by Lacey London
‘Oh, hi Clara,’ she flashes me a Cheshire cat grin and heads down the lobby before I have chance to reply.
I stride into the studio and slam my bag down on the table, slightly harder than I intended.
‘Everything OK?’ Oliver shouts from the other end of the studio.
‘Yup. Everything is just great.’ I reply through gritted teeth and flip open my diary.
I know I am being petulant but I really can’t shrug off how annoyed I am.
‘Wow! You look great! Going somewhere nice?’ He looks me up and down appreciatively and props himself up at the table.
‘Actually yes, I have a date tonight.’ I stare him dead in the eye and try to compute his reaction.
‘Did we say tonight? I thought we said Friday?’ He smiles back at me and flicks on his computer. If he is bothered in the slightest he doesn’t show it.
‘So who is the lucky guy? What’s his name? What does he do?’ He asks without looking at me.
Ha! I knew it would get to him!
‘His name is George, he’s a barman.’
‘A barman?’ Oliver laughs and scratches his stubble. ‘Way to shoot for the stars, Clara.’
‘And what is wrong with a barman? About the same level as a PA isn’t it?’ The words are out before I have chance to realise what I have said.
‘PA? What are you talking about, PA? He looks at me puzzled and shakes his head.
‘I saw you with Rebecca this morning.’
‘Yeah, and?’ It was raining, she was at the bus stop, I drove past and gave her a ride.’ He shrugs his shoulders and holds his hands up. ‘Why do you care anyway?’
‘I don’t.’ I bite my tongue and tuck my hair behind my ears, turning back to my dairy.
I smile to myself, relieved that nothing happened between them, but also concerned by how much the thought bothered me. Trying to ignore the growing tension in the room, I load up my emails. Thankfully, I have a meeting with Marc scheduled for 11.00 which will get me out of the studio for a while. He needs an update on the designs so far, but I’m pretty sure all he really wants is to warn me to behave myself at the weekend.
Just thinking of the fashion exhibition excites me. I have already lined up a selection of outfits and dragged my travel case down from the loft. I have wanted to get away for a while now. Only last month I tried to book a weekend in Paris, but missed out due to a nasty bout of gastroenteritis. Well, Manchester might not be Paris, but it’s a good place to start.
Chapter 20
I arrive at Dream Bean Coffee that evening and take a seat next to the window. Why do I always arrive early? I decide to decline a drink and wait for George to get here instead. Thankfully, I don’t have to wait for long, as two minutes later, I see George making his way down the street. He looks adorable, wrapped up in a maroon scarf and reefer jacket. I think we can safely say we have waved goodbye to summer now. I catch his eye and raise my hand in recognition. Seeing him smile when he waves back makes me flush with happy endorphins.
‘Hi,’ I stand up to greet him and gladly accept a kiss on the cheek. ‘How are you?’
‘I’m good. Have you got a drink yet?’ He peers behind me at the table and reaches for his wallet. ‘Cappuccino?’
I nod and he heads over to the counter. The fat girl inside me rubs her hands with glee as he points to a huge slice of carrot cake and holds up two fingers. I watch him make his way back over to our table, expertly balancing a tray of frothy coffee and cake. He shrugs off his jacket and hangs it over the back of his chair before passing me a coffee.
‘Thank you. I need this, today has been pretty hectic.’
‘I’m guessing you will be glad of this then,’ he pushes a piece of cake towards me and smiles.
‘I love carrot cake!’ I pick up my fork a take a big bite and flash him the thumbs up sign. ‘How has your day been?’
George fills me in on his lazy morning, doing nothing more than a quick run around the supermarket. A little bit of me feels jealous, but I couldn’t think of anything worse than working in a bar until the early hours. Oliver’s words about him being only a barman ring in my ears. So what if he doesn’t have much money, a proper career, or any responsibilities. We can’t all be hot shot, millionaire designers, living in multi million pound apartments. The devil dances around my mind and whispers in my ear, no, but you can date one.
