Hand On Heart: Sequel to Head Over Heels

by Downing, Sara

  Sara has written three further novels:

  Head Over Heels

  Urban Venus

  Stage Fright

  Head Over Heels :

  Thirty-something teacher and professional shopper, Grace, has a passion for shoes. In fact they were responsible for her meeting her partner, Mark, when she speared his foot with one of her dangerously sharp heels whilst running for a train.

  Mark is the other passion in her life, or so she thinks... When he suggests they try for a baby - but is reluctant to tie the knot on their very long-term engagement - the cracks in her champagne lifestyle start to appear. As Mark becomes ever more controlling, Grace begins to see her blond and sexy boss, Tom, in a different light. A conventionally one-man woman who doesn't 'do' affairs, she suddenly finds herself in the midst of the sort of tangled lifestyle she has only read about in the celeb pages. Throw in the added complications of an untimely pregnancy, a case of mistaken identity and some pretty zany friends and Grace's life is thrown into turmoil. Retail therapy and even the comfort of her vast shoe collection can't help her out of this dilemma...

  Urban Venus

  Contemporary and historical fiction combine in this love story set in present-day and Renaissance Italy.

  Broken-hearted art student, Lydia Irvine, spends her days wandering the atmospheric streets of Florence, soaking up the culture in its art galleries and museums. She develops a strong pull to one painting in particular, Titian’s Venus of Urbino in the Uffizi Gallery. Lydia frequently falls asleep in front of the painting and starts to believe the dreams she has in the gallery ‘transport’ her to another time and place.

  Who is this woman she becomes in the dreams and what is she trying to tell Lydia? With the help of her charmingly handsome tutor, Vincenzo Tizzaro, she starts to research the life of the artist and becomes deeply embroiled in the mystery which is beginning to unfold. Through the dreams, Lydia learns far more about the Renaissance era than she ever could from the history books, but when her life is put in danger, has she taken it all a step too far?

  Stage Fright

  Life isn’t going too well for Phoebe Grey. Newly single and unemployed, she desperately fills her evenings with meals-for-one, the TV, Arnie, her cat – and rehearsals for an amateur dramatic play, a futuristic rewrite of Jane Austen’s ‘Pride and Prejudice'.

  Phoebe wonders exactly where her life is heading – nowhere, it would seem. And then she meets Harry Kirkwood, an up-and-coming actor, who is currently playing Mr Darcy in a lavish West End production. He is about to be thrust into the spotlight as the acting world’s ‘next big thing', after years of struggling to get himself noticed.

  But what could the charming Harry possibly see in little Phoebe Grey, an ordinary girl with an ordinary life, no designer clothes and no job?

  Before she can say ‘Good heavens, Mr Darcy,' Phoebe is thrown into the limelight alongside Harry, and life soon becomes a whirlwind of glamorous parties, meeting famous people and dodging the paparazzi.

  Can Phoebe cope with all the attention? Is she really cut out for a celebrity lifestyle? When a rival for Harry’s affections threatens all she holds dear, can Phoebe find the strength to overcome her fears and find her happily-ever-after?

  Read the first two chapters below…

  STAGE FRIGHT

  One

  'And cut,' howled the director, steam practically blowing from his ears. 'It's no good – again.'

  'Why not, what is it this time?' snapped Elizabeth Bennet, folding her arms petulantly across her chest. Not the real Miss Bennet, obviously, she of great Austen fame and the even greater fortune to have snared the luscious Mr Darcy. No, this was the Ealing Drama Society's slightly less conventional version, 'Self-Respect and Discrimination.' A pretty lame title if ever there was one, conjured up by a second-rate writer who'd simply looked up 'pride' and 'prejudice' on their thesaurus app and slotted in the first words it threw back at them. It was hardly catchy, and certainly wasn't going to win this aspiring playwright any accolades.

  Fortunately the character names hadn't been corrupted in the same way; they'd just had the misfortune to be transported forward nearly three centuries in time, so Miss Bennet looked like Barbarella and Mr Darcy like an extra from Star Trek. Well, no one really knew what the human population would be wearing in 2099, did they? Phoebe smiled, watching the politics of this amateur dramatics event unfolding before her.

