About the Author
MAXINE MORREY has wanted to be a writer for as long as she can remember and wrote her first (very short) book for school when she was ten. Coming in first, she won a handful of book tokens – perfect for a bookworm!
She has written articles on a variety of subjects, as well as a Brighton Ghost Walks book for a Local History publisher. However, novels are what she loves writing the most. After self-publishing her first novel when a contract fell through, thanks to the recession, she continued to look for opportunities.
In August 2015, she won Harper Collins/Carina UK’s ‘Write Christmas’ competition with her romantic comedy, ‘Winter’s Fairytale’.
Maxine lives on the south coast of England, and when not wrangling with words loves to read, sew, and listen to podcasts. As she also enjoys tea and cake, she can also be found either walking or doing something vaguely physical at the gym.
Her website is: www.scribblermaxi.co.uk
Email: [email protected]
You can also find her on Twitter @Scribbler_Maxi
On Facebook www.facebook.com/MaxineMorreyAuthor
On Instagram @Scribbler_Maxi
On Pinterest @ScribblerMaxi
Second Chance at the Ranch
MAXINE MORREY
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018
Copyright © Maxine Morrey 2018
Maxine Morrey asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © September 2018 ISBN: 9780008318505
Version: 2018-09-21
Table of Contents
Cover
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Acknowledgements
Coming Soon
Dear Reader
Keep Reading …
About the Publisher
To all those who still love to read a Happy Ever After …
Chapter 1
‘Yes! Just like that! More! More!’ Hero Scott turned her head this way and that, lifted her arms up, then down, the movements almost automatic now as the photographer prompted her unnecessarily. Her long dark hair swayed like a glossy curtain as she tilted her chin down further, maintaining the serious look the photographer had demanded for the shoot.
The studio was lit, almost over-lit, in accordance with the style wanted for the designer’s advertising campaign. Loud music by the hottest current DJ blasted from speakers. Hero closed her eyes briefly from the glare, trying to halt the progression of a headache that had been rumbling in her skull for the last half an hour. Her throat was dry and she turned to one of the assistants hovering around the set and made a quick mime of drinking. The assistant grabbed a bottle of water, undid it and stuck a straw in the top. Just as she stepped towards Hero, the photographer roared.
‘What are you doing?’
The assistant froze, colour immediately flooding her face as she stood, half on, half off the background roll.
‘I … erm …’
‘You’ve ruined the perfect shot! Ruined it! Where do we find these people, for God’s sake?’ he asked, turning on one of the others hovering around the shoot.
‘I’m sorry. It won’t happen again,’ came the reply from a short but perfectly dressed woman, as a vicious glance was sent towards the assistant whose eyes were now brimming with tears.
‘I cannot work with such—’
‘It’s my fault, Armand.’ Hero’s educated tones rose above the noise, interrupting the photographer’s rant mid-flow.
Everyone turned to look at the supermodel. She casually tucked one hand behind her, the pose confident yet aloof. Behind her back, her other hand balled into a tight fist.
‘I was thirsty and asked her to get me a drink. I’m sorry if it upset your process but I thought you were taking a break for a moment. So, the fault is completely mine, not hers.’ Hero gave the briefest of smiles as she turned back to the young woman and took the bottle from her, placed the straw between glossy, deep-plum-coloured lips and took a brief sip. It wasn’t enough, but Hero knew better than to test this particular photographer. He was well known for his diva-type tantrums and had the ability to end a budding career with just one vicious text. Hero had known him for over fifteen years now, both of their careers blooming at a similar time. Unfortunately, as Armand’s career had blossomed so had his ego – something which hadn’t been all that small to begin with.
No one spoke. No one moved. All were waiting for the explosion they knew was to come.
Instead, Armand let out a dramatic sigh and made a Gallic ‘pfff’ sort of noise. Hero met his eyes, the short nails on the hidden hand biting in to the soft skin of her palm.
‘Fine. Let her keep her job. This time!’ He held up his finger, highlighting the magnanimity of his decision. Hero nodded, and beside her the young assistant let out a strangled sob of relief.
‘OK. Now! Can we get on?’
Hero dropped back into action as the shutter continued on and on, the music still pounding, her throat still dry and the headache now full blown. Armand had returned to the shoot with even more drama than it had already been infused with. Hero had been there since 5 a.m., having make-up applied, touched up, and completely changed as fashion editors assigned assistants to curate outfits for the shoot. Hero stood patiently, being handed various clothes to try. Belts put on, belts taken off, her body moved this way and that as if she were no more than a shop mannequin. Which, in some ways, she supposed she was.
