ear.

‘Pants,’ said Regan, decisively. Pants were always a good starting point. She began pulling underwear from her top drawer. ‘No, actually I need a wee first.’ And she dashed off to the bathroom, taking a clean pair of pants and yesterday’s clothes with her in the hope she could get dressed whilst sitting on the loo to save some time.

‘You really should allow more time,’ said Jarvis, with a tut. Regan gave him a sarcastic smile and shut the bathroom door. Jarvis was lovely, but he could be a pompous arse sometimes. It didn’t help that he was frequently correct.

Right now she needed to accomplish as many things simultaneously as possible. She could brush her teeth sitting down too. The Lean Methodology expert at work would be proud, she thought, as she snatched up her toothbrush.

‘Bye then. We’ll talk later, all right?’ Jarvis called through the bathroom door, his voice overflowing with exasperation.

‘Oh kweee,’ mumbled Regan. It was the best she could do with a mouthful of toothbrush and one leg in her pants.

She heard the front door bang shut and relaxed a little. It was like living with her dad rather than her boyfriend. She surveyed the bathroom floor, strewn with an assortment of her clothes, a couple of towels and the oozing toothpaste tube. She’d just have to make sure she was home before Jarvis. She couldn’t stand another lecture on her slovenly ways, but she didn’t have time to sort it out now.

A few minutes later she was hurtling across Brighton in her battered Fiesta shouting obscenities at anyone in her way, which was essentially everyone. A quick check in the rear-view mirror reminded her that she hadn’t brushed her hair – she resembled a one-colour version of Cruella De Vil.

There was nowhere to park at Cleo’s studio, as usual, so she abandoned the car in the middle of the road and sprinted up to the door. She banged hard until Cleo appeared. ‘Come in. I’ve been calling you,’ said Cleo, kissing her lightly on the cheek.

Regan frisked herself as she stepped inside. ‘Shit. I forgot my mobile. Sorry, Cleo.’

Cleo gave her a forgiving look. ‘It’s fine. I told you an hour earlier than I needed anyway because I knew you’d be late.’

Regan was going to protest, but a quick glance at where her watch should be, followed by a squint at the clock on the studio wall, told her Cleo was absolutely right to have done this. ‘Sneaky – but good call.’

Regan was notorious for being late. She tried not to be, but she had long ago resigned herself to the fact that timekeeping simply wasn’t one of her talents.

‘What have you done to your nose?’ asked Cleo, peering at Regan.

Regan’s hand automatically shot to her face. ‘Carpet burn. Still need to hurry you up because the car is blocking the road.’

Cleo raised an eyebrow. ‘Interesting. Let me just do one last check and we can go.’ Cleo swept away. She was dressed elegantly in clothes that adored being shown off on her willowy frame. Even the way she walked was sophisticated. She was the fashion opposite to Regan, who often looked like her wardrobe had vomited on her.

Regan stopped slouching. ‘Why did you want picking up from here and not your place?’ Cleo was an artist with a swish flat in Hove but this was her studio in Brighton, where she worked.

‘I stayed at The Downs Hotel last night. There was an exhibition at the racecourse, but I didn’t expect you to remember all that so the studio seemed easiest.’ Regan pursed her lips, but she wasn’t offended. Cleo was right; she wouldn’t even have remembered to come to the studio if Jarvis hadn’t said. ‘And anyway I’ve let out my flat. Daddy suggested it as I’m away for two months. It made financial sense.’

‘Of course,’ said Regan. Nothing made financial sense to her. Finance meant numbers, and she wasn’t good with numbers. Which explained the credit card juggling act she had to do at the end of each month. Although, thanks to Jarvis and his austerity measures, this was now more under control.

Regan scanned the small studio. It was filled with canvases: some blank, some finished and a couple somewhere in between. There was a high-arched window, which filled the space with light. It seemed to fall like a spotlight on Cleo’s latest work. Regan peered at the large brown mass in the picture, tilting her head at an uncomfortable angle. ‘I don’t know what you find so fascinating about—’

‘We’ve no time for any of that,’ said Cleo, pulling her Louis Vuitton case as if she too were on wheels and she shooed Regan backwards out of the studio. Cleo’s art baffled Regan; she wasn’t an arty sort. The two of them had met when Cleo had taken a part-time job as a waitress to impress her rich father with her work ethic. Regan had been working there with no other ambition than not to get fired before payday. They were an unlikely pairing, but curiosity on both sides had brought them together – that and a mutual love of coffee and tequila shots.

After she’d set an alarm and checked the door, Cleo poured herself gracefully into Regan’s car. ‘Got everything?’ asked Regan.

‘Because I’m the one who forgets things,’ said Cleo, playfully arching a perfect eyebrow. ‘Here,’ she said, handing Regan her keys. ‘Alarm code fourteen fifty-two. The year Leonardo da Vinci was born.’

‘Why do I need to know that?’ Regan was instantly uncomfortable with the responsibility.

‘Because there’s an issue with the boiler and the landlord is sending a workman over …’ Cleo was speaking slowly as if Regan was remedial.

‘And you need me to be here tomorrow to let him in. I hadn’t forgotten,’ she lied. She tried to repeat the number silently in her head so she’d remember it. She wished she hadn’t forgotten her phone – putting a reminder on there would have been useful.

‘I’ll send you a text,’ said Cleo, pulling out her mobile. She gave her friend an indulgent smile.

Regan noticed Cleo twang the hair bobble on her wrist. She kept it there to help with stressful situations. ‘You okay?’

‘Not looking forward to the flight … or being away for so long.’

Regan set off; she was now far more relaxed knowing she had a little time to spare and she also stood half a chance of not being late into work. ‘Remind me again where you’re off to this time?’

‘Dubai, Hong Kong, Japan and Taiwan,’ said Cleo, without a hint of any enthusiasm.

‘Wowsers.’ Regan had always wanted to travel. The furthest she’d strayed in recent years was the Isle of Wight – Jarvis’s favourite holiday destination. She couldn’t complain, because he usually paid the lion’s share due to her cash flow issues. ‘You’ll have the best time. Post loads on social media so I can live vicariously.’ She didn’t really need to ask because Cleo lived her life on whatever social media platforms were the hottest. Her timeline was filled with photographs of beautiful people in amazing places, and she had a gazillion followers on Instagram. Whereas, Regan had eighty-four, and an alarming number of those claimed to be single males very high up in the American armed services, which everyone knew was code for fraudster.

Cleo raised a perfect eyebrow. ‘It is work. It’s not a holiday.’

‘Still,’ said Regan, braking hard for a bus that pulled out at the same time as it indicated. ‘It’ll be five-star hotels, cocktails, à la carte dining and comfy beds all the way.’ She gave a small sigh. She wouldn’t have to think very hard before trading places with Cleo.

‘How’s your job?’

‘Still duller than a black-and-white party political broadcast. But like Jarvis says, it’s secure and it pays the bills.’ There must be more to life than that, thought Regan.

‘You should try staring at a blank canvas for hours. That’s dull too.’

‘I guess.’ Regan knew Cleo was just trying to make her feel better. As an artist, Cleo’s life was two extremes: she spent a large part of her time alone in the studio painting, but then she also travelled the world to attend exclusive exhibitions of her work, as well as being invited to all the trendy star-studded parties because she was very much part of the art scene glitterati. Regan loved hearing all about Cleo’s glamorous life, even if it made hers look crappier by comparison.

They pulled into the airport shuttle drop off zone and Regan hopped out to get Cleo’s case from the boot. ‘Have an amazing time …’ said Regan, and she could see Cleo was about to interrupt her, ‘… at work. But remember to have fun too. Love you.’

‘And you,’ said Cleo, kissing her cheek and giving her a tight hug that went on a fraction longer than usual.

Regan held her at arm’s length. ‘You okay?’ She could sense there was something not quite right.

Cleo’s face was deadpan for a moment and then a smile appeared. ‘Of course. It’s just that two months is quite a long time. I’m really going to miss you.’

‘No, you won’t,’ said Regan, passing her the case handle. ‘You’ll be far too busy with work cocktails and work parties and other wonderful worky type things.’ Cleo looked skywards. ‘FaceTime me tomorrow.’

‘Of course. And please remember the boiler man. Saturday. Ten o’clock,’ called Cleo over her slender shoulder and she sashayed into departures.

Regan watched her go. She wished she were going too. She needed a break, and some sunshine would be lovely. There was nothing she’d miss for two months – with the possible exception of her dad – but he was all loved-up these days, so she rarely saw him anyway.

Beep, beep, BEEP!

The blast of a horn brought her back from her daydream. She gave a sickly-sweet smile to the large shuttle bus trying to get in behind her, whilst in her mind she was sticking her tongue out at him.

She had time to stop for petrol on her way into work, which was unheard of, so she treated herself to a Mars bar. The person in front of her in the queue asked for a lottery ticket. Regan couldn’t remember the last time she’d bought a lottery ticket. Jarvis had decreed that she needed to cut out all extraneous spending in order to repay her credit cards; her lottery and online bingo habits were the first to go. Jarvis called the Lotto a ‘fool’s tax’ because only stupid people played something with odds of forty-five million to one.

‘Which pump?’ asked the man behind the counter.

Regan had to check. ‘Two, please, and this,’ she said, passing him the Mars bar. Jarvis wouldn’t be impressed with her having chocolate for breakfast either. He was cutting down their sugar intake. ‘And a Lotto lucky dip for Saturday night, please,’ she said, feeling a tiny bit rebellious.

‘Good luck, love,’ said the man on the till.

‘Thanks,’ said Regan, putting the ticket in her purse.

It was a short drive into town. Regan waved as she entered her usual coffee shop, the Hug In A Mug, and Penny behind the counter did a double take. Regan braced herself for the sarcastic comments about her being earlier than usual. ‘You been evicted?’ asked Penny, chuckling whilst she made Regan’s usual order. ‘Wet the bed then?’

‘Had to take a friend to the airport,’ Regan said, with a giant yawn. ‘Actually can I have an extra shot in mine today, please?’

‘Sure thing,’ said Penny. She put it through the till and Regan paid with the joint account card. She liked contactless payments on the joint account because it wasn’t like real money. The only price she had to pay was Jarvis tutting over the statements.

There was a bang on the window of the coffee shop, followed by the cringe-making sound of nails on glass moving slowly down the pane. Penny and Regan winced and turned quickly to look. A large dog was standing on its back legs with its giant front paws on the window. It was the height of an average human.

‘Christ, what is that?’ asked Penny. They both watched, mesmerised by its large fangs and open slathering jaw.

‘Ah, that is Kevin’s new friend. I met him yesterday. Some bloke tied him up and left him, according to Kevin.’

‘Poor thing,’ said Penny, and they watched it lick the glass with its huge pink tongue. ‘What sort of dog is it?’

‘I think it’s a werewolf,’ said Regan. It certainly looked the right size. She grabbed some sugar sachets, slung them on the cardboard tray and headed for the door, calling ‘Bye!’ as she left.

Outside, the giant mutt was waiting for Regan, but thankfully, so was Kevin. Kevin was homeless. Regan had walked past him every day since she’d started her job at BHB Healthcare and he always told her carpe diem, which was Latin for ‘seize the day’ – she’d looked it up. He never asked for money, which had been what had triggered her to start getting him a coffee each morning, and the smile she got from Kevin when she handed it over kept her going for hours.

‘Hey Kevin. You might want to keep your dog off the glass. Don’t want him getting into any trouble.’ She gave Kevin his coffee and he beamed at her. The dog sniffed her groin and retreated. She couldn’t blame him – she hoped her lack of a shower didn’t have the same effect on her work colleagues. She made a mental note to spray herself liberally with perfume when she got there.

‘Thank you. Carpe diem,’ said Kevin, cupping his coffee reverently. Regan tried not to stare at the scars lacing their way across Kevin’s hands.

‘I will.’ She turned to walk away and then spun around. ‘Oh, has your dog got a name yet?’

‘I’ve called him Elvis,’ said Kevin proudly.

‘Because he’s in the ghetto?’ asked Regan.

Kevin looked baffled. ‘No,’ he replied, ‘because he’s a hound dog.’

‘Genius!’ said Regan, and it kept her laughing most of the way to work.

Chapter Two

Regan waltzed into the office with a whole twenty minutes to spare. She worked in a small team, which dealt with late invoices. The only break from the unrelenting tedium of doing the same thing every day was her mate Alex. He had a sense of humour, which made him infinitely more likeable than anyone else in the office.

‘Blimey, did they put the clocks back?’ asked Alex, pulling his coffee from the cardboard tray Regan offered him, then picking up the sugar sachets and a stirrer.

‘Your stand-up routine needs work,’ said Regan, taking her seat and switching on her computer. ‘I need to leave early tonight.’

‘What, because of the extra eighteen minutes you’ve put in this morning?’

‘No, because I left in a hurry and basically trashed the place.’ She needed to make it back to the flat, or ‘apartment’, as Jarvis liked to call it, to have a quick tidy-up before Jarvis got in.

‘Jarvis won’t like that.’ Alex tutted in an uncannily Jarvis-like manner.

‘Precisely why I need to get home before him.’

‘Why so early if you were in a rush?’ Alex was screwing up his face.

‘I dropped my friend Cleo at the airport.’

‘Artist. Posh sort?’

‘Yep, that’s the one. She’s jetting off for two months to Dubai, Japan and some other awesome places.’ Regan flopped back in her seat. ‘I wish I was going with her. She has the best life.’ She turned her head towards Alex. ‘Would you like to travel?’

‘I do travel.’ He looked affronted. ‘I go to Skegness every year.’

‘Hmm. Not quite the same.’

Alex gave a twitch. ‘Japan may have the edge on Skeggy.’ They both sighed together.

‘Ooh,’ said Regan, pulling her purse from her bag. ‘Look what I got.’ She held up the lottery ticket and gave it a wave. ‘It’s a rollover on Saturday. Ten million quid. Think what you could do with that.’

They both paused for a moment, lost in thought, until their boss, Nigel, tapped on his glass office door and they both quickly got back to work.

Regan liked Alex. There was no romantic pull on her part, but she knew he was quite fond of her thanks to some slurred words after too much tequila at the Christmas party. In any case, he made the day go quicker: they kept the tedium at bay by winding each other up on a regular basis. Nothing major; just the usual office pranks like hiding each other’s mouse, changing chair adjustments and unplugging equipment. It was quite childish, but it made work marginally more entertaining.