  'Bloody Darcy looks way too happy. Don't you remember Colin Firth?' Marty – the director – snapped at Justin, the hapless individual who had been assigned the lead male role. There was more of the Artful Dodger than of Fitzwilliam Darcy about Justin, Phoebe thought, but hey ho, Marty only had himself to blame if he thought he could turn this sow's ear into a silk purse. And all that whilst half the cast were encased in movement-inhibiting silver foil costumes; no mean feat for the best of actors – which quite clearly this bunch were not.

  'Try to look a bit more brooding, can you? That's brooding, not broad grin. You've got to wipe that bloody smirk off your face. You're supposed to be subtly wooing the woman, you know, not doling out death-by-smiling. This is a dress rehearsal for goodness sake, not the first run-through. You guys should be there by now.'

  'Sorry, sorry, sorry,' Darcy of the broad-grin muttered, pulling himself up to his full height, (an imposing five foot eight inches at most) squaring his narrow shoulders to their full extent and doing his wholehearted best to look like a man of means in the nineteenth century, jettisoned into late twenty-first century society. An unimaginable combination if ever there was one, and certainly light years above and beyond the limits of his acting abilities.

  The cast knew for a fact that Justin’s broad grin stemmed largely from his unrequited crush on Miss Bennet, aka Tabbie Clark, a part-time waitress and would-be 'real' actress, from Wandsworth. They all knew, but Tabbie was totally oblivious to it, despite the fact that Justin could barely take his eyes off her. Phoebe wondered how Tabbie could fail to notice those constant glances coming her way, those adoring puppy-dog eyes gazing wistfully at her. But it was unlikely that Tabbie would have even registered Justin’s existence on the planet, had they not been cast alongside one another. And even if she had noticed him, it was plain to see that she considered herself in a league far above him, anyway, and therefore not worthy of her attentions. Justin was wasting his time, poor bloke, Phoebe thought.

  Justin’s crush on Tabbie had started well before parts for ‘Self-Respect and Discrimination’ had been assigned. How gutted he must have been to discover, on his initial read-through of the script, that he wouldn't actually get to kiss or even make any physical contact with Tabbie at all on the stage. Cruelly for him, the only majorly noticeable change their playwright had made to the plot was to make Darcy not eventually win Elizabeth's hand. Instead he would realise he was gay, ditch Lizzy, and run off with Mr Bingley. The latter character was being played by Steve, a strapping six-foot-four ex-roofer who worked out, and who possessed, so Phoebe had heard, biceps and pecs to die for, if you’re partial to that kind of thing. Phoebe couldn't quite see how such a major distortion to the plot could work, but who was she to comment? If she did, she'd have the wrath of Marty upon her; the playwright was none other than his darling wife, Abigail.

  How their version of events would be received by the audience at Ealing Playhouse was another matter for concern; Phoebe could imagine the tut-tuts and sighs of disapproval from the largely greying crowd as Justin, clad from head to toe in foil like a genetically modified turkey, flounced from the stage with Bingley, and the pair of them skipped off into the pink sunset together. Never a more incongruous couple could one imagine.

  'You're still grinning, man,' Marty snarled, lips curling like a pit-bull.

  'Sorry, sorry, sorry,' Justin muttered again, desperately trying to prise his eyes from Tabbie's admittedly gorgeous face. Bless him, Phoebe thought, this crush was getting out of control. Tabbie, though, looked thoroughly bored, arms folded and eyes rolling to
the heavens. She thought she was better than this, nay, she knew she was. She should be in the West End, in a show by Lloyd Webber or Cameron Mackintosh at the very least, not stuck here in this tatty theatre in the back streets of Ealing, working with a complete bunch of no-hopers. W13 wasn't exactly on the theatre-land trail, was it? How on earth was she going to get herself spotted from here, the dog-end of the acting world?

  She'd applied to go on one of those reality TV, get-famous-quick programmes, where the next big star of the musical stage was manufactured; the prize was the opening stint in the lead role of a big-hit West End show. Only she'd fluffed her audition; how unfair that she'd been dealt the blow of glandular fever, just a week before they had started. She could barely speak, let alone sing. She had turned up and tried, knowing it was a lost cause, but was ushered off the stage before she had sung the first line. She’d tried to console herself with 'It just wasn't meant to be this time.' Her big break was obviously still to come, she reckoned.

