‘Wait. Rose, wait!’ Gareth’s footsteps echoed in the street. Hurriedly, I pushed into the museum, relishing the noise and warmth of the crowd.
‘Rose.’ Gareth’s voice followed me inside. ‘Rose!’
The crowd went silent and I could see the reporter from The Star inching his way closer. I was going to kill Gareth if he made a scene here. He hadn’t talked to me in months, and now he’d decided we belonged together? Mel was probably right – Gareth had seen me as a free ride, and he was desperate to keep it going.
Taking a deep breath, I turned to face my ex. Funny, even though he’d been gone for almost a year, I’d never thought of him in past tense.
‘Gareth, please go.’ My voice was calm and steady, and I met his eyes. They looked panicked, moving back and forth quickly across my face.
Gareth shook his head. ‘No. No, I won’t go. Because . . . because I want you, Rose. I need you. We belong together.’
‘You might need me to pay your bills, but you certainly didn’t need me enough to get in touch much over the past year.’
A murmur went up from the crowd, but I held Gareth’s gaze.
‘What, I have to prove how much I want you? Well then, I will.’ He sank down to one knee as I watched incredulously. Sure he wouldn’t—
‘Rose Delaney, will you marry me?’
The hum from the audience grew louder, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the spectacle of Gareth kneeling before me. What on earth was he doing? Well, whatever he was playing at, it wasn’t going to work. All the over-the-top gestures in the world couldn’t make up for the heartache and loneliness of the past year. How could I take him seriously when he’d pushed off with no goodbye, then barely even scrawled a postcard?
‘Gareth, get up.’ I sighed, shifting uncomfortably under the eyes of everyone around me.
Gareth shook his head again. ‘No, I’m not moving from this spot. Not until you agree to marry me. We’ll have a Christmas wedding. Tie the knot under the mistletoe.’
Oh, Lord. A few months ago, that very vision would have floored me. Now – coming from him – it just seemed ridiculous. A wave of exhaustion swept over me as all the early mornings, late nights, and anxiety of the recent past caught up with me.
‘Fine. You stay here. I’m going.’ And with that, I turned on my glittery pumps. The crowd parted to let me through, and I thudded up the stairs to Heath’s office, closing the door and leaning against it, trying to breathe. A few minutes later, the buzz below resumed, and I tiptoed over to the chair behind Heath’s desk and collapsed into it, tears pushing at my eyes. Bloody Gareth, turning up like that and making a scene. I’d worked so hard to make this opening professional and polished, and he had to pull a stunt like that.
There was a knock on the door, then Heath’s muffled voice came through the thick wood. ‘Can I come in?’
I smoothed my hair into place and quickly wiped beneath my eyes. If he’d come to fire me, I might as well get it over with. Not that I could blame him: first, I’d meddled with his personal life. Then, I’d caused a scene at the museum’s most important event. I was hardly the ideal assistant curator, was I? Maybe I should have stuck with Ernie the Skull. At least I couldn’t mess up his life. ‘Sure. Come on in.’
The door opened and Heath’s head appeared around the side. ‘Everything okay?’
I laughed bitterly. ‘Well, no. Not exactly. You saw what happened?’ Maybe there was a chance he’d missed the spectacle. Maybe he’d been in the cellar . . . in the kitchen . . .
Heath nodded, and my heart sank. ‘It was kind of hard not to. You’re the talk of the party down there.’
‘Oh, God.’ I dropped my head into my hands. ‘Look, I understand if you want to let me go,’ I said through my fingers.
‘Let you go? Why would I want to do that?’ The floorboards creaked, and I lifted my hands from my face to see Heath standing right next to me. ‘I should be thanking you. You’ve given the media a perfect story. It’s not just another boring opening, like the hundreds of others they’ve been to this year. One reporter told me he was calling his article Broken-Hearted in the Museum of Broken Hearts. Your man has been down there doing interviews and photo shoots, too.’ Heath’s disdainful tone told me exactly what he thought of that.