Most of the day was uneventful. In the afternoon, Regan found herself dozing off in a very dull meeting about discounting and promotions. Alex gave her a nudge and she turned what she feared was a snore into a cough. A few heads spun in her direction.

‘Terrible hay fever,’ she muttered, pulling a tissue from her pocket. Alex shook his head at her.

She could see he was furiously scribbling things down on his pad; she eyed him with suspicion. Alex was like her in a lot of ways; neither of them usually put in any particular effort at work, although Alex still fancied himself for a promotion. Regan couldn’t really see the point. She’d get paid very little extra at the end of the month, but have a load more responsibility. No, she was all right just doing what she needed to and no more. She understood why sales people worked harder for a bonus, or people who ran their own company, but it totally foxed her why an ordinary employee would do any more than the minimum required.

She leaned over and tapped a finger on Alex’s pad. He tilted it for her to see. The title at the top jumped out at her: ‘Lottery Rollover – What I’d do if I won’.

‘You don’t even have a ticket,’ she whispered.

He shrugged. ‘I’ve got loads of time to get one.’

She pulled the notepad from his grasp and had a read. It was fairly standard stuff. She handed it back and began jotting down her own. Regan chewed the end of her pen and made some crossings out as her imagination soared.

 Live in a big huge awesome home

  Help Dad out

  Get a pedigree puppy

 Save the tiger whale some important animal

  Run my own successful company

  Bask on a deserted island and drink cocktails served to me by bare-chested waiters

  Go out and enjoy myself

She had another scan of Alex’s list. He’d put down ‘Hook up with celebrity females’. Regan snorted and Alex turned his pad away. She studied her own list. Where did Jarvis feature? After how he’d annoyed her that morning, did he feature in her lottery fantasy life? She added an extra item to the list. It was only a laugh after all.

  Get new hot boyfriend who doesn’t nag or wear button-up pyjamas

‘Regan?’ asked Nigel, their manager, who was standing at the front, his expression one of knotted puzzlement. Alex gave Regan a nudge and knocked her pen from her hand, making her jolt upright.

‘Er, yes. Sorry. I was concentrating on my notes,’ she said, reaching down and scrabbling on the floor for her wayward pen. Alex kicked it and it disappeared. She glared at him.

‘How many queries do we get relating to errors in discounting?’ Nigel repeated.

‘Um,’ she scratched her head, ‘Alex?’ She looked pleadingly at him.

He grinned. ‘Regan is the data guru on this.’

Thanks for nothing, she thought. She’d definitely get him back later. ‘A couple a week. Maybe.’ She didn’t really record them like she was supposed to, so it was a complete guess.

‘When I last checked the figures, they were much higher than that,’ said Nigel.

Regan wondered if that was the column on the end that she added lots of ticks to at the end of the week. ‘It’s quite variable,’ she said. ‘Peaks and troughs.’ Nigel nodded and she relaxed. She needed to pay more attention, but it was hard when meetings were this boring.

Back at their desks, Alex was still tittering about Regan’s questioning in the meeting. Regan started plotting her revenge. It needed to be something hilarious. She zoned out trying to come up with a suitable penance for Alex while she did some data input. When he went off to a meeting she put a sticky note over the sensor of his mouse so it wouldn’t work and flipped his login screen upside down. They were only temporary measures, but they would at least put him off the scent that she was planning something bigger.

Regan paperclipped her lottery ticket to the wish list she’d drawn up.

‘Predictable,’ said Alex, returning to his desk and flipping his screen back. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked, nodding at the lottery ticket.

‘I’m not giving Jarvis any additional excuses to moan about me spending money. And if I win it’s probably safer here.’ She stopped short of adding that replacing Jarvis was an item on her wish list.

Alex made a grab for it. ‘Do the numbers mean something?’

‘Nope. It’s a lucky dip. Statistics show you’re likely to win more money with a lucky dip.’

Alex looked momentarily impressed. He pulled out his phone and took a snap of the ticket. ‘Hey,’ she said snatching it back. ‘What are you doing that for?’

‘So I’ll know if you’re lying when you ring me on Monday and tell me you’re on a beach in Barbados.’

‘As long as you don’t buy a ticket with the same numbers. I don’t want to share with you.’ She put the ticket and wish list safely in her desk drawer and locked it.

Alex stuck his tongue out at her. ‘Remember we’ve got a director’s visit tomorrow. Don’t be late.’

Regan pulled an unimpressed face. She didn’t like anyone telling her what to do and just because Alex was slightly older and squarer than her still did not give him that right.

‘Ah yes, it’s your big opportunity to impress,’ said Regan. Alex had been chosen to meet the visiting director and she hadn’t. Not that she was bothered – she wasn’t. But Alex was clearly making plans to improve his career prospects.

‘He’s meeting everyone,’ said Alex, breaking eye contact and chucking his stuff into his desk drawer.

‘Yeah, but you’re special.’ He glared at her. She did her best solemn Confucius impression. ‘Just remember the higher the monkey goes up the tree, the more it shows its bum.’ He took a swipe at her and she ran for the door.

Regan was still plotting her revenge on Alex as she walked through the market place en route to her car, which she had parked in the cheapest car park possible. The market traders were packing up for the day and she was astonished by the amount of waste she saw as the grocery stallholder piled up the veg he couldn’t sell next to the bins. He caught her staring at the racks of tomatoes a little past their best.

‘Help yourself, love,’ he called to her. She thanked him but declined. Jarvis would not be impressed if she took home a crate of dodgy tomatoes, but it did seem like a terrible waste.

As soon as she opened the front door she could hear Jarvis tutting. He’d beaten her home. She went to check her watch and for the umpteenth time that day cursed that she’d left home without it. She didn’t know exactly what time it was, but she guessed he must have left work earlier than usual, probably just so he could beat her home and have something to moan about. She took a deep breath and prepared herself for some grovelling.

‘Hiya, you’re home early. I need to get straight on with the tidying,’ called Regan, scooting through the flat. She met Jarvis in the kitchen already shaking his head.

‘Regan, you promised you’d not leave my apartment in a state. And what did I come home to?’ It irritated her that he always managed to highlight that it was his place.

‘I was going to tidy up before you got back, but you’re early.’ She was trying to keep her cool, but the condescending look on his face was seriously annoying. ‘I’ll do it now.’

‘But it’s too late. I couldn’t bear it a moment longer, so I’ve tidied up your mess.’

This was the bit where he expected her to thank him. She wasn’t going to. ‘You didn’t have to. You could have come home at your usual time and there wouldn’t have been a mess.’

‘We both know that was never going to happen.’

‘Er, yes it was. Because I’m home now and that would have given me …’ she looked at her bare wrist again, ‘… shitting hell …’ she checked the kitchen clock, ‘… twenty-three minutes. I could easily have tidied up in twenty-three minutes, but as you chose to do it, I don’t need to. So we’re all good.’ She responded to his confused expression with a cheesy grin and went to have a shower. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could stand living with Jarvis and his endless irritating lectures. In the initial flush of a new relationship she’d ignored his quirks, but now they just seemed to grate on her.

Next morning, the sound of a car horn made Regan stir. She opened one eye. Jarvis wasn’t in bed. She stretched out and was dropping off again when a stab of conscience made her turn over and check the time. She blinked at the clock. ‘Shittity shittington!’ That couldn’t be right. She was seriously late for work and shitting Jarvis must have known and left her to her fate. Regan scrambled out of bed, keen not to repeat the carpet burn of yesterday. It would be another day without a morning shower, she thought, grabbing up her clothes from their floordrobe and dashing for the bathroom, tripping over Jarvis’s precious rug in the process. Bloody thing.

Despite her lateness, Regan never missed getting a coffee. It was the only breakfast she had, and she justified her coffee purchase because it was also a commitment she had made to Kevin. And, more importantly, she couldn’t face a day of terminal tedium at work without a decent shot of caffeine. She flew into the little coffee shop and found Penny was already on the case. Within minutes Regan had swiped her card, grabbed her tray of coffees and was heading for the sugar sachets.

‘New process,’ said Penny. ‘No more sugar in little packets because some buggers keep nicking them. There’s a sugar dispenser on the side.’

Regan was thrown by the new process. Trust Alex to have sodding sugar in his. She wrenched off the lid of his cup, tipped some in and quickly replaced the lid.

Kevin was outside, his hair and beard wet as they often were in the morning. She puzzled over why that was; she had no idea where he would go for a shower. The irony that he had had a shower and she hadn’t wasn’t lost on her.

‘Morning, Kevin,’ trilled Regan, her pace virtually a jog. ‘Morning, Elvis.’

Elvis barked his reply. The sound was loud enough to loosen her fillings and she very nearly threw the tray of coffees in the air. Kevin grabbed his quickly. ‘Thank you. Carpe diem.’

‘And you, Kevin,’ she called over her shoulder and she speed-walked in the direction of the office.

When she arrived, Alex was hovering by their desks wearing a smart white shirt, dark tie and khaki chinos. Regan smirked at his outfit. He was definitely trying to impress the management. She could see he was looking flustered as she approached. ‘I’m sorry. Jarvis is playing games. The shit let me sleep in.’

‘You could set an alarm clock,’ said Alex, pulling his coffee from the tray.

‘I don’t like—’ but Regan didn’t get to finish her sentence. Alex pulled the coffee from the tray and it got a few centimetres from the desk before the lid parted company with the cup. The cup bounced on the desk and, in spectacular fashion, doused the front of Alex’s trousers with hot coffee. Alex gulped in air, making a noise like a train braking. Regan tried hard to stifle her laughter, but it was too funny.

Chapter Three

Alex stared at the stain spreading across his trousers.

‘They’re very absorbent,’ said Regan, grabbing a box of tissues from the desk opposite. ‘At least it missed your keyboard.’

‘You utter cow.’ Alex’s voice was a low grumble.

Regan’s grin slid from her face. ‘What did I do?’

He pointed at his coffee-stained groin. ‘You did this on purpose.’

‘No, you did that all by yourself, pal.’ She shook her head. She understood he was cross, but she wasn’t taking the flack for something that wasn’t her fault.

‘You loosened the bloody lid!’

‘No, I di …’ Regan thought back to the new sugar process. ‘Ah, no. You see the sugar isn’t in the little packets any more—’

But Alex wasn’t listening. ‘Just because I kicked your pen in that meeting. You do this?’

She wished he’d stop pointing at his groin. Regan did feel a sense of responsibility, but she didn’t like his assumption that she was this vindictive.

‘It was an accident, Alex. You need to calm down.’

He opened his mouth to speak, but an office door opened at the other side of the room. Managers and the visiting director spilled out. ‘You’ll need to take my place. But then I’m sure that’s exactly what you planned.’

‘Shit. No. I’m not taking your place. Man up and say you spilled your coffee. I don’t want to go to some dull meeting,’ said Regan, throwing the soggy tissues in the bin.

Alex quickly sat down and wheeled himself under the desk to hide the large coffee stain. It was a smart move. He then leaned on his mouse mat and froze. Regan glanced in his direction. ‘What?’

Alex slowly lifted his arm to show that his once-pristine crisp white shirtsleeve now had a soggy brown coffee patch. ‘Whoops,’ said Regan, cringing. ‘Think I missed a bit.’

‘You are unbelievable,’ said Alex.

The herd of management made their way over. Thankfully, someone more ambitious than Regan led the discussion. Alex was quiet; he kept his lower half under his desk and intermittently scowled at Regan. She shrugged. It was unfortunate, but she couldn’t feel too guilty about it. It was only a meeting – it wasn’t like he’d missed the last lifeboat.

‘And Alex will be joining us to give an overview of the challenges he and his colleagues are facing with invoicing,’ said Nigel, with a confident nod in Alex’s direction. He seemed puzzled as to why Alex was facing the wrong way.

Alex twisted in his seat. ‘I, um …’ He frowned hard. ‘I think Regan should attend instead of me. She knows the department and its challenges as well as I do.’

‘Oh, well. Regan. Um. That’s …’ Nigel appeared to have developed a facial tic. Regan’s mouth lifted at the side. He was clearly dreading the thought of her being let loose in a meeting with the grown-ups.

The director tipped his head. ‘Regan is an unusual name. From Shakespeare, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Regan, surprised that he recognised it. Most people assumed it was her surname. ‘It’s from King Lear.’ Her mother had had ideas well above her station so had saddled her with a name she felt was interesting and unusual. For Regan it was pretentious and annoying, but something she was lumbered with because she was too lazy to change it.

‘Excellent,’ he said. Nigel gave an uncertain smile of agreement. ‘We’ll see you later then, Regan.’

‘Can’t wait,’ she said, holding her smile in place as they filtered away. Once they were safely in the lift, she turned to Alex. ‘Ugh, thanks for that. I don’t …’ she began, but Alex got up and stormed off.

She decided she’d buy him a doughnut at lunchtime. That usually cheered him up. She’d get Kevin one too.

Her phone – which she’d remembered today – buzzed into life. It was Cleo on FaceTime. Without thinking, Regan answered it. ‘Hi.’

Despite hours on a flight, Cleo still looked perfectly coiffured. After a few minutes on the Isle of Wight ferry, Regan usually looked like she’d been mauled by hyenas.

‘This is the hotel,’ said Cleo, scanning the phone around a room about the same size as Jarvis’s entire flat.

‘What country?’

‘Dubai.’

‘Is that a bath in the bedroom?’ asked Regan, catching a glimpse as the camera moved past.

‘Jacuzzi bath. So I can lie here and admire the view.’ Cleo turned the camera and Regan took in the vibrant blue sea. ‘I’m on what they call the Palm.’

‘It’s amazing,’ said Regan, trying to stop her mouth from falling open. ‘What was business class like? Did you get—’ But her questioning was interrupted by a cough behind her. Regan turned to see Nigel scowling at her and running his fingers down his tie. It was the same tie he wore every day; that, or he had a whole rack of the same one at home, but Regan doubted from the iffy stains on it that that was the case. Nigel poked a finger at her phone. That was the trouble with FaceTime; it was on loudspeaker, so it had obviously alerted everyone around her and now they all looked like meerkats on parade. If only she’d remembered her ear buds.

‘Sorry, got to go.’ Regan hurriedly ended the call.

‘Regan, we’ve spoken before about personal calls. Haven’t we?’

Regan wondered if Nigel went to the same school of condescending arses that Jarvis had studied at. ‘Sorry. Won’t happen again,’ she said, but they both knew it would.

‘If you’re not busy, perhaps you’d replenish the printer paper stocks and get me a coffee?’ He gave her a reptilian smile and she begrudgingly went to do as he’d asked. He wasn’t the worst manager she’d ever had, but he was quite picky, self-important and always seemed to be on Regan’s case, which – some of the time – wasn’t justified.