  'You are simply over-acting Justin,' Marty said. 'You need to do less. Look bland. Look normal. Let's take it from the top of act two again. And this time, for God's sake, everyone concentrate.' Marty paced the floor in frustration, wringing his hands together as though he wished Justin's scrawny neck was between them.

  Phoebe was on in act two, albeit briefly. She had been cast as Kitty Bennet, one of the less central Bennet daughters. It was a truth universally acknowledged that a young amateur actress in possession of limited acting skills would not find fame and fortune by being cast as a minor member of this family of forceful and domineering characters. But Phoebe wasn't in the play to get rich or famous or even noticed – and the others were deluding themselves if they thought they might – she was there for the fun of having a go at acting. She mightn't be any good at it, but it was a hobby, something to fill the long evenings and take her away from nights in with a meal-for-one, the telly, and Arnie, her cat. Despite the tribulations of working with the tempestuous Marty and a very mixed-ability cast, she was enjoying herself hugely. She possessed fewer aspirations than some, so Marty's harsh words tended to wash over her and she just got on with the job in hand, throwing herself into her minor role with wholehearted zeal.

  'And GO,' shouted Marty, settling back in his canvas chair with 'MK – Director' printed on the back, a throwback to the days when he was someone. Marty had been a director for one of the West End theatres, involved in some pretty major productions, so Phoebe had heard. She wasn't exactly sure what had brought about his fall from grace, but if it had been enough to send him out to the extremities of theatre life, then it must have been bad. She didn't really care about that, though; after all he must have brought a wealth of experience with him to Ealing, regardless of his reasons for being there, which could only help them in their quest to produce a half-decent production. At least one that might result in them selling some tickets, an audience turning up to see them, and no one walking out half way through. Oh, and applause at the end, too. That was always nice. They had been met with total silence at the end of a performance, just the once, under a different director. The curtain had fallen on the poor, humiliated cast without a single clap from anyone. Ouch, that had hurt. They’d all stuck with it, though, and had returned for another shot at stage success. Or at least, at not achieving total failure.

  'Much better, much, much better,' Marty managed, easing himself from his chair and clapping slowly. Finally he was smiling – probably because Justin had managed not to in this latest take. He sidled up to Justin as he stepped down from the stage. 'Darcy is such a major role, you have to remember that, Justin. Just think back to the Colin Firth version. Can you tell me who played Elizabeth? No? Well it was the lovely Jennifer Ehle. I directed her once, you know, marvellous woman. But no one remembers her, do they? It's Firth they remember. I know we don't have the luxury of a lake for you to emerge from, but I need to feel you're doing your best, and finally I think you are getting there.' He patted Justin on the back with an uncharacteristic chumminess.

  The baby-faced Justin probably wasn't even old enough to have seen the Colin Firth version, and Phoebe had to admit she was more familiar with the Keira Knightley one. But even as a young girl she remembered her mother and friends talking about that ‘white-shirt-coming-out-of-the-lake moment’ and drooling over Darcy. It was legendary, a classic screen moment, everyone had heard of it.

  Tabbie had obviously overheard this conversation and was scowling inappropriately in her chair, on the back of which she'd chalked her own initials, 'TC – Lead Actress'. Her latest set of dreams was now in tatters, though; if Jennifer Ehle couldn't get recognition as Lizzy, then what chance for her? Mind you, Justin was no Colin Firth, was he, and thank goodness he didn't have to make an appearance in a wet shirt, his chest was practically concave, his scrawny arms like twigs. There wasn't much chance of her performance being overshadowed; as far as she was concerned, she was the star of this show.

  Phoebe’s own rehearsal over, she sat down to watch the tail end of the play. The dynamics of the relationships between various cast members kept her amused every time. Honestly, some of these people took it so seriously – it was just a bit of fun am-dram as far as she was concerned, not the beginning of the road to stardom, but try telling that to the likes of Tabbie.