I shook my head. Gareth had bounced back awfully quickly, hadn’t he? He’d probably have a new girlfriend to sponge off of next week. ‘He’s not “my man”,’ I said. ‘Not anymore, and not for ages. I’m so sorry, Heath.’
Heath put a hand on my back, and I shivered beneath its warmth. ‘Look, don’t worry about it.’
The room went silent and I rubbed my arms to try to erase the goose bumps that had appeared.
‘Are you cold?’ Heath shrugged off his jacket, then draped it around my shoulders. His wonderful cookie scent enveloped me and I breathed it in, my stomach doing that funny shifty thing again.
‘Thank you,’ I said, noticing my voice sounded more high-pitched than usual. I drew the fabric around me, then glanced up. Heath was staring down, his dark eyes full of that tender emotion I’d only glimpsed briefly before.
‘I’m glad to hear you say that bloke isn’t your man,’ he said, eyes still locked on mine. ‘Because . . .’
Before I knew it, Heath’s lips were on mine and his arms had snaked around my waist, pulling me to my feet and up against him. And I realised in a heartbeat that this was what I wanted. No grand gestures – just a man, pure and simple, who I cared for.
And who cared for me, too.
CHAPTER TWELVE
‘Good morning.’ Heath’s voice cut into my sleep daze. Cracking open a lid, I rolled over to face him, my lips lifting in a smile.
‘Morning.’ I rubbed my eyes. I couldn’t believe I was here, beside him, in bed. Okay, maybe not in bed exactly, but in settee. Memories of last night flashed through my head: Gareth proposing; Heath coming up to the office; us kissing . . . then going downstairs once Gareth had buggered off, and answering countless questions from journalists until Mel had shooed them away.
When everyone had finally left, Heath and I collapsed onto the settee in the lounge. He’d pulled me into his arms again and we’d picked up right where we’d left off. We’d chatted and kissed some more, he’d drawn an old crocheted blanket over us, and the next thing I remembered was waking up in the middle of the night, with his arms around me and my head tucked into the crook of his neck. It had been a perfect fit.
Now, in the grey light of a London morning, he looked beyond sexy, with a light sprinkling of stubble on his chin. I hated to think what was sprinkling my chin – most likely drool. The way Heath was staring at me, though, he didn’t seem to mind.
‘I’m going to run out and grab a few dailies to see what they’ve said about the museum.’ Heath got up and stretched, and I couldn’t help admiring his broad shoulders. ‘Back in a sec.’ He dropped a kiss on my lips, then grinned back at me as he pushed out the door.
I padded to the loo, splashed some water on my face, and rinsed my mouth. Given that I was still in party attire and I’d spent the night on a small settee, I didn’t look half-bad. There was something in my eyes – happiness, excitement – that made me look alive.
Thank goodness I still had my work clothes from yesterday to change into. After scurrying up to Heath’s office where I’d dropped my bag, I pulled on my jeans and sweater, then tidied my curls back into a ponytail. I was just about to pat on some lip gloss when I heard the tap of the doorknocker. Had Heath forgotten his keys, I wondered as I rushed down the stairs?
‘Oh.’ A yelp of surprise escaped me as I swung open the door to see Liz. What on earth was she doing here?
‘Can I come in?’ Liz’s usually efficient and abrupt tone had disappeared, and she sounded exhausted. She looked exhausted, too, with big dark circles under her eyes and uncombed hair.
‘Er . . .’ I craned my neck to look over her shoulder, desperate to spot Heath. What should I do? If I let her in, he might think I was interf
ering again. But the way she was looking at me – with a mixture of hope and fear – made me think this time, she really was here for her son. Could that be true, or had I reverted to La La Land again?
I breathed a sigh of relief as I noticed Heath jogging down the street toward me, a brown bag from the Brick Lane beigel shop in his hand and a sheaf of newspapers shoved under his arm. His grin faded and his face went pinched and angry when he saw his mother.
‘I thought I told you not to come here again,’ he said, when he’d reached us at the doorway. I shivered at the icy tone.