The meeting with the great and the terminally dull was a lot less taxing than she’d feared. Alex had handed over his notes and figures, so she simply reeled them off when asked, while everyone nodded and her boss gave a deep sigh of relief. Really, these people had no faith.

She nipped out at lunchtime and bought three exorbitantly priced doughnuts, but it was on the magic contactless joint account card so it was fine. She wanted to drop one off with Kevin, though he was trickier to find at lunchtime because he often got shooed away from the market during the day by the manager. Eventually, she managed to track him and Elvis down to the supermarket car park, where occasionally a benevolent shopper would give him something from their trolley.

There was a fancy concrete bench affair outside and they sat there to eat their doughnuts together. Regan liked Kevin. He was probably a similar age to her dad, but it was hard to tell with the beard. Unlike her dad, he had a calm way about him. Like he’d seen it all and done it all. She never liked to ask him too many questions, although it didn’t stop her being curious about his situation.

‘I haven’t had a doughnut for years. That was tasty, thanks,’ said Kevin, letting Elvis lick the sugar from his fingers. ‘It’s funny the things you miss.’

‘Like what?’ asked Regan, trying hard to avoid jam dripping down her top.

‘Eye contact,’ he said with a wan smile. He and Regan exchanged knowing looks. The homeless were somehow invisible to most people. Kevin tilted his head back. ‘I miss my mates, sofas … and those little chipped potato things …’

‘What, chips?’

‘No,’ said Kevin, with a chuckle. ‘Sort of cube shaped. I used to like those.’

‘What about your family?’

Kevin took a deep breath. ‘Goes without saying that I miss my folks, but …’

Regan felt compelled to fill the silence. ‘Families are complicated, right?’

Kevin turned his gaze towards her. ‘I couldn’t bear to disappoint mine again.’

Regan opened her mouth to speak and was surprised by the loud bark that erupted until she realised it was from Elvis, who had spotted someone with a tray of coffees walking past.

‘I best be off. Thanks again,’ said Kevin. ‘Carpe diem.’ And he made his way across the car park, Elvis lolloping after him.

She felt there was so much more to Kevin than just some homeless guy. Regan sighed to herself then looked at her watch. ‘Shitterama!’ Did someone fast-forward her life when she wasn’t looking?

Back in the office she waved the doughnut bag in front of Alex’s face. ‘By way of apology for the earlier accident.’

Alex’s shoulders slumped. ‘Okay. But that was over the line for a gag, Regan,’ he said, swiping the bag.

‘Not a bloody gag. Why won’t you believe me?’ She was getting irritated now.

Alex looked in the bag. ‘Ooh, chocolate dreamcake. You’re forgiven.’

‘Thanks,’ said Regan, a little reluctantly. She still didn’t like being falsely accused.

The rest of Friday was uneventful, with the exception of another lecture from Jarvis, but it was easier to take because she had a beer in her hand and a plateful of her favourite Chinese takeaway. Jarvis had also apologised for not waking her when he’d left, which had smoothed the waters somewhat. Despite his lectures, he wasn’t a bad person, and she knew he had her best interests at heart. Even with his slightly obsessive need to keep the flat immaculate at all times, she was very fond of him; and nobody was perfect. It was yin and yang – she was spontaneous, he was a planner; she wanted to have fun and be a Bond girl, he wanted quiet nights in and government bonds … whatever the hell they were. She vowed that when she got to work on Monday she’d cross the ‘get a new boyfriend’ task off her list, because that was unfair.

As expected, on her arrival in Dubai, Cleo was liberally splashed across all social media platforms. Various pictures of her looking unspeakably glamorous accompanied by other beautiful people in stunning locations kept popping up on Regan’s phone, all accompanied with masses of hash tags (something Regan didn’t really understand). #LivingMyBestLife was one that kept popping up. Regan had to agree that Cleo really was living her best life. Work, my arse.

Jarvis left early for a golf match on Saturday, but not before he’d woken Regan with a strong coffee, enabling her to be at Cleo’s studio with five minutes to spare before the boiler man was due. Regan had wondered if Cleo had told her the wrong time again, so she’d taken a magazine with her in case she had an hour to kill. She stuck the key in the lock and opened the door. Instantly the alarm sounded; a shrieking noise that made her eardrums rattle. ‘Shi …’ She flipped the cover on the alarm – but what was the code? She’d not written it down. She quickly scrolled to Cleo’s last text message: Boiler man at Studio 10am Saturday – DON’T FORGET

No mention of the alarm code. Regan closed her eyes whilst the alarm echoed through her brain. Why couldn’t Cleo use her birthday like everyone else? Cleo had said something about the code being related to a famous person.

‘Good morning,’ said a cheery man in navy overalls, making Regan flinch – she hadn’t heard him approach thanks to the relentless racket of the alarm. ‘You got a problem?’

‘No, it’s my alarm clock. Of course I’ve got a problem!’ He pulled a face. ‘I’m sorry,’ she shouted over the alarm. ‘I can’t remember the code.’

‘Try 1234. It’s usually 1234.’

‘No, it’s something to do with a famous person. Leonardo …’

‘DiCaprio?’

‘No, the artist bloke.’ Her head was throbbing in time to the incessant alarm. A few people passing by were glaring. ‘Leonardo da Vinci!’ shouted Regan as recollection struck her.

‘Born fourteen fifty something and died fifteen something-or-other.’

Regan was stunned. She eyed the boiler man again – who’d have thought he’d know something like that? It was a reminder that she should never judge people on first impressions; although of course she absolutely did. She began inputting numbers and on the third attempt she struck gold – 1452 worked, and silence reigned. Hallelujah, she thought. And then: Oh poo, now I’m going to have to change the code AND think of a reason to tell Cleo why I’ve had to change it.

Her head continued to buzz, but she went inside and the boiler man followed. After a few minutes hunting for the boiler, she left him to it, while she raided the solitary cupboard for coffee. There was a tiny fridge but, sensibly, there was nothing in it apart from a half-used jar of pesto, so she made two black coffees and settled down in the only chair to read her magazine.

‘Is this what goes for art these days?’ asked the boiler man whilst unscrewing something.

Regan eyed the large canvas nearby. ‘Yep. She makes a mint.’

He paused. ‘Really? What are they?’ He tipped his head at the large pinkish brown circle on the canvas. ‘Abstract, is it?’

‘Nipples,’ said Regan and she disappeared behind her magazine.

The rest of Saturday was quite dull. Jarvis had insisted on having a bit of a spring clean, changing the bed linen and the towels, and it felt like that had taken up most of the day. When she’d finally flopped in a chair, Jarvis had hold of the TV remote and was flicking through the channels. The winning lottery numbers flashed up and she yelped.

‘What?’ he asked.

Regan realised she had no idea what her numbers were, and the ticket was safely locked in her drawer at work. Oh well; she’d have to wait until Monday to check them. ‘I thought the thing before looked interesting.’ She wasn’t going to let on that she’d bought a lottery ticket.

‘Wheeler Dealers? Okay,’ he said, changing the channel back. She sank into the chair in defeat.

Regan spent most of Sunday in the kitchen: half the time cooking, and the rest trying to keep on top of the mess she was creating. It was such a shame that society didn’t see her ability to make a mess as a talent, because she really was very good at it. Jarvis tapped on the door. ‘Dare I come in?’ he asked.

Regan scanned the room. ‘Mmm, okay but don’t freak out.’

‘Now I’m already freaking out,’ he said, pushing the door open a crack and peering cautiously inside. Apart from a few sticky patches on the worktop and some onion skins on the floor the kitchen was tidy.

‘Ta dah!’ she said, flailing out her arms and whacking a spoon resting in a saucepan of toffee, which sent a dramatic splatter up the wall. ‘Shit!’

‘And it was going so well,’ said Jarvis, cracking a smile as he grabbed a cloth from the sink.

‘It really was.’ Regan’s mouth turned downwards. It had taken a lot of effort to keep the mess at bay; she seemed to be able to make it multiply without any particular effort.

‘When’s dinner ready?’

‘Ah,’ said Regan, retrieving the gooey spoon from the floor and trying not to stand in the puddle of toffee it had left. ‘I’m not making dinner.’

‘But you’ve been in here ages.’ Jarvis rinsed the cloth and had another go at the toffee that now appeared to be firmly attached to the paintwork.

‘I’m making “special” toffee apples for Alex at work.’ She indicated a tray of four toffee-coated balls covered in chocolate sprinkles with lolly sticks sticking out of them.

‘Why special?’ he asked, frowning at the toffee patch, which wasn’t going anywhere.

‘They’re not apples. They’re onions.’ She did her ta-dah hands again and narrowly missed the toffee spoon, so she shoved her hands in her pockets for safety.

His eyebrows knitted together. ‘Why?’

‘Because he dropped me in it at a meeting and kicked my pen across the floor. Then blamed me for him spilling his coffee and made me go to a director’s meeting. It’s payback.’

‘It’s juvenile.’ He returned to trying to shift the toffee.

‘It’s funny,’ said Regan, feeling deflated. It had taken a few coats of toffee to disguise the white of the onion but they looked just like innocent toffee apples now. She smiled to herself. She was pleased with her subterfuge, and it would be hilarious in the office tomorrow when Alex bit into one. What did Jarvis know? Having fun was definitely not one of his talents.

Regan had set two alarms for Monday morning so that she didn’t have to rush with the toffee onions. She had carefully stowed them in a cake box because the thought of dropping them was too upsetting and most definitely something she was likely to do. In fact, dropping things was another of her many talents. Someone had once suggested she might be dyspraxic but she’d never bothered to investigate it further. She rested the box on the coffee shop counter while Penny fetched her usual order.

Her phone rang – it was Jarvis. ‘Regan, did you remember to put the washing on?’ he asked.

‘Good morning,’ said Regan, trying to think of an excuse.

‘You forgot, didn’t you?’

She’d been far too focused on the safe delivery of her toffee onions. ‘Yeah, sorry. I’ll put it on later.’

‘But you won’t,’ said Jarvis. ‘You say you will but you won’t. I’m fed up with everything being left to me. I do everything around the apartment. I cook, I clean and I do all the tidying up.’ Regan rolled her eyes. ‘I’m fed up with it. It’s like being a student again.’

Regan had loved being a student. ‘I’m sorry. All right?’ She was in a good mood bubble and he was the prick that was going to spoil it.

‘No, Regan, it’s not all right. Things need to change.’ And he put the phone down.

A bang on the glass made her jump and knock the cake box. ‘Shit, Elvis,’ she said, seeing the large hound with its feet up on the glass. ‘Actually Penny, can you do me a small warm milk for Elvis?’

‘Sure, on the house. But don’t tell the boss.’ She slotted the cups into the tray and passed them to Regan. ‘Is it your birthday?’ She pointed at the cake box.

Regan grinned. ‘No, it’s a surprise for a friend.’ She tried to hide her smugness as she placed the coffees on top of the box and went outside.

‘Morning, Kevin,’ said Regan, passing him his coffee.

‘Thank you. Carpe diem.’

‘Elvis, sit,’ said Regan, and the mutt’s butt hit the floor like a soldier under fire. ‘Good dog,’ she said, impressed with his response. She looked at the small cup of milk and then at the large, gaping jaws of Elvis. She hadn’t thought this through. ‘I got him some milk,’ she said lamely to Kevin.

‘Thank you,’ he said, pulling the small cup from the tray. He put down his own drink, took the top off Elvis’s milk and carefully tipped a little into the dog’s mouth. His tongue began working overtime even though it was fairly redundant because no lapping was required. The drink disappeared in seconds.

‘Kevin, that was brilliant,’ said Regan. Such a tender act of kindness. Elvis gazed adoringly at Kevin. They were a match made in heaven. ‘Take care,’ she said.

‘You too,’ called Kevin and Regan left with a spring in her step and a happy heart.

She took a moment before she walked into their office space because if she was grinning like a mad clown Alex would know there was something up. Once composed, she walked in with her shoulders back and her head high.

‘Good morning,’ she said to the back of his head. He jumped.

‘Regan, you’re early.’

‘Only a couple of minutes. Here.’ She passed him his coffee and then opened the cake box. ‘And I made you these because I still felt bad about the coffee accident.’ She emphasised the last word because she wasn’t apologising for it. She stepped back and tried to control her excitement.

‘Er, right. Thanks. But there’s something far more important.’ Regan puckered her eyebrows; her plan was getting derailed. ‘Did you check your lottery numbers?’

‘No. The ticket’s in my desk drawer.’

‘Open it, open it!’ said Alex, beginning to bounce about like a toddler on too many Haribos.

‘Why?’

‘Because I took a picture of your ticket and I’ve checked your numbers and … I think you’ve won.’ His words came out in an excited screech making Regan recoil.

‘What?’

‘I think you’ve won. But you need to check it. Check it now!’

‘What? A couple of quid?’ But she could tell from Alex’s body language that he was way too hyper for it to only be a few pounds.

Bubbles of excitement fizzed in her gut. She’d always secretly thought that one day she would win. Most people hoped they would, but she’d had a feeling that she couldn’t quite explain. A luxury lifestyle of parties and cocktails felt like her destiny far more than working in a dull office drinking coffee out of paper cups.

‘Open the bloody drawer!’ said Alex, pulling her from her thoughts. She fumbled in her bag and pulled out her desk key. Inside the drawer was her ticket paper-clipped to her wish list. She pulled the ticket free. ‘Here,’ said Alex, thrusting his mobile at her. ‘Here’s Saturday’s winning numbers.’

She tried to look at the ticket and back at the phone but the numbers kept dancing about. Her pulse was racing and she was starting to shake. She took a deep breath and checked the people around her. It was early and most hadn’t settled at their desks yet. Nobody was watching them. She splayed out her hands in a calming motion and took Alex’s phone. He continued to bob up and down beside her. Regan put her finger under the first number and checked it to Alex’s phone. It matched. The second one, the same – it matched. And the third, fourth and fifth. She could no longer control the shaking. With a trembling finger she checked the last number. It was a match. ‘I’ve won.’ It was like fireworks going off in her head. ‘I’ve bloody well won!’

‘I know!’ said Alex.

She threw her arm’s around him and he stiffened. She held him at arm’s length. ‘How awesome is this?’

‘Totally awesome,’ he said, through a broad grin.

‘Alex,’ called the finance manager. ‘Can I have a word?’