The incessant shutter finally ceased as Armand scrolled through a few of the last frames, his thin face becoming even more pinched as he frowned at the back of the camera. Hero took the opportunity to stretch her body, trying to ease the tension in her back and neck as she did so. Glancing across the studio, she smiled as she saw her best friend, Anya, a blonde, willowy Swede, talking to the assistant from earlier. Anya gave her a hug and bent to say something private to her. Whatever it was, Hero was glad of the smile it brought to the young woman. There were days she hated this world. But she knew she couldn’t leave. Not yet.
Anya glanced up
and over at Hero, her beautiful smile and funny double thumbs up making her friend grin and giggle.
‘What are you doing?’ Armand’s attention, and ire, was now directed at Hero. She’d protected someone else, but Armand had to be seen to win. She knew the game.
‘What is this?’ he yelled, pulling a sarcastic version of the supermodel’s wide smile. ‘I do not want this! I want serious. Sultry! Mysterious! I do not want Coco the Clown! If I want to photograph clowns, I will go to the circus! Yet today I am wondering if the circus has not been brought to me!’
The photographer blustered on through his tirade. Hero knew Anya was trying to catch her eye again, but this time she refused to meet it. Instead, she blanked her expression, applying the metaphorical mask of disinterest she wore in these, and many other, situations now. They wouldn’t get to her, she told herself. At least they wouldn’t see, even if they had.
‘Hey!’ Anya hurried over to her friend once the photo shoot finally ended, and gave her a hug. ‘You OK?’
Hero nodded. ‘Yes, fine, thanks. You know what he’s like.’
Anya rolled her eyes in agreement.
‘Is that assistant all right?’ Hero asked as Anya waited for her to change back into her own clothes.
‘She’s fine. I know her boss pretty well and had a gentle word.’
Hero flicked a glance up as she sat and tied the lace on her designer boots. ‘Gentle?’
Anya shrugged, then grinned. ‘The poor thing. Armand can be so awful sometimes. He thinks far too much of himself.’
Hero stood and pulled her hair into a low ponytail before pulling a baseball cap on. They had dinner reservations at a restaurant’s opening night and, now that the photo shoot had run on far longer than it was supposed to, she didn’t have time to go home and change. The make-up was much heavier than she would normally wear for something like this, but it would have to do now. The cap lent an air of casualness to her look and she knew, like so much in this world, if she acted like she was confident about it, no one would know the truth.
***
‘How’s your head?’ Anya asked as they stepped out from the Tube carriage and into the mass of life that was a London Underground station at rush hour.
‘It’s going off, thanks.’ Hero smiled.
The women exited the station within a swarm of others before managing to disentangle themselves from the crowd to walk the short distance to the restaurant. Anya tugged on her friend’s sleeve to slow her.
‘What’s the matter?’
Anya looked at her. ‘You.’
Hero frowned.
‘You still have a pounding headache, don’t you?’
Anya was one of only three people who could read Hero. Everyone else was kept away from knowing what she really thought, or felt.
‘No.’
Anya raised one fair and perfectly shaped brow.
‘OK, fine.’ Hero laughed. ‘Yes, I still have it, but it is less now, I promise. Probably half of it is just dehydration.’
‘Let’s just go back home then,’ Anya said, her voice soft and kind.
To Hero, that sounded like the perfect suggestion, but she knew Anya had been looking forward to this restaurant thing for ages now. Cooking and baking was sort of her thing. Not an ideal hobby when you were trying to keep your weight to a number decreed by the modelling agency. Hero had started running for longer since she and Anya had bought this flat together, and her friend demanded she be her guinea pig for each recipe she trialled in the gleaming steel and granite kitchen of their Kensington home.
‘No, honestly.’ Hero reached out for Anya’s hand and gave it a brief squeeze. ‘It really is going off now. I just need some water and some food and I’m sure that will take care of the rest of it. Come on.’ She moved and linked Anya’s arm through her own before tugging her along.
‘OK. But if it gets worse again, just let me know and we can leave.’
Hero nodded in agreement. ‘Promise.’
***
When Hero had begun modelling full-time, the world she had entered scared her and wore her down. She would sit at the castings, knowing that everyone there was analysing her, judging her, comparing her. She hated it. Finally, on a summer afternoon, she got up in the middle of one such go-see and walked out.
Hero sat on the wall of the ornate fountain in the gardens of the location and let out a huge sigh. It felt like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. Another replaced it almost immediately. If she wasn’t going to model, she had to find a job. The summer breeze blew the fountain into a mist and the fine spray was cool as it landed on her face. She closed her eyes to enjoy its soothing touch.
‘Hello.’