Liz dropped her head. ‘You did. And you had every right to.’ She glanced up at him. ‘Look, can I come in? I’d love to talk to you.’
Heath shook his head. ‘No. No, you can’t. I think you said everything the last time you were here.’
Liz looked at him with a pleading expression, but Heath just gazed back steadily. Finally, she jammed her hands in her pockets, her shoulders slumped. ‘Okay. Could I ask you for one thing? Just one, and then I’ll go.’
Heath was silent.
‘I’d really like to have my locket back,’ she continued. ‘I never meant to leave it with Gran, you know. The clasp was faulty and it fell off one day. I searched everywhere, but I couldn’t find it. Obviously Gran came across it, and stashed it away. She must have forgotten to tell me.’
Heath was staring at his mother with a strange expression. ‘I found the locket with a bunch of my baby things in the cellar. I thought you’d got tired of it. Kind of like me.’ His voice was hoarse.
Liz reached out and put a hand on his arm. Heath flinched, but didn’t move away. ‘Oh, Heath. I made a lot of mistakes, but I never stopped wanting what was best for you. I thought leaving you with Gran while I worked to build a life for us was the best. Somewhere along the way, though, I lost sight of why I was doing it.’ She paused, and a tear dripped down her cheek. ‘For you.’
Liz wiped her face, shaking her head. ‘I can understand if you don’t want to see me again. Just please, give me the locket.’
My heart beat fast as I awaited Heath’s words. Would he tell her to go; refuse the request? Or . . .
I held my breath as Heath stepped closer to his mother. Then, he lifted his arms and gingerly put them around her, as if he was afraid she’d disappear. Trembling, Liz clasped him tightly, stroking his hair like he was still a tiny child.
They stood like that, on the doorstep of the museum in the foggy London morning, as commuters rushed by and shopkeepers’ greetings rang out in the chilly air.
And finally, I understood that real life – with all its ups and downs, complications, broken hearts, and triumphs – was a million times more satisfying than any fairy tale ever could be.
THE END
Author’s Note: I’d like to thank the Museum of Broken Relationships and Dennis Severs’ House for providing the inspiration for the setting of this story.
CONTINUE READING FOR THE FIRST THREE CHAPTERS OF BUILD A MAN, TALLI’S LATEST NOVEL.
Miracle at the Museum of Broken Hearts © Talli Roland 2011
E-edition published worldwide 2011
© Talli Roland
All rights reserved in all media. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical (including but not limited to: the Internet, photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system), without prior permission in writing from the author and/or publisher.
The moral right of Talli Roland as the author of the work
has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Cover design by Notting Hill Press In-house.
All characters and events featured in this book are entirely fictional and any resemblance to any person, organisation, place or thing living or dead, or event or place, is purely coincidental and completely unintentional.
ALSO BY TALLI ROLAND
Build A Man
Chosen as a Top 15 Pick of 2011 by Chick Lit News and Reviews
Nominated as a Top 10 Book of 2011 by Trashionista
The Hating Game
Shortlisted for Best Romantic Read at the UK’s Festival of Romance
Chosen as a Top 10 book of 2010 by Trashionista
Watching Willow Watts
A Top 100 Amazon Customer Favourite for 2011
Selected as a Favourite Romantic Read by Romantic Fiction Online
Nominated as a Top 10 Book of 2011 by Trashionista
COMING IN 2012
Construct A Couple
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BUILD A MAN
CHAPTER ONE
If I see another set of boobs, I’m going to lose it.
Wrinkled or saggy, those insanely pert fake ones, I don’t care – I’m sick of the sight of them. In my six months as receptionist here, I’ve seen more booty than Russell Brand . . . or maybe even that old Playboy man with the mansion. And that’s just in the waiting room! What is it about cosmetic surgery clinics that makes women think it’s okay to show off body parts normally buttoned under prim little cardigans or swathed in silk scarves?