‘Sure,’ called back Alex. He turned to Regan. ‘Don’t do anything. I’ll be back in five minutes. Okay?’ he said, still grinning.

‘I’m not telling anyone.’ She certainly wasn’t going to share any of her winnings with the other office dwellers – most of whom looked down on her anyway. They wouldn’t be looking down on her any more. This was it. This was the turning point in her life. Everything was going to change.

Chapter Four

Regan was on autopilot. She switched on her computer and stared into space as it loaded. She didn’t know how much she’d won. She pulled up the lottery website and checked the draw information for Saturday. She had another quick check of her numbers. They all matched. Something flipped in her stomach. This really was happening. She clicked on ‘Prize Breakdown’. There was one winner for Saturday’s draw and they’d won ten million, three hundred and thirty-seven thousand, four hundred and ninety-two pounds. And that winner was her. She stared at all the numbers that followed the pound sign.

Her phone rang and it was Jarvis. A spike of something unpleasant coursed through her. ‘Regan, I’m sorry if I was harsh earlier but you really wind me up—’

‘You really wind me up too, Jarvis. So shall we call it quits? I think we both know this isn’t forever. No hard feelings. You get on with your neat and tidy life and I’ll get on with mine. Okay?’ She was shaking; she wasn’t sure if it was the effect of the lottery win, or adrenaline at finally having the courage to exit a relationship that wasn’t going anywhere.

‘What? You’re dumping me because of an argument over the washing?’ he said, with a chuckle.

‘Nope. I’m ending the relationship because it’s pointless. We’ve been muddling along for a while now and …’ she realised her manager was hovering at her shoulder ‘… hang on, Jarvis.’ She tilted her head up.

‘Is that a personal call?’ Nigel asked, his grubby tie flapping dangerously close.

‘Yes. Yes it is,’ she said, with a broad smile. Oh, this was going to be so much fun. ‘So if you could give me a minute that’d be great.’ She shooed him away with a flick of her wrist.

‘Jarvis. Our relationship has run its course. I’m sorry but I think it’s for the best. I won’t be coming back tonight.’ She’d already decided that she’d book herself into the Grand Hotel for a few days while she worked out her next steps.

‘But …’

‘Oh and don’t worry about my stuff. You can give the lot to a charity of your choosing. I’m making a whole new start so I won’t be needing it. Find someone who appreciates your planning and tidying skills. And be happy because you deserve to be. Take care, Jarvis. Bye.’ She ended the call. There was a touch of sorrow in her heart. They’d been together for almost two years and she was fond of him, but she knew she was doing the right thing. They’d only annoy the crap out of each other for a few more years, end up loathing each other and then split up anyway. She was just speeding up the process. This was the best decision for both of them.

She spun her chair around to face Nigel, who appeared to be simmering gently by the colour of his face. ‘Right, now. How can I help you?’ she said, in her most pleasant telephone voice.

‘Shall we go into my office?’

‘Yes, let’s,’ she said, propelling herself from her wheelie chair. Nigel stalked off. ‘Hang on,’ she said, snatching up her winning ticket. The last thing she needed was to lose that. She put it carefully in her back pocket.

She entered the office and shut the door behind her.

‘Have a seat,’ said Nigel, his jaw tight. Regan sat.

‘Regan, you really are skating on thin ice. You do the bare minimum and your attitude—’

‘Actually, Nige.’ He looked like he’d been whacked in the face with a dirty dishcloth. ‘Can I call you Nige?’ He didn’t respond. She leaned forward. ‘Nige, I’ve been meaning to tell you a few things for quite some time. Firstly, you really are an irritating little man.’ He started to bluster and she held up her palm to stop him. ‘This is a pointless little carbuncle of a company and you are the tiniest, most meaningless barnacle on that carbuncle.’ She was probably mixing her metaphors but she didn’t care, she was on a roll. ‘I have spent the last three years slaving my guts out,’ okay, slight exaggeration, ‘for no thanks, very little pay and a cheap mince pie at Christmas. Well, today that all stops. I don’t give a crap about my job, this company or you. So you can stick your boring, shitty, low-paid job right up your bottom hole because I don’t need it any more.’ She stood up and relished the look of total shock on Nigel’s face. ‘In case you didn’t get that: I quit. And lastly, you really should change that tie occasionally. It’s very unhygienic. Bye.’ She left the room and did a Bridget Jones style sashay across the office. It felt good. Better even than all the times she’d imagined it in her head – and that was quite a few; mostly when she was meant to be working.

She patted the ticket, which was still safely in her back pocket. She was going to go to her dad’s. She wanted him to be the first to know about her Lotto win, and she wanted to see his face when she told him. Partly because her dad didn’t react to anything, so this would be a big test. Plus, she was planning on getting totally wasted on the most expensive cocktails available and she’d need someone she trusted to get her back to her luxury hotel.

I hope they have those big suites you see in films, she thought whilst she filled an empty printer paper box with the contents of her desk. She swiped the stapler, because they could hardly sack her for nicking it, and she wanted some sort of memento from this chapter of her life. She picked up her lottery wish list and nestled it reverently on the top of her things – she was going to need it. There wasn’t a lot to show for three years and, for a moment, it felt a little sad. She straightened her shoulders; that was all going to change. From here on out she had money to sprinkle like fairy dust on her life. It felt amazing.

She scanned the office. Almost all heads were down; everyone was busy working. They were oblivious to the massive life-changing event going on in their presence. There was no sign of Alex. She left a Post-it note on the cake box, which read EAT ME, and grinned to herself. She’d call him later. Maybe he could join her after work for cocktails.

‘Bye, losers!’ she hollered, then she strode out of the office, out of the building and into her new life.

Well, she would have done if she hadn’t had an altercation with the bloody revolving doors. Trying to get through with her box was more than tricky. She got the box wedged and the door jammed. She reversed back out, ignored the sniggering receptionist, and tried again. Halfway round she heard someone call her name.

‘Regan!’ It was Alex and he was waving frantically at her. She staggered out into the street clutching her box and waited for him to join her.

Alex flew out of the revolving door looking puffed. He took a second to get his breath.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ he asked.

Regan jolted backwards in puzzlement. ‘I’m ditching this shithole and starting my new life. I told Nigel to stick the job up his arse and change his filthy tie. You should have seen his face.’ She snorted at the memory. That was a picture she would savour for a very long time. ‘Oh and I’ve told Jarvis we’re over. It was going to happen sooner or—’ The colour was draining from Alex’s face and it made her pause her story. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Regan …’ He shook his head. Well, it was more of a wobble.

‘What?’ He was acting very strangely and he was delaying her starting her celebrations. She thought she’d try a cosmopolitan cocktail first – she’d never had one and had always wondered what they were like. Then she would order lots of expensive champagne.

Alex held a lottery ticket aloft. Regan peered at it. ‘Oh, did you win something too?’ He couldn’t have shared the jackpot, because she’d already seen on the website that there was just one winner. And it was her – eek!

Alex was shaking his head. He really didn’t look very well. He took a deep breath. ‘You’ve not won the lottery.’ He swallowed hard.

Regan grinned at him. ‘Yes, I have.’ She pulled the winning ticket from her back pocket. ‘We’ve both checked the numbers.’

He shook his head; his expression was solemn. ‘That is not your lottery ticket.’

‘Yes, it is. It was locked in my desk drawer.’ She frowned at him. He wasn’t making any sense.

‘This is your ticket. I switched them,’ he said, his face ashen. ‘I have your spare desk key. The ticket you have does have the right numbers but it’s for next Saturday’s draw. I bought it this morning.’ Regan’s grin vanished and a wave of nausea swept over her. She opened her mouth to speak but she had no words. ‘I was getting you back for the coffee. It was just a joke. A prank. I didn’t think—’

Regan was shaking her head like a bobble head strapped to a racehorse. ‘You’re lying.’ Her stomach felt like a washing machine on spin cycle. The sounds around her were muffled, like she’d been immersed in water.

‘Check it,’ he said, calmly, and pointed to the ticket she was clutching. She studied the lottery ticket that she thought had changed her life. She blinked at the date. He was right – it was dated for next Saturday. The realisation of what she had done hit her. An icy sensation went over her like she’d just done the ice bucket challenge. She had walked away from her job, her boyfriend and all her possessions. All because of a stupid prank. She slowly looked up. Her whole body started to shake uncontrollably. ‘You bastard!’ she yelled, dropping the box of office stuff and launching herself at Alex.

The force of her sent him flying backwards into the revolving doors and she followed, screaming like a banshee with its hair on fire. She pummelled him with her fists whilst he held his arms over his head to try to protect himself. ‘I’m sorry!’ he shouted. Regan grabbed his head and began banging it on the glass, the momentum of which started to turn the revolving door.

‘Ow! Ow! Ow!’ hollered Alex, each time his head hit the glass.

‘You fart-brained shitbungle!’ yelled Regan.

Someone grabbed Regan from behind and hauled her off Alex. With her arms still flailing she turned around to have a go at whoever had interrupted her. ‘Woah!’ said a broad-shouldered guy. ‘You need to calm down.’

‘You need to keep out of this,’ snapped back Regan.

‘I’m a police officer.’

‘Then arrest him. He’s ruined my life!’ She spun back to have another go at Alex but he had managed to push the revolving door round so he was trapped in the middle section, where he was safe from her assault. ‘Argh!’ she beat her fists on the glass in frustration making Alex wince like a trapped animal.

Inside the security guard was heading towards the doors. ‘Come on,’ said the police officer, who wasn’t wearing a uniform. ‘You don’t want to get arrested.’

‘You need to arrest him.’ She shot the police officer a glare, but stopped short when she noted his stony response. She was in enough of a mess. He was right – she didn’t want to get arrested, although at least she’d have somewhere to sleep tonight if they locked her up. The thought was a sobering one.

Chapter Five

Regan watched the police officer picking up her scattered items and returning them to the box. It was like watching someone else’s life scattered across the pavement – fragments of her minor achievements that had now been rendered completely useless by Alex’s practical joke.

‘Come on, let me buy you a coffee,’ said the officer, standing up.

Her whole body was trembling with shock. She watched Alex scramble out of the revolving door into the safety of the lobby and speak to the security guard. He still looked scared but he was telling the guard he was all right. She wanted to kill him. She’d never felt like that in her life before. She hadn’t known she was capable, but right now she wanted to do Alex serious harm.

The police officer took hold of her arm. ‘Come on,’ he said, giving her a tug to make her walk. She reluctantly dragged her glare away from Alex and walked in step.

Regan was in a daze. Her life was ruined. Everything wiped out. And for what? Payback? A laugh? She turned on her heel and began heading back to the office.

‘I am going to kill Alex.’ It was the only solution.

‘Hang on,’ said the copper, with a firm grip on her arm, making her swivel round. He was surprisingly strong. ‘You’re looking at an actual bodily harm charge. He’s not worth it.’

‘He’s worth doing time for murder,’ said Regan, wrenching back her arm in frustration.

‘I tell you what: seems like you need something stronger than a coffee, so I’ll buy you a drink. You tell me exactly what’s happened. And if you still feel the same, I’ll hold him still for you. Deal?’ He gave her a cheeky grin. If her world hadn’t just imploded she’d have found it cute, but right now it was simply annoying. ‘I’m Charlie, by the way.’

‘Regan,’ she said.

‘From King Lear?’

She frowned. Had there been a recent adaptation on the telly or something? ‘Yeah. That’s right.’ It wrong-footed her enough that she stopped resisting and found herself being towed along by Charlie, who was still gripping her hand.

In a nearby bar she regaled him with the whole sorry story, accompanied by animated arm-waving for full effect. When she reached the end she felt like she’d hit the bottom of a well.

‘What can you charge him with?’ she asked, hopefully.

Charlie pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘I’m pretty sure there’s nothing he could be charged with. He’s done nothing against the law.’

‘But …’ her voice faded. She knew he was right. ‘It’ll be all round the office by now.’ She cringed at the thought of the water cooler gossip.

‘He may keep it to himself.’

‘That’s not how offices work. It’ll be the biggest thing since Chris got a beard trimmer in the secret Santa draw.’

‘Didn’t he like it?’

‘No, she didn’t.’ Regan stared at the small glass of brandy and large coffee Charlie had bought her.

‘Life has a funny way of making you look at things differently.’ He leaned forward a little.

‘Oh yeah. It’s shitting well hilarious.’ She shook her head. This guy was no help. Regan downed the brandy and when it hit the back of her throat she grimaced. She noted the slight tremor was still there in her hand as she returned the glass to the table.

‘You might not see it now, but this might end up being the best thing that’s ever happened to you.’ Yep, this guy was nuts.

‘Charlie, I’m sure you are a well-meaning person, and I guess looking out for members of the public is your job, but I fail to see how losing literally everything in approximately ten minutes could be the best thing that’s ever happened to me.’

She picked up her coffee, appraising Charlie over the rim. If she hadn’t felt so miserable she would have been far more appreciative of his easy good looks and stubble-swathed jawline. He was having a rummage in the old printer paper box, which now contained everything Regan had left in the world. He pulled out her lottery wish list and managed to give it a quick scan before she hastily snatched it off him.

‘I saw this when I picked up your things. There’s some life-changing stuff on this list. What’s stopping you doing those things anyway?’ he asked.

‘Erm. Oh, let me see,’ she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘The lack of ten million quid for a start.’ Just saying the amount out loud made her feel sick. She’d lost ten million pounds. She couldn’t imagine anyone else on the planet had lost so much money in such a short space of time. A little voice in her head unhelpfully pointed out that she’d never actually had any winnings, but that wasn’t the point; she had genuinely thought she’d won the money – and now every single penny was gone.

‘You don’t need money to enjoy yourself,’ said Charlie, taking a long sip of his coffee.

Regan was too tired to argue. Her whole body was fatigued. She wanted to curl up in a ball, but she wasn’t going to do that in front of a complete stranger – she still had her pride, if nothing else. ‘I need to get back to my car. And then …’ Then what? She stared at Charlie.

‘Is there a friend or a family member who could be with you?’

Cleo sprang into Regan’s head, but she was thousands of miles away living her hashtag-best-life. A life Regan had thought she was about to share. Next, she thought of her dad. She didn’t want to bother him; but what choice did she have?

‘I’ll drive over to my dad’s.’

‘I can give you a lift.’

‘No, don’t worry. Turning up in a cop car is the last thing I need.’ She forced a brief smile.

Charlie’s forehead puckered for a second, and then it was gone. ‘I’m off duty. No cop car. You promise you won’t go after that Alex guy?’