  Phoebe sometimes felt her own life so far had been like one big dress rehearsal, only for what, she wasn't quite sure. There she was, standing nervously in the wings with a touch of stage fright, waiting to be called forward to perform in the starring role that would one day be her destiny. Only she just didn't know what that destiny was yet. She put all these mixed up theatrical metaphors down to where she was – or rather wasn't – in her life right now. She was stuck in her own personal green room – no man, no career, and not a lot else of note going on either.

  Pushing open the door to her flat, Phoebe picked up the post and greeted Arnie with his favourite tickle behind the ear.

  Where ya been this time, then? he mewed. Me dinner’s late – again. He mustered all the feline haughtiness he could manage, which was easy with his upper-class dinner-jacket style colourings; largely black but with a white bib and paws, plus a classy little white moustache to top it off. It made him look frightfully distinguished, Phoebe thought, the James Bond of cats. It belied his working-class beginnings in life, but that was his best-kept secret. The Cat's Protection couldn't provide Phoebe with any details of where he'd come from, and Arnie was quite relieved about that. He'd left the alleyways and gutters behind him forever and moved up in the world to the life of a pampered puss. And he fully intended to stay there, even if it meant an end to hunting forever, something he used to enjoy. If it came on a plate now and he didn't have to torture and murder it first, then that was fine by him.

  He sidled flirtatiously towards Phoebe, weaving and wending his way in and out of her legs in anticipation of his dinner showing up some time soon, and made an inconsolable racket when instead she headed for the bathroom, turned on the taps and treated the running water to a generous slug of the expensive bath oil her mother had given her for Christmas.

  'OK poppet, Mummy's coming,' she soothed. Arnie followed her, and jumped up precariously onto the edge of the bath, regarding the stream of water as something he might quite like to chase, despite the obvious consequences. 'One of these days you'll fall in there, you daft old puss,' she laughed at him. 'And you wouldn't like that now, would you?'

  I like swimming, he purred. Why don't you just stop bloomin' fussin' about me and let me have a little splash now and again? It's good for me fur, fleas don't like water.

  She carried his furry bulk back into the kitchen and scooped the fishy gloop which passes as cat food into his bowl, smiling as he bolted it down with a contented hum of his engine. If only life were so simple for humans, she thought. If your only worries in life were when food would appear in front of you, and how to choose between the sofa or the bed for a nap, then life had to be pretty damn good, didn't it?

/>   Phoebe switched on the TV in passing; Arnie liked the nature programmes, so one of those would keep him occupied whilst she had her bath. But the ten o'clock news was on, more doom and gloom, so-called double-dip recession now, they were saying. Well, she'd had her double-dip already, losing two jobs within months of each other. It was about time some luck came her way.

  Until just a few months ago, Phoebe had been a graphic designer with a big company in the West End. Hers had been the life of a comfortably off, middle-class office worker, sufficiently challenged and suitably rewarded, but not with so much money that she didn't know what to do with it. Just enough to ensure there was a little bit left at the end of the month for some new clothes, or maybe an extravagant pair of shoes, or to top up the slowly-growing holiday fund that supported her annual fortnight in a location with guaranteed sunshine.

  But then the bottom seemed to drop out of the graphic design market, just like it had done in most areas of business lately, and Phoebe had swiftly joined the growing pile of the unemployed, looking for the next big venture – or even just a job to pay the rent and the bills. What followed was no big venture, and in fact so hard was her struggle to get back into graphic design that she'd ended up waitressing in a café just around the corner from where she lived, in Acton. It was a nice job, but that was all it was. It gave her some money, but she’d had to dip into her savings as well, in order to make ends meet. More importantly, the longer she was out of the graphic design world, the harder it would be to get her career back on track. It would be like starting from scratch again, she thought.

  And now the waitressing job had come to an abrupt end too. Just last week the owner, a very nice, kindly woman for whom casting Phoebe out onto the streets would have been a decision not taken lightly, had very nicely and kindly explained to her that they could no longer afford to keep her on either. Times were just too hard, customers weren't exactly flocking to their door and they already had quite a few full-time staff who had been there a while. So, as the last one in, Phoebe was the first one out of the door. Time to start job hunting in earnest, she thought.