Even as I think it, old Mrs Lipenstein is lifting her shirt and flashing another patient I call Lizard Lady (she looks like she’s moulting), who makes admiring noises then reaches out and–
Oh God. I grimace and glance away before contact is made. As posh as this seating area is – all leather chairs and low lighting designed to make even shrivelled Lizard Lady look youthful – it should come with an X-rating.
“Mrs Lipenstein?” Peter strides into the room, and Mrs Lipenstein's face tries its best to smile. Which, in its current Botoxed state, means the corners lift a fraction of an inch.
“What do you think, Doctor?” she asks as she swivels in his direction, practically knocking him off his feet with her chest. “They’ve come out nicely, haven’t they?”
Peter nods, his face carefully neutral. Honestly, I don’t know how he does it when he has women shoving their tits in his face day and night. And not just tits – he’s worked on butts and he’s even performed vaginoplasties, which are . . . well, you don’t really want to know, believe me. I’ve always wondered what doctors are thinking when they’re faced with people’s nether-regions. I know what I’d be thinking: gross.
It should bother me, having my boyfriend examine other women’s goods on a regular basis, right? But somehow, it doesn’t. Peter’s so respectable, so responsible. I can’t imagine him going behind my back with someone, let alone a patient.
Mrs Lipenstein trots down the hall behind Peter and the door to the consulting room closes. With Lizard Lady’s perfectly sculpted nose jammed in a magazine, I grab the opportunity to creep into the bathroom – loo, whatever. Collapsing on the toilet seat, I jab a limp strand of sandy hair back into my ponytail and slip off my high heels.
God, it’s tiring, this receptionist gig. It’s not the actual work so much, but having to be nice to snooty women who treat me like a piece of fat squished out of their thigh is beyond draining. The job was only supposed to be for a month or two, until I found my feet in London and made it big as a reporter in the tabloid world with a job at, I don’t know, Metro or something. I want to see my byline on the thousands of discarded newspapers each day. I live for that moment.
Doesn’t seem like much to aspire to, being face down on the floor of the Tube, right? But half a year, thousands of résumés, and several zillion article pitches later, and I’m still working at Transforma Harley Street Clinic, which isn’t even on the famous Harley Street, for God’s sake – it’s on a little mews just off it.
“Hello.” A loud knock at the bathroom door interrupts my thoughts. “Hello!”
Rap, rap, rap.
“Hello! Girl!”
Rap! Rap!
It’s Lizard Lady; I can tell by her Russian accent. Peering in the mirror, I wipe away an errant trace of make-up underneath my lashes. In the dim light, my grey eyes are black and my round face looks like a luminous moon. Sighing, I slip on my high heels – Peter insists I dress up – then yank open the door.
“Yes?” Jesus, I can’t even go to the bathroom in peace around here.
“I need vat-er,” Lizard Lady says, feigning a pathetic cough.
“Sorry?” I understand her perfectly but I want to make her suffer. Silly idiot, she actually passed the water cooler on her way to the bathroom.
Lizard Lady puts a hand to her throat. “I need VA-TER!” she shouts, her hot lizardy breath hitting my face.
Peter walks by with Mrs Lipenstein in tow. “I think Mrs Markova would like some water, Serenity.” He shoots me a look that says he’s less than impressed by my attitude. We’ve been having a lot of those ‘attitude’ talks lately at home.
“Oh, wa-der!” I say, jacking up my American accent a notch. Smiling sweetly, I trot to the cooler and pour some liquid in a plastic cup, dribbling a bit down the side so Lizard Lady will get her claws wet.
“Here you go.” I pass her the water, fascinated by the speckled, crinkly skin on her hands. Maybe she is moulting.
Lizard Lady mutters something in Russian that sounds like a sneeze. I scurry behind the reception desk and climb up on the rickety stool. I’d love Peter to buy me a padded one, but I had to beg him just to let me sit down, so I don’t see that happening anytime soon. He has this nineteen-fifties notion that a receptionist should always be standing at the ready for an emergency, like administering a shot of Botox to a saggy eyelid or something.
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