‘I promise,’ she said, begrudgingly. She finished her coffee. ‘I should get going.’ She had absolutely no need to get going – other than that she needed a bloody good mope away from this kind stranger.

‘Sure thing. Look …’ He opened his wallet and pulled out a card. He took a pen from her box and wrote his name and mobile number on the back. ‘This is a group that might interest you. Help you focus on the here and now and what’s good about it.’

Regan read the card. ‘Mantra – mindfulness for beginners? It’s a full mind I’m suffering from – it’s full of how quickly my life has turned to shit.’ She could see he was trying to help. ‘But thanks. I’ll think about it.’

‘No, you won’t,’ said Charlie, which was unexpected.

Regan narrowed her eyes at him. ‘I might.’ She was feeling dogmatic.

‘We’ll see. Anyway …’ he got to his feet. ‘Nice to meet you, Regan. Take care of yourself.’ He held out a hand to shake.

The odd formality of it made her smile. ‘You too, Charlie. Thanks for not arresting me back there.’

‘What? Oh, my pleasure.’

She watched him leave. The feeling of being totally alone swamped her and she quickly picked up her box and left.

Regan hurried through town clutching her belongings like her life depended on it. When she reached the market, it was in full swing: stallholders shouting out the day’s best bargains; elbows out enabling others to get to the front; busy people swerving in and out on their way to somewhere important. The burger van hissed as a fresh batch went on the griddle and a chill wind blew through the stalls, making all the coverings slap about wildly. Everyone and everything had a purpose. Apart from her. She was surrounded by bedlam and yet she’d never felt more alone in her life.

Regan wasn’t sure if it was the brandy, but her head started to swim. The noise, the bustle and the smell were all too much. She was going to pass out. She reached for a stall, but she wasn’t close enough. Her legs buckled and she dropped her box, but someone grabbed her securely around her waist and kept her upright. She shook her head to clear it.

‘You’re not well. You need coffee,’ said a kind voice.

‘Kevin?’

She was about to protest but the feel of something wiry under her fingers pulled her concentration. Elvis was standing the other side of her, his head under her hand. He looked up, his sad eyes appearing concerned.

Kevin and Elvis guided her out of the main thoroughfare and to the Hug In A Mug coffee shop. Kevin took her inside.

‘Customer,’ he called. ‘You’ll be all right now,’ he said, and he scuttled out of the door before Penny appeared.

‘Hey, what’s happened to you?’ asked Penny, coming from behind the counter. Regan didn’t know where to start: from nowhere, the tears started to pour. She had always been irritated by crying – in her mind it served no good purpose. She didn’t believe those people who said you’d feel better after a good cry. It made your face blotchy and your nose run and quite often it gave you a thumping great headache to make you even more miserable.

‘Sorry, no tissues.’ Penny offered Regan a bundle of serviettes instead, which she took gratefully. ‘I’ll get you a coffee and you can tell me all about it.’

Regan took a moment to pull herself together while Penny made her a coffee and left the other waitress to field the couple of customers who had come in. ‘Here,’ said Penny, handing Regan a cup and pulling up a chair.

A loud bang on the glass right behind Regan’s head made her almost jump off her seat. She spun around and came face to hairy face with Elvis. Kevin popped his head round the coffee shop door, pushed Regan’s box inside and gave her a tentative thumbs-up. ‘You okay?’ he asked.

Despite everything, she couldn’t stop the smile appearing. She responded with a thumbs-up and Kevin beamed back at her. Kevin really did have nothing and no-one, and yet he was still able to smile. It touched her that he’d come to her rescue and gone back to pick up her box, which she’d all but forgotten about. Penny opened her mouth but Kevin took the hint before she said anything and retreated outside to join his dog.

Penny was lovely, but Regan didn’t want to spill out the whole story again. What good would it do? The more she went over it the more stupid it made her feel. What an idiot to have been taken in by such a moronic prank. She waited until she felt a little better, thanked Penny and headed off.

Hugging her old paper box to her chest, Regan tapped on the glass of her dad’s front door. She’d taken some time in the coffee shop to order her thoughts and calm herself down. More than anything it had been an almighty shock – one that it would probably take her a while to recover from – and in the meantime she needed a roof over her head. She knew she could go back to Jarvis’s flat, but as he hadn’t called or messaged her since their earlier conversation, he obviously wasn’t desperate to have her back; plus she didn’t like the idea of using him just because things had gone spectacularly wrong, and if she went back now that would be all she was doing. She also had a large dose of stubborn pride that was stopping her: that, and the thought of having to put her tail between her legs and admit she’d messed up again – no, she couldn’t go back to Jarvis’s. The sentiment that had underpinned her decision to end their relationship was the right one, although the timing could have been so much better. They had been treading water for a while and, whilst this approach was most definitely more akin to ripping off the plaster rather than soaking it off gently, it was still the right thing to do.

The chill of the April breeze made her shiver. She took a deep breath and tapped on the door again. She could see movement through the opaque glass.

‘Who is it?’ Her father sounded annoyed.

‘It’s me, Dad.’ He opened the door and hastily beckoned her inside. He was wearing his dressing gown but had socks on his feet. It was an odd combination for the middle of a Monday afternoon – or at any time, come to that. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Er, yeah. I’m fine. What can I do for you?’ He tightened his dressing gown cord and hovered near the door. Her father lived in the same one-bedroom maisonette that he had bought after her mother had left him and taken everything (except Regan) with her.

Regan balanced her box on the back of his sofa. ‘I’d kind of like to stay if I can?’

Her father’s eyes widened. ‘What? Here?’

It wasn’t the welcome she’d hoped for. ‘If that’s all right.’ It was feeling very much like it wasn’t all right at all. She knew she’d be on the sofa, but that’d be fine for a few nights while she licked her wounds and sorted a few things out.

‘Have you had a row with Jarvis? Because I’m sure you can sort that out.’ Graham adjusted his dressing gown again whilst his eyes darted about. There was definitely something wrong.

‘Not exactly, but—’

A noise from the bedroom stopped her mid-sentence. She turned to listen, and then turned back to her father. He was biting his lip. ‘Is there someone else here?’

He nodded sheepishly. ‘Tara just popped round …’ He broke eye contact and Regan surveyed her father’s attire afresh.

Tarty Tara was there. Regan knew exactly what she’d popped round for. She suddenly had a horrible thought that under his dressing gown he was probably not wearing anything at all. She almost knocked her box to the floor in her haste to snatch it up. ‘Oh, I’ve just remembered something.’ She lurched for the door, desperate to escape before embarrassment ate them both alive.

‘Right. Okay then,’ Graham called after her, enthusiastically. ‘If you’re sure?’

‘Yes. Certain. I’ll be fine.’

‘Maybe next time give me a call first?’ he said, hiding behind the door as he opened it for her.

‘Yes. Good idea. Thanks. Bye.’ Something made her pause. She leaned round the door and kissed his cheek. ‘Love you, Dad.’

‘Um, yes. You too, Regan.’ He gave her an awkward smile before closing the door. She heard hysterical laughter erupt behind the glass and rolled her eyes at them behaving like teenagers.

That was her only family member in a fifty-mile radius. Now what?

Chapter Six

She trudged back to her car and sat there thinking. Her phone pinged to indicate she had a message. It was from Alex.

V sorry. Hope UR OK.

Regan shook her head and deleted the message. Worst-case scenario; she could sleep in her car. It wasn’t ideal, but at least she wouldn’t be joining Kevin and Elvis on the streets tonight. Although it would still be a bit chilly in the car. A thought struck her. Perhaps she’d sit it out? Tarty Tara would likely be off home soon. Yes, that was a good plan. Wait for Tara to clear off, then she could try to explain again to her dad what had happened and kip on his sofa. She reclined her seat so it was a bit more comfortable, and she waited.

Two hours later her phone rang, pulling her from a delicious dream about swimming in an infinity pool with a pet hippo and Liam Hemsworth. Her neck was stiff and she wasn’t sure where she was for a moment. Then she remembered, and a little dark cloud seemed to hover above her. She picked up her phone – it was Jarvis.

‘Hi, Jarvis.’ She prepared her resolve.

‘Regan, I just wanted to check you’re not having some sort of breakdown.’

Regan closed her eyes and tried to keep her irritation levels at a manageable level. ‘No, I’m fine thanks, Jarvis. But I am sorry if it was all a bit sudden.’

‘No, not at all. I mean I was a little surprised that it was you instigating it rather than me, because I’ve been considering it for quite some time … I just didn’t know how to broach it.’

Great, thought Regan, another blow to my dwindling self-esteem. ‘Well, I’m glad you finally approve of one of my decisions.’

‘Anyway, I don’t think I should be responsible for giving your belongings to charity. I don’t want to get caught out legally. So I’ve packaged them up for you to collect whenever suits.’

‘Thanks.’ It was a small thing, but at least she had her stuff back even if she didn’t have anywhere to put it.

‘When would you like to collect it?’

So much for whenever suits you. ‘I can come straight over now.’ She glanced up at her father’s front door. There didn’t seem to be any sign of Tarty Tara leaving; her tarty Toyota was still parked outside. Maybe she’d be gone by the time she got back.

‘Great. I’m off to Waitrose, so please lock up properly and push your key through the door.’

‘Will do. Bye.’ It was some consolation that she hadn’t broken his heart with her phone call this morning – although had he been a little more upset, it might have helped her feel a bit more valued than she currently did.

Regan was dashing about Jarvis’s kitchen when Cleo FaceTimed. Her phone was on the counter so she hit the answer button.

‘Regan? You there?’

Regan picked the phone up from the counter. ‘Hiya, I’m just … I’m …’ She realised she couldn’t drop all her woes on Cleo – she’d only fret. And what could she do when she was thousands of miles away? ‘How are you?’ asked Regan, trying to sound bright and carefree.

‘I’m okay.’

‘You at another party?’ It looked like a hotel lobby in the background.

‘Yeah. I’ve stepped out for a bit of a break.’ Cleo looked like she was stifling a deep sigh, or a yawn.

‘What time is it there?’ Regan opened and closed kitchen drawers.

‘Nearly three in the morning.’ She looked tired. ‘I could go but I loathe being in a hotel room alone. I think I might be a bit homesick.’

‘Blimey. Ow!’ Regan was only half listening. ‘Bloody skewers.’ Regan sucked her finger.

‘Are you cooking?’

‘Don’t look so surprised!’ said Regan. ‘No, I’m not cooking, but I could be. I’m looking for a corkscrew.’

‘What else are you doing? Remind me what normal people do.’

‘It’s riveting. I’m having a mug of soup.’ Regan held up the mug as evidence whilst she moved around the flat picking things up and stashing them in a black bag.

‘Soup?’ Cleo chuckled.

‘Yeah. It’s hot and nutritious.’ And I don’t know when I’ll get to eat again, she added in her head. Regan squinted at the screen. ‘Is that Elon Musk behind you?’

‘Oh, I expect so. I’m so bored with celebrities. Oscar wheels me around like a kid in a supermarket trolley introducing me to anyone who might get us more social media coverage. They’re like playing cards. On one side is a pretty picture: bright, colourful and engaging; but on the other there’s very little at all and what’s there is bland and functional.’

‘Wow, that’s deep,’ said Regan, pausing with a gin-scented candle in her hand. It was hers, but did she really need it?

‘Unlike most celebrities,’ quipped Cleo.

Regan watched a parade of beautiful people mill about behind Cleo. That could have been my life, she thought dreamily. ‘Oh, Cleo, you’re so lucky.’ Cleo opened her mouth to protest. ‘No, please don’t get me wrong; I know you’ve worked so hard for this, but to get the chance at a life like yours is millions to one and I’m so happy for you. Tell me how fabulous it is?’ She knew she was staring at her like a child anticipating a bedtime story.

Cleo took a moment to answer. Her smile seemed forced. ‘Yes, of course it’s fabulous. Let me show you the view.’

Regan made a series of awestruck noises as Cleo panned around the sights of Hong Kong harbour. It was quieter outside and Cleo found somewhere to perch.

‘Okay, well you’d better get back to the party,’ said Regan. ‘Have a brilliant time.’ Still holding her soup, Regan moved out of the kitchen and into the hallway – she didn’t have long before Jarvis returned and she wanted to avoid a face-to-face confrontation if she could.

‘Hang on!’ Cleo’s voice sounded a bit desperate and it drew Regan’s attention. Cleo was silent for a moment as if trying to think of something to say. ‘How did it go with the plumber?’

Regan shrugged. ‘Fine.’

‘Er … Any difficulties?’ Regan shook her head. ‘All fixed then?’

‘Yep.’

‘And you locked it all up properly?’

‘Yep. No problems. The studio is all locked up safe and warm.’ Regan frowned as a thought struck her. ‘It’ll be there empty just waiting for you to get home.’

Cleo appeared sad for a moment. ‘I guess so. I miss my little studio. It’s my safe place, where I feel most at home.’

‘Actually you could live there if you wanted to. Couldn’t you? It’s got virtually everything a person could need.’ Regan could feel her eyes widening as she spoke.

‘Not really. It’s against the terms of the lease so I’d get kicked out. And there is a loo but there’s no shower. No cooker, no washing machine, no—’

Regan was waving at her to stop. ‘Right, well, I need to … um … dash,’ she said.

‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Cleo peered at her through the screen.

‘Me? Yes, brilliant. Top banana! Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll check on the studio for you if you like?’ Regan leaned in closer to the camera.

‘No need.’

‘It’s no bother at all. You leave it with me. Anyway, cheers!’ said Regan, holding up her mug and liberally splashing soup over herself and the screen.

‘You’re bonkers! Cheers,’ replied Cleo, holding up her champagne glass. The call ended.

‘Shitterama …’ Regan stared down at her feet and at Jarvis’s beloved rug. The pale cream wool was now liberally doused in tomato soup. A few more trickles dripped from her hand, landing like paint on a new canvas. She rushed back to the kitchen in a panic, knowing that Jarvis would think she’d done this on purpose.

How on earth am I meant to clear this up? she thought, scanning the cupboards for something to clean it with and grabbing a cleaning spray and a cloth. The quicker she acted, the better chance she had of saving the rug. She sprayed the cleaner liberally over the stain but on the third squirt she halted mid-squeeze. ‘Green!’ The cleaning fluid now overlapping the orange soup stain was bright green. ‘What the …’ She checked the label. ‘Oven cleaner.’ Discarding the bottle, she began rubbing the orange and green together in the valiant hope the green would somehow magically eliminate the orange. It didn’t. After a few minutes she leaned back on her haunches and surveyed the rug. It looked worse than when it was just the soup stain. Now, thanks to her vigorous rubbing, the stained patch had a certain fluffier quality than the rest of the rug. She shook her head. This was hopeless. As usual, she was only making things worse.