Saying my goodbyes to George and walking back to the car, I feel a little sad to be leaving him so soon. Almost the same as when you have to leave a puppy and go to work. I may not have fireworks when I am with George, but the feelings of safety and content he brings to me are overwhelming. I almost feel bad about going off to Manchester with Oliver, but to be fair, I’m not dating Oliver, I’m not even officially dating George for that matter. For all I know, Oliver is just teasing me and to George, I may just be one of many. He is a barman after all and we all know the reputation they have.
Driving home, I curse myself for over thinking things and always assuming the worst in pretty much every situation. I need to speak to Lianna. She always puts me back on the straight and narrow when my mind starts to go AWOL. Doing a three point turn in the road, I turn around and head towards her apartment. It is times like this when I regret not having a roommate, or at least a cat or something relatively lifelike to talk to when I get home.
Cruising down Lianna’s road I take in all the luxury apartment blocks, pausing to check out the prestige cars that line the roadside. I used to be incredibly jealous of the glitzy lifestyle of city apartment living, but apartments never really felt like home to me. It would take a hell of a lot to prise me away from my little two up, two down house.
Pulling up outside her building, I switch off the ignition and grab my handbag. I run over to the main entrance, trying to escape the cold and push the buzzer. I have been waiting for what seems like forever, when Lianna’s voice finally comes through the speakers.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi, it’s me.’
‘Clara?’
‘Of course, Clara! Let me in, it’s freezing!’ I stamp my feet in protest.
There’s a rather a lengthy pause before she buzzes me through. Weird, maybe the telecom is playing up again. Making my way to the fifth floor, I reach the second level before I regret my decision to take the stairs. No wonder Lianna is pencil thin. I reach Lianna’s apartment totally out of puff and red in the face. Knocking at the door, I lean against the wall to give my legs a break. Hearing muffled voices from inside, I knock again.
‘Li? Can you hear me?’
The door opens a few inches and Lianna pops her very ruffled head out.
‘Hi! How are you? Is everything OK?’ She eyes me up quizzically.
‘Yes, I just thought I would call in on my way home. Is this a bad time?’
‘It’s never a bad time! It’s just, erm…Dan’s here.’ She blushes and crinkles up her nose in embarrassment.
‘Oh, God! I should have phoned! Totally my fault, don’t worry about it.’
‘No! Still come in, have a drink with us.’
I eye her up dubiously, before pushing open the door a little more and revealing a half naked Dan on the couch sipping a Corona. Averting my eyes quickly, I pull the door back, shutting him out of sight.
‘You go and have fun. I’ll call you tomorrow.’
‘You sure?’
‘Positive.’ I blow her a kiss and wave her back inside.
I head for the lift and shake my head. That’ll teach me not to call ahead. Maybe I will get a cat after all.
Chapter 21
I take a half day on Thursday and head straight home to pack my things ready for tomorrow’s trip to Manchester. I already know what I am going to take, but I have a rather busy evening of pampering planned. You can’t turn up to a fashion exhibition with split ends, pasty legs and a chipped manicure, can you?
Slipping into the bath later that night, I enjoy the hot bubbles lapping at my shoulders, wondering which hotel Oliver has booke
d us in to. I apply a face mask and get to work exfoliating my legs. All this preening and polishing is hard work. Taking a sip of wine, I lie back down and enjoy the soak.
It must be a good hour later when I am finally done in the bathroom.
Making my way to the bedroom, I check my fake tan for streaks in the bright landing light. Taking my suitcase and laying it on the bed, I begin tossing in underwear and open my drawers in search of a pair of pyjamas. Pulling out a spotted shorts and vest set, I study it for a second before throwing it to one side and reaching for a black, lace sheath night dress instead. Telling myself that it’s not for any reason in particular, it’s just nice to look nice.
After chucking in a couple of pairs of heels, a few dresses and numerous accessories, I dump the case on the floor and take out my phone. A message from George flashes on the screen.
Hope you have a good time up North. Dinner when you get back? Xxx
Smiling to myself, I tap out a definite yes reply and plug my phone in to charge. Grabbing my wine, I throw myself down on the bed and procrastinate about the gorgeous George. I would love to introduce him to Lianna, to see what she thinks of him. Maybe we could double date with her and Dan. I have an image of all four of us clinking glasses and enjoying yummy food. I definitely need to set this up. Making a mental note to check diaries with Lianna after the weekend, I flip off the side light and snuggle down under the covers.