Hero’s eyes flew open and she found herself looking up into the face of a beautiful blonde. She was of a similar age to Hero, and looked vaguely familiar.
‘Hello.’
‘Are you coming back in?’
Hero looked warily at the door, then back at the blonde, then back at the door again.
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’
The blonde took a seat next to Hero and held out her hand.
‘I’m Anya.’
‘Hero. It’s nice to meet you.’ Hero’s etiquette switch engaged automatically.
‘What a lovely name.’
‘Thanks. My parents really liked Shakespeare.’ She smiled awkwardly.
‘It’s very romantic.’ The blonde smiled warmly again. There was an accent there, something Scandinavian, and she was the epitome of the stereotype with long, shiny, natural platinum hair, pale blue eyes and porcelain skin. Hero now remembered that she had seen her at other go-sees. That was why she looked familiar. Anya had a fantastic figure, a little curvier than Hero’s. She wore no make-up, as per the preference for castings, allowing the clients to see bone structure and skin tone. Her long legs were clad in tight jeans and a white T-shirt clung to her upper curves. Anya dug in the pocket of her jeans and pulled out a fresh pack of chewing gum. She unwrapped the outer packaging then offered the pack to Hero.
‘Thanks,’ Hero said and began to pull a stick out of the casing. Halfway through, she stopped. ‘You bite your nails!’ she blurted, before looking up at Anya, suddenly realising her comment had sounded like a criticism, which it hadn’t been. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—’
Anya laughed. ‘It’s OK! I do! Terrible habit. They have to keep sticking on false ones if there’s any chance my hands are going to show in a shot. Or I have to place them where they won’t see them. It’s a bad habit but I can’t stop. I just tell myself there are worse habits to have!’ She laughed but both of them knew that the statement was true. Drug habits were rife within their world so, as a vice, nail biting was pretty damn tame.
Hero quickly stuck out her hands in front of her, showing her own bitten nails – a connection of imperfection with her new friend in a world of false flawlessness. She laughed properly, easily, for what seemed like the first time in ages.
Anya persuaded Hero to return to the studio, which had resulted in bookings for both of them. The encounter marked the beginning of a strong bond of friendship between the two young women. They travelled to go-sees together and eventually shared a flat, both dismissing the financially available option of each girl purchasing one separately. Anya came from a close family in Sweden and missed the company. Hero had almost no family and also missed the company. Anya kept Hero’s spirits from sinking and Hero returned the favour.
‘Hello, gorgeous!’ Rupert Thorne-Smith wrapped his arms around Hero from behind and gave her a big kiss on the cheek. The physical contact made a difference from all the air kisses she had received this evening. ‘You look bored as hell,’ he said, sliding into the empty seat opposite her.
Hero smiled. ‘Of course I’m not.’
Rupert screwed up his nose and made a loud ‘oink oink’ noise, startling the group of older, clearly loaded, women sitting next to them.
‘Stop it!’ Hero laughed, batting her friend
on the arm.
Rupert gave one more oink for good measure before lifting his champagne glass to his lips, a devilish grin on his face. ‘That’s what happens when you tell porkies to Uncle Rupert.’
Hero shook her head. ‘Uncle Rupert’ was seven years older than her and the only man she trusted.
‘You on your own?’ he asked.
‘No, Anya’s here … somewhere,’ she replied, looking around the now packed restaurant. ‘I think she went off to try and talk to the chef. You know what she’s like.’
‘I also know what the chef is like. Real penchant for blondes. You should have brought a man. It’s unlikely you’ll see Anya again for some time yet.’
Hero shrugged.
‘So?’
‘So what?’ She frowned.
‘I wondered if there had been any change in the Ben Gale/Hero Scott situation.’
Hero fixed him with a look. ‘No. And there won’t be.’
Rupert’s face became more serious – the joker dispensed with for the moment. ‘You two seemed really happy. Is it not worth trying again?’
‘No. We were. Mostly. But between my career and his, it just wasn’t working out.’
‘But couldn’t you—’
‘No, Rupert. We couldn’t. Besides, he’s with someone else now, and so am I.’
‘If you’re referring to that sugar daddy, Jonathan Von Dries, then you already know my opinion of him, and your “relationship”.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t need a sugar daddy!’
‘And yet you have one.’
Hero blew out a sigh. ‘I don’t. And anyway, you’re hardly one to talk. I’m not sure there’s a lot of meeting of the minds in your current “relationship”.’ She made air quotes just as he had done, purposefully letting her gaze drift over to the peroxide blonde perched on the edge of a chair. His date was now on her fourth champagne and getting louder by the minute. Rupert followed his friend’s eye line before looking back at her, unrepentant.
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