In desperation, she laid the best part of a roll of paper towel on top of the rug in an attempt to draw out all the moisture whatever its colour. That seemed to help a little bit. She put some fresh kitchen roll on top. There was nothing else she could do – she could almost hear Jarvis’s voice telling her sarcastically that she’d done more than enough.

She fired off a quick text to him: Sorry. Had a bit of an accident in hallway. Take care and be happy. Regan. This way it wouldn’t be a total surprise and hopefully he would realise it wasn’t her being vindictive. She quickly grabbed the bin bags Jarvis had left, as well as a few more essentials she needed like shampoo, coffee, biscuits, the Easter Egg she’d not scoffed yet and his spare razor – whatever happened, she liked to keep her underarm hair under control. She also took the pen he kept by the phone – not because she needed one, but because she knew when he went to use it and it wasn’t there it would drive him disproportionately crackers.

She hurried from the building trying not to think about the good times she’d had there. It would only upset her and she needed to stay positive and look to the future. She grinned to herself as she headed off – not towards her dad’s place as she’d originally planned, but instead towards her Plan B, which she was mightily proud of.

Chapter Seven

This time Regan was thinking ahead. The alarm code for Cleo’s studio was now Regan’s birthday, so she could at least remember it. Once she had managed to sneak all her stuff in to the studio without attracting any attention she shut the door and waited for her racing pulse to settle, feeling like an MI5 agent on a top-secret mission. She looked around Cleo’s studio. This was to be her home for the next two months, unless of course she got discovered and kicked out. That absolutely must not happen, she thought. Cleo would be terribly upset if she lost the studio – Regan knew how much she loved it, having been with her the day she’d found it. Back then it had been a dirty, dusty sanctuary for spiders and rodents, having been used previously as a store for a nearby garage. Now it was clean and critter free – thanks to a lot of TLC from Cleo.

She sat herself down in her friend’s comfy chair: an oversized, slouchy, modern affair. Perfect. She could definitely sleep here, she thought, pulling out the teddy bear throw she’d taken from the flat and drawing it over herself. Cosy … What more could she need?

She smiled to herself. The place was a bit paint-splattered but otherwise clean and dry. Her eyes landed on Cleo’s latest canvas of a large nipple and the smile became a pout. That was a little off-putting. It felt as though it was studying her … Judging her. She closed her eyes but it was no use – she knew it was there. She opened one eye. The nipple was still staring at her. Regan pulled off the throw and huffed. She’d have to move it. Carefully, she lifted the nipple picture and leaned it, nipple side down, against the opposite wall. Much better, she thought, and snuggled back under her cosy cover to try to get some sleep.

She woke up super early. Typical: on the one morning she could actually have a lie-in; although lie-in was stretching it, given her position was more hunched up than lying down, but that wasn’t the point. It was the first time in years she wasn’t meant to be up and out for work, and she’d woken up mega early. What sort of sick reality was that?

Her positive mood from the night before was apparently only temporary. She felt weighed down with a sense of impending doom that was no longer impending but fully in situ. She hadn’t got much sleep because her mind had been far too busy panicking about the situation she was in. One that – for once – was not entirely of her own doing. Bloody cockwombling Alex, she thought. A fresh wave of anger and injustice engulfed her and she paced the studio saying out loud all the things she wished she’d thought of yesterday. Why did the perfect insult always wait twenty-four hours before appearing in your head?

She threw insults around like pebbles but they didn’t make her feel any better. This was all so unfair. And on top of everything, there was no milk, so she’d had to have black coffee again.

She stomped about the studio for quite some time until she got tired and the adrenaline powering her subsided, at which point she flopped into the chair. The fury that had kept her going had turned to despondency as the reality of the mess she was in truly hit home. She no longer had somewhere to live. The studio was a very temporary setup until Cleo came home; even more temporary if anyone caught her living there.

She no longer had a boyfriend – although if the latest stream of texts from Jarvis were an indicator, she would be hearing from him again very soon via his lawyer regarding what he termed the criminal abuse of his rug.

She didn’t have a job, and that meant she had zero income. She also didn’t have any savings as such – just a few quid in her bank account that she had been holding onto so she could buy Jarvis a birthday present. At least that was something.

She was also surprised to discover that, on top of everything else, she’d lost her purpose – and this was most shocking of all. She hadn’t liked her job, but then who did? Moaning about bosses, colleagues and too much work was par for the course, but when it suddenly wasn’t there it left a great big nine-to-five-shaped hole.

Regan spent a while mulling over whether to call Nigel and ask for her job back. Eventually, she swallowed her pride and rang Nigel’s number, but as soon as she’d been put through to him he went into corporate mode, listing all her faults and making it very clear that returning was most definitely not an option. She thanked him kindly and hung up.

Regan sat there staring at one particular brick in the bare Victorian wall. This brick wasn’t like the other red bricks; it wasn’t a perfect little clone like the rest. The surface of this one was rougher; pock-marked, almost. It didn’t have defined angular corners and sharp edges. They were worn and rounded, partly due to it being slightly out of alignment. It didn’t quite fit, so someone had chipped bits off it in an attempt to wedge it in, but had simply managed to scar it instead.

That brick was her. She was damaged and scarred. She didn’t fit.

She closed her eyes. She was losing the plot. She needed to get out before she went totally Jack from The Shining.

She’d been pleased that her dad was at home when she’d telephoned, and frankly delighted to hear that he was alone and she was welcome to pop round.

After the usual niceties, she followed him into the kitchen and he put the kettle on.

‘What’s up, Regan? You never come round in the daytime.’

It was like the time she got found out for smashing next door’s greenhouse; he was giving her the same look of disappointment.

‘It wasn’t my fault,’ she said, remembering too late that her defence of the greenhouse situation had started with the exact same words. ‘I thought I’d won the lottery and it turns out I hadn’t, but because I thought I had …’ He was watching her intently. She swallowed hard. ‘I dumped Jarvis, quit my job and moved out of the flat.’ She bit her lip and waited for his response.

‘Coffee?’

Not the response she was expecting. ‘Er, yes please. So …’

He shrugged his shoulders in a slow movement. ‘That wasn’t very smart. Was it?’

And the award for stating the bleeding obvious goes to Graham Corsetti. ‘I know that, Dad, but like I said I thought I’d won the lottery.’

‘Money’s not everything, Regan.’

‘I know.’ It was like being in a parallel universe. Why were parents so obtuse sometimes? And especially when you needed them to help you get to a solution ‘So what do I do?’

‘Get another job?’ His face was stoic.

‘Yes.’ That was the most logical thing. ‘What else?’

He scratched his greying temple. ‘I don’t know.’ He brightened up and squeezed her arm. ‘You’ll think of something.’

She blinked rapidly. Clearly he was not comprehending the huge shitstorm her life had become. In fact, shitstorm didn’t really cover it – this was more global shit tsunami with extra-large fans.

‘I feel like a pea in a river – too small to swim against the tide.’ She felt quite poetic and proud of her analogy.

Her dad screwed up his face. ‘You’d like to pee in a river?’

‘No. A pea … Oh never mind.’ Why was it so hard to explain? ‘It’s like someone’s slammed the brakes on my life.’

‘Hmm.’ He was pulling a doubtful face, but she continued unperturbed.

‘I mean, I was hurtling along and suddenly I’ve come flying off the rails.’

‘I see,’ said Graham, in a tone that said he wanted the conversation to end. He was a rather logical, straightforward person, lacking the encumberment of extremes of emotion – an unkind soul may have called him ‘odd’. He was still pulling a face as he passed her a mug of coffee and opened a fresh packet of cheap chocolate digestives.

‘What?’ asked Regan, catching sight of his twisted lips.

‘Well, I’m not being funny, Regan, but it’s not like your life was motoring along at a pace, now was it?’

‘Oh, thanks a bunch.’ She snatched a biscuit from the proffered packet.

‘No, what I mean is, in life’s race, you’re less Aston Martin, more Nissan Micra – slow and steady.’ He was smiling, like he thought this was a compliment.

‘Bloody hell, Dad. You’re not helping my self-esteem here.’ She’d been called lots of things in the past, but never a Nissan chuffing Micra. She knew he had a point though, however harshly worded. She’d liked to think she was pootling along taking the scenic route in life, but she could hardly claim that when on her life’s journey so far there really hadn’t been anything worth seeing – dead ends of jobs, a scrap heap of relationships and a junk yard full of mistakes. She dunked her biscuit and half of it disintegrated into her coffee. She frowned and tried to scoop it out with the other half of the biscuit, making the situation infinitely worse.

Graham was frowning. ‘Where are you staying?’

‘Cleo’s place.’ She didn’t like lying, especially not to her dad, but technically she was staying at Cleo’s – just in her studio and not in the flat where he had obviously assumed she meant, judging by the relief on his face. She knew he was secretly pleased that she wasn’t going to put him in the awkward position of making excuses as to why she couldn’t stay at his.

‘That’s good then. But you know if you’re desperate you’re welcome to stay here.’ His shoulders tensed.

‘It’s fine, Dad. It’s only temporary. Just until I get myself back on my feet.’ He looked relieved.

‘You okay for money? Because I’ve a little put aside.’

She doubted he had very much put by. He worked part-time in a newsagent’s and it was sweet of him to offer but she needed to sort this mess out on her own. ‘I’m fine.’ If she said it often enough with conviction there was a possibility that she might start to believe it herself. ‘Really. Fine.’

Three days later, she was all out of self-belief. And ice cream. All too quickly, her world had been turned upside down, and she had no idea how to right it. She knew the answer wasn’t to drink her troubles away, and she couldn’t afford alcohol anyway, so she had eaten a skip load of ice cream instead. Regan had been spending a lot of time with her new best friends Ben and Jerry, but sadly she didn’t find any answers at the bottom of the cartons – only brain freeze and a little self-loathing.

She decided that this was what rock bottom felt like. She’d heard from no-one with the exception of one FaceTime call from Cleo that she’d had to reject for fear of her spotting the familiar background of her own art studio. They’d had a text chat instead, which was nowhere near the same. No-one else had called. Nobody had noticed she had slipped off the planet. Not one other person cared.

She hadn’t showered in days and felt wretched, tired and lethargic – though some of it may have been down to too much ice cream. She had no telly, no WiFi and no future. Everything felt too difficult. There was so much that needed sorting out, but every time she thought about it, she thought her head might pop with the overload. So it was easier not to do anything at all.

Regan found herself at a new low when she tried to eat a pot noodle using two coffee stirrers for chopsticks. It was a tough challenge, but at least it was warm and kind of like a meal, although she wasn’t sure how much nutrition there was in the reconstituted dust and noodles. She counted three dried peas, which definitely didn’t get her close to her daily government-suggested fruit and veg targets.

She wondered at how quickly she’d lost everything, and if this was what had happened to Kevin. How had he found himself living on the streets? If it weren’t for Cleo’s studio being empty, that could have been her. The thought frightened her. She pulled over the box she’d filled in the office on That Day – which now seemed like ages ago – and sifted through the contents, sniffing her derision at the useless things inside. A stolen stapler; what good was that to her now? Unless she used it for stapling Alex’s testicles to his desk – but he wasn’t worth the staples. She found the Mantra card from Charlie, the gallant stranger who had pulled her off Alex. She turned it over. Saturdays at ten at the community centre. Charlie had said mindfulness might help her focus on what was good about the here and now. She gave another derisory snort – there was nothing good about her life.

Regan bit the inside of her mouth and pondered. She had nothing planned for Saturday – or the rest of her life – so there really was nothing to lose.

She sniffed her armpit, whipping her head back from the nasal attack. She couldn’t go anywhere smelling like that. What had she become? She straightened her spine. This had to stop, and it had to stop now, before she drifted into a pot-noodle-induced coma and was found in a giant spider’s web being nibbled on by rodents.

‘Right,’ she said out loud, giving herself a start because her voice was all croaky from not having spoken for days. She felt herself galvanising for action. What to do first? She caught another whiff of her armpit. Getting showered was definitely priority number one.

Regan had her most favourite trip to the gym ever and was pleased that her membership card still worked. With any luck, it would take Jarvis a while to realise he was still paying for the joint membership; and since he was still paying, it would be a shame not to get some use out of it.

In the past she’d only ever had a quick shower after a gym session and dashed out, but today she could set a more leisurely pace. She made the most of the free shampoo, conditioner and body wash and took her time drying and styling her hair – taking care not to make it too fluffy for fear of it looking like she was wearing a motorcycle helmet. She felt a lot better for it and a bit of a spring returned to her step.

Back at the studio, she washed her clothes in the sink using Cleo’s Molton Brown hand wash and hung them over Cleo’s three easels to dry. She’d bought a local paper, so she made herself a black coffee and sat and circled a number of potential jobs. This was progress. She had a tall mountain to climb, but she had a foothold and the only way was up.

However, a few hours later she started to feel like she was slipping back down the mountain. A phone call to a recruitment agency had her stumped at the first hurdle when they asked her for her home address. After a long pause she gave her dad’s details and explained it was temporary. The second hurdle was a bit more difficult – they wanted her to upload her CV to their website. She had no computer and she was dangerously close to her monthly download limit on her mobile. She felt a mudslide sweep her back down the mountain and went again in search of ice cream.

Chapter Eight

After another uncomfortable night sleeping in the chair and a now-permanent ache in her neck, Regan woke to face another day staring at four brick walls, a couple of nipple paintings and a gloomy looking future. She gave herself the best wash she could manage in the tiny sink and made a strong coffee. She didn’t have the solution, but she at least knew diving back into the ice cream wasn’t the answer.

She brushed her hair, checked her armpits and headed off for the mindfulness session with an open mind – and, if she was honest, a spark of interest in seeing Charlie again. She told herself she needed to thank the kindly policeman, but it wouldn’t do any harm to check whether he was seeing anyone. If anything he might make a pleasant distraction.

The community centre where the session was held wasn’t far, and she decided to walk to save the meagre amount of petrol she had in her car in case she needed it to get to a job interview – she was trying to remain hopeful. The community centre was a simple affair, so it was easy to find the large room with a circle of chairs and a hotchpotch of locals milling about. She watched the interesting mix of people through the glass in the door and began to reconsider. Was this really for her?