I must be under there for all of ten minutes before I start to sweat. How is it so warm at night when the daytime temperature is hardly in the teens? I really don’t want is to sweat this fake tan off all over the sheets. The last time that happened, I woke up looking like I had a bad case of hives. Pre-empting a fake tan disaster, I kick off the covers and try to lie as still as possible, opening the window, just in case.
The next morning, I dive out of bed at the first sound of my alarm and crank up the radio. I tossed and turned all night, terrified to drop into a deep sleep for fear of ruining my tan. Thankfully, the night air cooled down and after a quick five minutes in the shower, I have an even, golden tan. Result.
After putting rollers in my hair and making myself a coffee, I sit down and have a nosey through my Twitter feed. I don’t know why I bother with Twitter. Since when did it become the done thing to photograph every morsel of food before you eat? Everyone seems to have turned to a specialist food critic, if food critics covered Starbucks and Nandos.
Thinking of food, I wonder if I should have breakfast before I leave. We are getting the 8.50 train to Piccadilly station, so it would be a bit of a squeeze to fit in a bacon sandwich. Deciding that I will grab something on the way, I drop my phone into my handbag and make for the bedroom to finish off getting ready.
An hour or so later, I am dragging my case through the train station, trying not to fall over on my six inch wedges. I pass a Burger King and pause to take in the breakfast menu. Bacon, sausage, egg, decisions, decisions. Settling on a sausage and egg muffin, I fumble around for my purse and join the queue. Glancing around as I wait for my order, I wonder where Oliver is. We had arranged to meet outside platform nine, but as far as I can see, he isn’t here yet.
Taking a bite out of my sandwich, I head over to the platform and take a seat on a rather cold, hard bench. Why is fast food always better in hindsight? I take a couple more bites before chucking it into the bin. That was revolting. I glance at my watch and scan the station in search of Oliver. He better not be late, I don’t fancy sitting here all morning waiting for the next train.
I am about to go in search of the toilets when I spot him, making his way through the crowds of people in a skinny, black suit. I stare for a moment, confused as to why he is so dressed up. He looks a walking Armani advert and by the stares he is getting, I am sure every other female in the building would agree.
‘Hi,’ Oliver smiles and props his suitcase up against mine.
‘Hi, what’s with the suit?’ I look him up and down as he sits down on the bench.
‘You like it?’ He brushes some invisible dust off his shoulder and winks.
I smile back, feeling rather uneasy. What is he up to?
‘Don’t look so worried! Relax.’
In an attempt to change the subject, I pull my suitcase around towards me and fumble around in the zipped compartment.
‘I have our tickets in here somewhere.’
‘Don’t worry about it. We won’t be needing them.’
‘Of course we will need them. I don’t know how things work in America but in the UK, you need a ticket to get on a train.’
Oliver reaches into his jacket pocket and takes out a small envelope. He pulls out a piece of paper and hands it to me. I drag my arm from the depths of my case and take it from him. It’s a ticket, well actually its two tickets, first class to Manchester.
‘But we already have tickets? And there’s no way Marc would approve first class on Suave.’
‘Suave haven’t paid for them. I have.’
I stare at him, my heart beating faster than I ever knew possible. Just as I am about to question what the hell is going on, a smartly dressed steward appears in front of us.
‘Mr. Morgan? Would you like me to escort you to your seat?’
My jaw falls open and I try to regain composure. How does she know his name and why on earth would she be escorting him onto the train? Oliver stands up and beckons for me do the same. Scrambling to my feet, I grab my case and follow him onboard. Turning left instead of right gives me a small thrill. We walk to the end of the aisle and stop at a luxury booth. The steward sees us into our seats before disappearing behind a thick, maroon curtain.
I slide onto my seat and try to hide my growing smile.
‘This is amazing! Why have you done this?’
He shrugs his shoulders as a different steward approaches our table.