‘Hello, I’m Cressy,’ said a tall woman with neat grey hair and a long, flowing cardigan. ‘First time?’ Regan nodded. There was no sign of Charlie and she was starting to wonder if this had been a bad idea. ‘Tea or coffee?’ asked Cressy, beckoning her inside.

‘Um …’ Regan checked her pockets for the fiver she’d brought in case there was a charge.

‘It’s free, and there’s biscuits. Custard creams this week.’ Cressy had a warm smile.

‘Coffee, please. Lots of milk.’

‘You take a seat. Pop your details on here,’ she said, handing Regan a clipboard, ‘and I’ll get your drink.’

Regan scanned the form. It was all basic stuff. She began filling it in but the pen was running out. She scratched it on the edge of the paper and it worked, but as soon as she tried to write in the boxes it stopped. She sighed. Why did pens do that?

‘I had that problem,’ said a nasal voice to her left. ‘I’m Chris. That’s me.’ He leaned over and ran his finger along the line above Regan’s. She gave a tight smile and gave up on the form. She scanned the people taking seats. These weren’t her kind of people. What was she even doing here? There was no point staying just in case Charlie showed up. He wasn’t that cute, it wasn’t worth it.

She stood up to leave, but Cressy took the clipboard from her and swapped it for her coffee.

‘Biscuits are on their way round,’ she said, taking a seat nearby. If she left now she’d miss out on a free biscuit. She’d stay for a bit.

‘Welcome to Mantra, everyone,’ said Cressy. The chatter ceased and everyone looked in her direction. ‘While we’re finishing drinks …’

The door at the back of the hall creaked open and Charlie rushed in. He took a seat, nodding greetings to some of the others until his eyes alighted on Regan. He gave her a slow, almost regal nod. She liked that he was surprised to see her. She twitched an eyebrow in a ‘See, told you so’ response.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ said Charlie.

‘That’s fine. I was just welcoming our new members,’ Cressy peered closely at the form, ‘Chris and Reg?’ Regan sprang to life, almost spilling her coffee. She held on tightly to the mug and tried to ignore Charlie, who was tittering nearby.

‘Hello, I’m Chris,’ said Chris.

Regan felt all eyes land on her. ‘Hi. I’m Regan.’

‘Oh,’ said Cressy, studying the form. ‘It says Reg.’

‘The pen was running out,’ Regan tried to explain, but nobody seemed to hear.

‘Like the president?’ asked an older woman in a brightly coloured kaftan.

‘If you mean Ronald Reagan,’ started Regan, and the woman nodded, ‘then no, that was pronounced Ray-gun. Mine’s Ree—’

‘I had an Uncle Reg.’ A man with Harry Potter-style glasses cut her off. ‘Jolly nice chap. Nice to meet you.’ This set off a series of welcomes from around the circle and ended with Charlie.

‘Lovely to see you again, Reg,’ said Charlie, failing to control a smirk.

Great, thought Regan. She’d have her free coffee and biscuit, if the packet ever made its way around to her, and then she’d escape.

‘Would someone like to share what mindfulness means to them?’ Cressy looked hopefully around the group.

‘I will,’ said the lady in the kaftan. ‘I’m Wendy and I had a stroke six months ago. So for me, mindfulness is about teaching my brain to keep focused. It’s about staying calm, not getting frustrated about all the things I can’t do, and focusing on the many things I can do.’

‘Thanks, Wendy. Anyone else?’

The man in Harry Potter specs put his hand up. ‘This is only my fourth session. I’m getting over a breakdown. I’ll probably always suffer from depression and low mood, but mindfulness helps me to spot the simple pleasures in life rather than giving all the attention to the bad stuff.’

‘Thanks, Joel.’

A bearded face leaned forward. ‘I’m Mandeep and coming to Mantra makes me sleep better.’

A young woman gave a little wave and Cressy nodded at her. ‘I’m Ellie and I’m in remission from cancer and I live in fear of it coming back. Mindfulness helps me take time to order my thoughts and feel calmer.’

Regan knew she was staring. She didn’t know what she had been expecting, but these revelations from these poor people about everything they were going through was definitely not it. On first superficial look they had all seemed perfectly healthy.

She felt like a complete fraud. What did she have to worry about? A few things swamped her mind. Okay, there was stuff to worry about, there always was, but her problems weren’t life-threatening. What these people were dealing with was serious stuff.

‘Thanks, everyone. Right, let’s start with a full body scan,’ said Cressy. ‘Please can you move your chairs to the side and get out the yoga mats.’

Regan was unsettled; she hadn’t been expecting to do yoga, and apart from a couple of people in trackies, nobody else looked like they’d dressed for it. ‘Here you go, Reg,’ said Charlie, putting down a yoga mat for her next to his own.

‘Actually, I’m not sure I …’ she began, but Cressy was talking so she copied Charlie and sat down on the mat with her legs crossed.

‘Now, Chris and Reg,’ said Cressy, and Charlie stifled a laugh. Regan glared at him and he turned his laugh into a cough. ‘Don’t be alarmed, this is really easy. All you need to do is lie down and listen to my voice. Okay?’

Regan and Chris both nodded. Lying down she was good at and, after a few nights scrunched up like a hamster in Cleo’s chair, the opportunity to lie out flat was a welcome one. She stretched out and was pleased with how comfortable the mat was. She wondered if they’d miss one if she borrowed it for a bit.

A few people produced pillows and took off their shoes. Cressy waited until everyone was settled. ‘Close your eyes. Empty your mind. I want you to focus all of your attention on your feet … Specifically your left foot … and your big toe …’

Regan grinned. This was all a bit bonkers. ‘Keep your focus on your big toe … Think about how it feels.’ Cressy had a melodic voice, which thankfully was pleasant to listen to, and whilst Regan found herself tuning in and out she did try, as Cressy suggested, to keep pulling her attention back.

Cressy moved their focus from the big toe to other parts of the foot, and eventually over the whole body, until they were focused on their breathing. When someone on the other side of the room snored, Regan couldn’t stop a snort of a giggle. Cressy continued unperturbed. Despite the giggles, Regan did feel calmer; she probably wasn’t far from nodding off herself. She was interested by how difficult it was to keep her mind focused on Cressy’s voice, and how easily it was distracted by the minutiae of life that littered her brain like plastic in the ocean.

They finished the body scan and Cressy went on to tell them about practical ways of using the techniques. She suggested losing your temper was a good opportunity to deploy mindfulness. Regan had a sly look in Charlie’s direction and he was staring straight at her. Rude. She didn’t make a habit of pummelling people’s heads on revolving doors, but, in his defence, he didn’t know that. She smiled and he smiled back. Cressy went on to teach them some other practices, but then all too soon the session was over and people were packing away their mats.

‘So, Reg,’ Charlie appeared at her shoulder, ‘what did you think?’

‘Hmm.’ She wanted a moment to consider her thoughts.

‘Actually, let’s get a drink and you can update me. Okay?’ He was already walking for the door.

She had nothing else planned. ‘Why not?’ she said, with a lazy shrug. She didn’t want to look too keen.

She suggested her usual coffee shop and they walked through the bustle of the Saturday market. The market always had a vibrancy that buoyed Regan. Whether it was the sights, smells or banter of the stallholders she wasn’t sure, but there was something about it that brought her to life. When they neared the coffee shop, she spotted Kevin hunched in a doorway. He was hugging his knees and rocking. Elvis was leaning against him as if trying to comfort him.

‘I’ll get the coffees,’ said Regan, when they went inside and joined the short queue.

‘Sorry. The rule is that whoever suggests it pays. So I have to pay.’ Charlie nodded sagely.

‘Thanks, but I want to get a couple of extra drinks for my friends.’ She nodded towards the doorway.

‘That’s cool, I’ll get theirs too. It’s near payday so I’m flush. Order away.’

Regan thought about standing her ground, but with only a few quid in her pocket she wasn’t in a position to be stubborn. ‘Cheers, that’s kind of you.’ And generous, she thought.

Penny wasn’t about so another woman took her order. When the drinks arrived on the end of the counter, Charlie took his and Regan’s. ‘Shall I get us some seats? I’m assuming you’re not going to run out on me.’ He gave a pout, which made him look rather sexy.

‘I’ll come back, I promise,’ said Regan, giving him an equally flirty look. This was fun.

She almost bounced over to Kevin and crouched down next to him. Elvis towered over her and was very excited that she was within licking distance. She scratched his head to try to keep him occupied, although his focus was on the paper cups. Kevin’s eyes were tight shut and he was muttering something inaudible. ‘Kevin, you okay?’

His eyes popped wide open in an alarming fashion, making Regan almost topple backwards. ‘Birds,’ he said, in a whisper.

‘Birds?’ She looked about her. There was a pair of wood pigeons pecking about nearby.

‘They get in my head.’

His hunted expression was bothering her. ‘Here, have a coffee. I got milk for Elvis.’

Kevin blinked a few times and seemed to almost come to. ‘Thanks … I bet you think I’m mad, don’t you?’

‘No, but you had me a bit worried there.’

He smiled at her. And then he froze. ‘Listen.’ There was a buzz of background noise from the hubbub of the nearby market.

‘Yeah, always noisy on a Saturday.’

‘No. Listen to the birds.’ His eyes were wide and he was worrying her again.

Regan closed her eyes and concentrated. Could she hear birds? ‘I can hear a pigeon.’ Its rhythmic coo of ‘da-dah-da-da-dah-dahhh’ was easy to pick out.

‘Yes, yes, that’s it.’ They listened together. ‘Can you hear what they’re saying?’ Regan gave a slow and slightly bewildered shake of her head. Kevin spoke along to the pigeon’s tune. ‘You can’t do it, Kevin. You can’t do it, Kevin!’

Regan would have laughed if Kevin’s face hadn’t been etched with horror. ‘Come on,’ said Regan, helping him up. She needed to find him somewhere away from the wood pigeons; all the scraps from the market must have drawn them in from The Level, so they’d be there for a while.

They walked until she found him a wall to sit on. ‘There are no birds here.’ She gave him the drinks. ‘Here.’ The dog was now slathering wildly and had not left her side.

Kevin’s eyes darted anxiously about and then he seemed to relax a little. She sat next to him while he sipped his drink.

‘Not seen you this week. You been on holiday?’ asked Kevin, now seemingly almost back to normal.

‘No, I quit my job.’

‘For a better one?’ Kevin tilted the milk cup for Elvis and he wolfed down the contents.

‘Er … no. I’m in between jobs. But it’s okay.’ She nodded and Kevin nodded too.

‘I wouldn’t want to be cooped up in an office.’ He was staring straight ahead. ‘I enjoyed working in the fresh air too much. The smell of the sea.’

Regan was curious. ‘What line of work were you in?’

‘Engineer.’ His voice had taken on a clipped tone.

‘Did you enjoy the work?’

Kevin looked at his scarred hands. ‘Yeah, most of the time.’ He snapped his head back. ‘Anyway, thanks for this.’ He held up Elvis’s empty cup.

‘You’re both very welcome. And thanks for taking care of me the other day. It was kind of you.’

Kevin shrugged a shoulder. ‘Ditto.’ They smiled at each other. ‘Well, carpe diem.’

She figured that was her cue to leave. ‘You too.’ Seeing Kevin kept reminding her that she was only one more bad decision away from being on the streets herself, and it scared the life out of her.

Charlie was watching the door when she returned and looked relieved to see her. She sat down and picked up her drink. ‘That’ll be cold by now, let me get you a fresh one,’ he said, getting up from the table. She noted his empty cup. ‘I need another coffee anyway.’ She didn’t argue.

He returned with the drinks and a couple of muffins. She went to protest but he waved it away. ‘I was hungry. Okay?’

‘Okay.’ She picked up the cake and began eating. It tasted divine but it crumbled everywhere. She could see Charlie was amused by it. So unlike Jarvis, who would have been on level two tutting by now.

‘So,’ he said, when he’d finished eating his, ‘are you coming back to Mantra?’

She tilted her head to one side. He was one big incentive to go back, and not just because of the free muffin. He was very easy on the eye and, from what she could tell, he appeared to be totally lovely to the core. It was hard not to compare him with Jarvis. He was so much more easy-going. And he was patient. There was no way Jarvis would have waited in a café on his own like Charlie had done. Charlie was generous too, she thought, whilst she savoured her muffin. He was so much more fun than Jarvis. She liked the easy rapport they’d quickly developed.

So was she going back to Mantra? ‘Yeah, I think so. It was a bit weird but I liked it.’

‘The trick is to practise. It’s like any new skill; you need to keep doing it and you’ll get better.’

‘How long have you been doing it?’ She noticed his eyebrows twitch. It had been ages since she’d flirted, and it was like flexing a little-used muscle. She popped the last of the muffin in her mouth and mourned its end.

‘Five months. I miss a few because of shift patterns but I’m usually there most weeks.’ Now she knew where she’d be most Saturday mornings too. ‘What’s new with you?’ He looked bright with anticipation and she hated to bring down the mood.

‘Not a lot. I’ve been looking for a job but it’s tricky with no WiFi, no computer and no fixed abode.’

His expression changed to concerned. ‘You said you had somewhere to stay.’

‘Yeah, I do, but it’s a friend’s business premises. Living there is against the rules and she doesn’t know I’m doing it. It’s all a bit precarious.’ When she thought about it she got a bit panicked so she sipped her drink to try to distract herself.

‘Did you know the computers at the library are free to use?’

‘Thanks, that’s good to know.’

‘Look, Regan. I know we’ve only recently met, but if you’ll let me I’d like to help you get back on your feet. What happened to you was really …’ He looked like he was searching for the right word.

‘Shitty,’ she offered.

He laughed. ‘Exactly. What do you say? Will you let me help? No strings.’

Right now she could do with people she could trust on her side. He’d been right about the mindfulness and it couldn’t harm to have a police officer on her side. Especially one with such a long list of positive attributes. ‘Sure, why not?’

‘Okay. Let’s have a look at local jobs.’ He scooted his seat round to her and cosied up, and she noted he smelled of aftershave and coffee. He pulled up a website on his phone. ‘HGV driver? Maybe not.’ He eyed her cheekily.

‘You don’t know. I might be qualified,’ she said, making him tilt his head in question. ‘I’m not, as it happens, but I do like a Yorkie. Next.’ She leaned over his screen and got another whiff of aftershave. This was a good way to spend a Saturday.

‘Sous chef or carpentry lecturer?’

‘A bit niche.’

‘Recruitment consultant. How ironic,’ he said. ‘Assistant drainage engineer?’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘What’s a production operative?’ she asked, touching the screen. They both read the details together. Picking, packing and labelling boxes. It wasn’t glamorous but it was probably the only one she didn’t need qualifications or experience for. He took a screenshot of the details, they swapped full names and phone numbers and he sent it to her. She typed his name in next to his number – Charlie McGee.

Chatting with Charlie was making her feel buoyed and ready for action. She’d had a great time with him but now it was time to leave. As they were exiting the coffee shop, a man the same size and shape as the doorway loomed over him. Regan feared there was about to be trouble.

‘Hey Debbie, what you up to?’ he asked.

Regan was confused. Had he mistaken her for someone else? But, before she could question him, Charlie spoke. ‘Hiya, Beanstalk,’ he said. ‘Beanstalk, this is my friend Reg.’

Regan didn’t argue; everything was already too strange. ‘Nice to meet you, Beanstalk.’

‘You too, Reg.’ He gave an unsubtle head tilt in her direction and winked at Charlie.

‘Bye, Beanstalk,’ said Charlie, slapping the large fellow on the back when they passed in the coffee shop doorway.

Beanstalk turned back for a second. ‘Hey, Debbie, I heard you got a bollocking from the station commander about Thursday’s shout. Tough call,’ he said with a wince, before disappearing inside.

‘You wanna tell me what went on there … Debbie?’ asked Regan, failing to hide her amusement.

Charlie screwed his face up. ‘It’s a work thing. Pretty much all of us have nicknames.’

Regan grinned. ‘And yours is Debbie?’ By comparison, Reg didn’t seem bad at all. ‘Oh, Debbie McGee.’ The penny dropped. ‘That’s genius.’ She laughed.

‘Isn’t it?’ said Charlie, not looking that impressed; but he’d likely witnessed this reaction before.

‘And what did you get a bollocking about?’ It was reassuring to hear about others making a hash of things at work, although it was unlikely to be on the same scale as hers.

Charlie rubbed his stubbly chin. For a moment he appeared vulnerable, making her warm to him even more. ‘I didn’t exit a burning building when I was instructed to.’

Regan was surprised. ‘A burning building? Like one on fire?’ How brave was this copper?

Charlie looked like he was chewing the inside of his mouth. ‘I may not have been entirely truthful with you when we first met.’ He looked suitably chastened. ‘I said I was a police officer so that you’d listen to me and stop pummelling that bloke’s head in. But I’m actually a firefighter.’

‘Right,’ said Regan. She wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about this news, but her instant reaction was one of distrust. Clearly he wasn’t totally trustworthy or he would have owned up to this a lot sooner. ‘So you lied.’

‘I figured you wouldn’t take any notice unless you thought you were about to be arrested,’ said Charlie. ‘I’d forgotten about it, which was why I didn’t put you straight. I’m sorry.’

Regan didn’t need people she couldn’t trust. He no longer looked quite so appealing. ‘Yeah. Me too,’ she said, with a disappointed smile and she walked away.

Chapter Nine

Sunday in the studio was lonely. Its location was off the beaten track but in the week there was the sound of traffic to make her feel like she had some connection to the rest of the universe. On Sundays, not so much.

Yesterday, thanks to Charlie, she had gone to the library after she’d left him and got herself registered so she could use the computers. She’d managed to produce a reasonable-looking CV and fire it off for a couple of vacancies, as well as uploading it to some job websites. She’d also been able to check out some books, which at least meant she had something to do in the evenings other than stare at bare walls or nipples.

This morning she’d been to the gym, taking care to avoid Jarvis’s usual timeslot, and had really enjoyed her time on the bike and the treadmill because she’d been able to watch some telly, which now seemed like such a treat. She’d used the yoga area to have a go at practising her mindfulness technique and ended up having a little nap. She’d also had a shower so she was clean too – she had a lot to be thankful for.

The spring weather was notoriously changeable and it had turned a bit chilly. The drop in temperature was noticeable in the studio: its high ceilings whisked away any warmth and, whilst the boiler was doing its best, the two radiators didn’t provide much heat. She moved the chair so that she could lean against a radiator, got out one of the library books and started reading.

Three lines in, her phone rang. It was Charlie. She considered cancelling the call but she knew she’d probably acted a little hastily yesterday. ‘Yep,’ she said, her tone curt.

‘Delivery for Reg Corsetti. Where should I deliver to?’

‘Delivery of what?’ She was more than suspicious after his revelation.

‘Chinese takeaway and chocolate cake. It’s my way of apologising.’

Regan knew it was going to be hard to stay mad with this guy for long, especially when he brought food as an apology. Could this be a match made in heaven? She gave him directions to the studio on the proviso he wouldn’t alert anyone to the fact she was living there.

Regan tidied her stuff into the corner and covered it with the throw, because old habits died hard. She waited excitedly for her knight in shining armour to appear, complete with chicken chow mein.

There was a gentle tap on the door and she whipped it open making him flinch slightly. ‘Shhh,’ she said, beckoning him inside and shutting the door quickly. It was raining and a chill wind was picking up. Charlie put down the bags on the drainer and looked about.

‘Welcome to my temporary abode.’

He was giving reassuring head bobs but she could see he was taking it all in. He pulled two bottles of wine from one of the bags. ‘I didn’t know if you preferred red or white, so I bought one of each.’

‘That is exactly what I prefer,’ she said, getting two mugs off the mug tree.

Charlie gallantly let Regan have the chair, whilst he perched on an odd little wooden stool with a round seat that you had to spin to get it to go up or down. Regan had forgotten to point out that she didn’t have any plates or cutlery, but Charlie had brought free chopsticks and passing the containers to each other and eating directly from them was actually quite fun.

‘See, no washing up,’ she said, when she could eat no more. ‘Although I will wash up the chopsticks – they’ll come in handy.’ They were a step up from the coffee stirrers.

Charlie sipped his wine and surveyed the studio. ‘I know you said it was basic but … I kind of expected you’d have a bed.’

‘Nope. This is it. But it’s more than a lot of people have.’ A picture of Kevin out in the wind and rain instantly sprang to mind.

Regan tidied up the cartons and used an odd-looking arty tool of Cleo’s she’d found to cut the cake into slices. ‘So, firefighter, huh?’ She took a bite of the cake to stop herself from making any lame jokes about firemen’s poles or long hoses.

‘All my life, apart from brief stints as a waiter and a dustman.’

‘That is pretty awesome, being a firefighter … not a dustman.’

Charlie gave a modest shrug. ‘I’m not academic but I’ve always known I needed to have a job with a purpose. Something that added some value to other people’s lives.’

Regan felt instantly inadequate. She’d never felt like that at all. She was starting to think her dad was right about the whole Nissan Micra analogy. ‘I don’t know what the hell I’ve been doing with my life.’ She finished her cake and licked her fingers.

Charlie chuckled. ‘I’m sure you’ve done plenty.’

‘Nope. I’ve been bumming around, basically, doing as little as I can get away with.’ She marvelled at her own honesty. She took a swig of her wine, wincing at both the clash of wine with chocolate cake and how little she had achieved. Friends from school were married and had kids in tow but that had never been an ambition of hers. If she thought about it she’d never really had any ambition. Even the school careers advisor had suggested a job as a fishmonger might suit her, and whilst that was a perfectly good job, it wasn’t exactly setting her sights high. She feared invoices clerk at BHB Healthcare had been the peak of her career. She chuckled to herself and Charlie scrutinised her.

‘So, what now?’ he asked.

Regan drank more wine and sighed slowly. ‘I fired off some job applications from the library. Thank you for that tip,’ she said. ‘I’ve uploaded my CV to a few job sites, too, so hopefully in a couple of days they’ll be beating my door down.’ She tried to sound optimistic but she didn’t believe it herself.

‘There are other options.’

‘Like?’

Charlie looked like he was going to lean back on the stool and then thought better of it. He put down his wine and went over to the corner to the box Regan had brought from the office – not as well tidied as she’d thought. He returned with Regan’s lottery wish list.

‘I keep thinking about this,’ he said, waving it near her but just out of reach.

‘Don’t remind me.’ She drained and refilled her Cookie Monster mug.

‘I think this is an excellent thing to have done.’ If Regan had worn glasses she would have been looking at him from over the top of them right now. ‘Bear with me. You wrote this because, like all of us, when we think about winning the lottery we think it is the key that unlocks all our dreams. So this list,’ he tapped the paper, ‘is a true list of the things you really want to do with your life.’

‘If I won the lottery,’ she added.

He shook his head. ‘Regardless of winning. You still want to do them; you just need to find a way of achieving them without the money.’

Regan laughed and then saw his expression was serious. She needed more wine. Charlie topped up both their drinks and picked up his Hong Kong Phooey mug, eyeing her speculatively.

Regan snatched up the list. He was being ridiculous. She scanned them. ‘Which of these is even vaguely possible without tons of cash?’

‘Well, the bottom one is, but we’ll come back to that.’ She scanned it quickly; the last item was ‘Get new hot boyfriend who doesn’t nag or wear button-up pyjamas’. She looked back up again slowly; this was a promising development. Charlie was looking thoughtful now. He tapped a bullet point towards the top of the list. ‘How could you help your dad out?’

‘Suggest he dumps Tarty Tara.’

Charlie was grinning broadly. ‘Tell me more about Tarty Tara. I think I love her already.’

Regan shook her head. ‘Where to start … She’s ten years younger than my dad. She works part time so she’s round his all the time. I’m sure she’s bleeding him dry moneywise.’

‘Any redeeming features?’ Charlie was looking amused.

Regan screwed her face up in thought. ‘Hmm, she puts the hoover round. That’s about it, though.’

‘So what does he need help with?’

‘He’s only got a one-bedroom flat. I was thinking I would buy him somewhere nicer. I definitely need lottery money for that.’

Charlie was nodding. ‘Could you make his flat nicer in any other ways?’

Regan was feeling put on the spot. ‘Dunno.’ Charlie was watching her expectantly. ‘It needs redecorating and his kitchen is really dated but I don’t think there’s much I could do there without ripping it all out.’

Charlie leaned forward. ‘But the redecorating wouldn’t cost much – only your time and a bit of paint.’

Regan waved her mug at him and the contents sloshed about, making her realise she was probably a bit more drunk than she’d thought. ‘You forget that paint costs money and I have none.’

‘I’ve got friends in the trade. They have half tins left over all the time. I’ll speak to one of them if you like?’

Regan studied him. He was ruggedly handsome with very good teeth. He’d got her out of trouble when she could have quite happily brained Alex. He’d bought her a takeaway and wine, and here he was offering suggestions of how she could help her dad. She found herself ticking off a list of everything she wanted in a partner and Charlie was it. This guy was sent from heaven. ‘You’re brilliant,’ she said, feeling it was a pretty good summary.

Charlie went coy. ‘Just being a friend. I’m a big believer in karma. You know, that the good you do will come back to you eventually.’

He used the ‘f’ word. Friend. That was unfortunate, because right at that moment she wanted to snog his face off. ‘Do you really believe that?’

‘I have to.’

Her booze-addled brain was trying to process what he’d said when he got unsteadily to his feet. ‘I should go.’ He picked up his jacket and pointed to the door.

‘It’s been a great evening. Thanks for dinner and everything.’ She stood up and held on to the wall to steady herself. How much had she drunk?

She followed him to the door and when he spun around to say something they both froze as their faces were so close to each other. Regan didn’t stop to think. She kissed him. She didn’t have to wait for his reaction. He kissed her back, hard. They were soon up against the brick wall exploring each other in a frenzy of booze-fuelled lust.

‘Ow,’ said Regan, grazing her back on the rough brickwork.

‘Sorry,’ said Charlie through a gasped breath. ‘Chair?’ he suggested after scanning the bare room.

‘Okay.’ They made it to the chair, their lips still attached. Regan paused. How was this going to work? She sat in the chair and Charlie awkwardly kneeled next to her and they resumed their feverish kissing. The chair rocked precariously. Regan clutched the sides whilst still mid-kiss. Charlie’s weight shifted and so did the chair, tipping them both unceremoniously to the floor.

‘Ow,’ said Charlie. ‘Dodgy joint,’ he explained, getting to his feet and rubbing his knee. ‘Old injury.’

‘Actually that was killing my back,’ said Regan, and they paused to look at each other rubbing their separate sore patches. They both dissolved into hysterics. ‘That killed the mood.’

‘Maybe it’s for the best. We’ve both drunk quite a bit,’ said Charlie, planting a kiss on her forehead. ‘I’ll see you soon. Okay?’ He gave her a look that made her go weak at the knickers.

It was more than okay with Regan; the sooner the better.

Regan was settling down to sleep when she saw she had new emails. Maybe it was a job interview. She yawned and flicked through them. Nothing about any jobs, but there was one from Cleo. She opened it expecting to see photos of fabulous places, but instead it was late-night ramblings.

Hey You!

Hope you’re okay and not missing me too much lol. My brain’s a bit foggy because we had a long flight and an even longer car journey … Followed by a meal where I was expected to engage with people. I tried my best but Oscar informed me that it was a woefully inept performance and I need to improve before we meet the next round of prospective buyers. But that’s the least of my worries. A top art critic saw an early preview of my new collection in Japan and to say they slated it would be too much praise. There wasn’t a thing they liked about it. They said: The colours held as much vibrancy as mud. The style felt like a poor copy of Cleo’s earlier work. Even the size of the canvas in their opinion was wrong. Or as they put it, ‘obese’. They concluded that I’ve had my day and my moment in the sun is over.

Oscar is furious. I’m a bit torn. Part of me is happy to retreat back into the shadows and paint. Leave behind the madness of the celebrity lifestyle and be normal. But now it’s happened, it’s a far bigger blow than I’d ever thought it would be. Financially, it’s not great, and all the anxiety I’ve carried about being an imposter, a fraud, just a lucky chance that I once painted something that was okay … now that’s come crashing down on me too.

Coupled with that, there’s also Oscar’s temper to deal with. He swore at me last night. Wanted to know if I’d said something out of line about the reviewer that may have got back to them. Oscar believes this particular person is vain enough to take out their revenge via a review. I know I haven’t said anything out of place but I’ve still been awake all night going over every conversation I can remember that could have in any way been misconstrued. And I’ve drawn a blank.

Everything’s a mess and I’m virtually on the other side of the planet from you. And I know, unlike Oscar, you actually care about me. I miss you. Tell me everything’s going to be okay?

Love

C

x

Regan typed a hasty reply:

Everything is going to be okay.

Love

R

X

P.S. Oscar is a twat.

P.P.S. Will write properly later.

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