‘Your champagne, sir.’
Oh. My. God.
Chapter 22
I must be on my third glass of Moet when the carriage attendant returns with a trolley full of yummy food. Without saying a word, she begins piling our table with salads, smoked salmon, scones and a lovely new bottle of ice cold champagne. Oliver thanks the steward and discreetly slips her a wad of notes.
‘I could get used to this!’ I drain the contents of my glass and pick up a small salad pot.
‘You still haven’t given me a reason why you have done this?’
‘I like to travel in style.’ Oliver refills my glass and pulls a salmon baguette towards him.
I am tipsy enough to want to probe further, but nowhere near drunk enough to have the balls to do it. It has been a long time since I took a trip up to Manchester. My Dad used to drag us back up there all the time when I was younger, but it has been years since I last visited. I can’t believe we are nearly there! Two hours travelling time is insanely fast. I remember being squashed in the back of Dad’s hatchback for hours on end, with only Mum’s revolting cheese and pickle sandwiches for company.
An announcement over the speakers informs us that we are thirty minutes from our destination.
‘I’m just going to run to the toilets.’ I push myself to my feet and hold onto the seat so I don’t fall over.
‘No problem, one more for the road?’ He points to the remaining champagne.
‘I better not. It’s not even noon and we are meant to be working!’ I can’t help but let out a little giggle as I make my way to the toilets, hoping that I don’t look like Bambi on ice.
If you would have told me a month ago that I would be sitting in first class, sipping champagne with a hot American designer, I would never have believed it. Slipping into the toilet cubicle, I check out my reflection. I really hope Oliver isn’t planning on wearing a suit the entire time. If he is, I am going to have to do some serious shopping. Oh, what a chore.
A short while later, the train pulls to a stop and once again we are escorted off. We grab our cases and look for around for a taxi rank. Manchester is a lot busier than I previously rem
ember. The station is packed with people running in every direction, phones clutched to their ears, balancing coffee cups and folders. As we wait in the taxi queue, I suddenly remember that I have no idea where we are going.
‘Did you manage to change the hotel? It’s just that I still have original accommodation booking in my case.’
‘Oh, I changed the hotel. What the hell was that place Marc booked? Travelodge? You would have to pay me to stay there.’
I stifle a smile and check my phone is still in my back pocket, having a mini heart and attack when I momentarily can’t feel it. Oliver nudges me as a taxi pulls up and begins loading our cases into the boot.
‘Where to?’ The stocky, bald taxi driver asks in a thick Manchester accent.
Oliver walks around to the driver’s window and mumbles something that I don’t quite catch. Smiling, he holds open the taxi door and I climb on to the back seat. I fasten my seatbelt and stare out of the window at the busy high street, watching the hundreds of people buzzing in and out of shops, laden with glossy bags.
The taxi pulls out onto the road and I cling on to my seat for dear life. Why is it universally accepted that taxi drivers do not adhere to the Highway Code? We fly down the high street before taking a left and coming to a hard stop at a set of traffic lights. I glance over at Oliver who is snapping away at pretty much everything. He catches me looking and aims his camera in my direction.
‘No! I hate having my picture taken!’ Covering my face with my hands, I turn back to the window.
‘Come on! Don’t be such a baby!’ He wrestles my hands away until we are interrupted by the driver, who slams his breaks on unnecessarily hard.
‘The Valentina.’
‘The Valentina?’ I stop dead and spin around to face Oliver.
Before he can answer, the taxi door swings open and a porter holds out his hand.
‘Mr.Morgan, Miss Andrews, welcome to The Valentina.’
Chapter 23
Taking in the ornate, champagne walls and rococo themed furnishings, I try not to spontaneously combust. The delicate gold swirls in the plush, burgundy carpet are brought to life by the furious twinkling of the beautiful chandeliers. Everywhere I look, I see wealth, glitz and pure luxury. I have heard amazing things about The Valentina, everybody has. I just never thought it would be as incredible as this. Things never are, are they? I watch in awe as Oliver checks us in, handing our luggage over to the bell boy who whisks them away in the blink of an eye.
