by Karen Swan
Hen said nothing, but nodded in understanding.
Tor stood up and pointed to his bag with her foot.
‘Will you give this back to him? He left it behind earlier.’
‘Of course.’ She gave Tor another hug. ‘Try to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.’
In spite of the day’s high drama, Tor managed to sleep, and to sleep well. Whether it was the brandy or the ceaseless crying, jet-lag or just the pure stress of being sucked into Cress’s maelstrom, she awoke eleven hours later to a note on the bedside table.
Don’t panic! Am taking the children to Seaworld. Have a lie-in. We’ll be back for supper.
Love Hen
Tor smiled. She had authorized a spare key for Hen to her room, which adjoined the children’s, in case she had needed anything from them while she was at the awards yesterday.
She stretched sleepily and tried to drop back off, but her eyes caught sight of the digital clock. Twelve o’clock! She couldn’t remember ever sleeping that long since . . . since university.
She rolled on to her back and stared at the ceiling, as the previous day’s events pushed forward. Emily. Harry. James. She felt the tears well, poised to jump, at the very thought of him. What had she done? Her accusations . . .
The ceiling rose blurred out of focus, and by the time she could read the clock again, it was 12.38 p.m.
Tor tried to get a grip, swinging her legs lethargically out of bed. Crying wasn’t going to bring him back. She rang Kate and Monty’s room but they didn’t pick up – she could well imagine what they were up to. And she knew Cress would be at her press conference by now.
She stood at the window and looked down upon LA. She was here. She might as well make the most of it. At the very least she needed a dress for the party tonight, though she couldn’t think of anything worse than having to socialize again so soon.
She called up for room service – coffee and a croissant – while she showered, dried her hair, slipped into an antique pink silk jersey dress and pretended that she really was as fine as she looked.
Thirty minutes later, her sandals click-clacked over the marble floor, her hair swinging about her shoulders. She didn’t notice Daniel Craig do a double-take as she crossed the lobby, looking freshly slept and perky.
Tor jumped into a cab waiting outside the hotel, and looked out at all the Californians walking their dogs, blading in their shorts, and taking for granted the leisurely lives they led under these sunny blue skies.
‘Rodeo Drive,’ she said to the driver. Not because she wanted to go there especially, but it was the only place she could think of off the top of her head.
She regretted it instantly once she was there, feeling intimidated by the big brands lining the clean, wide street. She couldn’t imagine going in to any of them, much less trying anything on.
Slowly, she walked along the pavement, but shopping was poor therapy right now and she kept forgetting to look in the windows. She sighed heavily and looked up and down the street, wondering what to do and where to go. Tiny, ferocious women were everywhere, marching like toy soldiers with shiny bags for drums.
The tears started falling again and she slapped them away hurriedly, mortified to be losing it so publicly. She turned to the nearest shop window to hide her face, catching sight of a dress as she did so.
It was beautiful. Tiny pink rosebuds were dotted on ivory satin, with pintuck gathering at the skirt and a cutaway neckline.
She pushed open the door, relieved to find the boutique busy inside. Music was – if not blasting, certainly pumping – out of the speakers and the assistants had a funky vibe going on, organizing shelves and manning the tills in skinny black jeans and diamanté-studded vests.
A pretty assistant came over, smiling. ‘Hi there. Can I help you today?’
‘I’d like to try that dress you’ve got in the window,’ Tor faltered, aware her face was blotchy from crying.
‘Sure. Here you go,’ the assistant smiled, handing the dress to her. ‘The fitting rooms are just over there.’ She pointed to a row of large cubicles, alternately draped with floor-to-ceiling black and white velvet curtains.
Tor stepped out of her shoes and slipped on the dress. It slid easily over her body and she stared dispassionately in the mirror. It would do. It fitted like a dream, and a distant voice in her head said it looked incredible, even with her socks still on. She just . . . didn’t care. She just knew she could go back to the hotel now. Coming out had been a mistake.
‘Do you need any help with the dress, ma’am?’ inquired the assistant, outside.
‘No. I’m fine, thanks,’ Tor said, as she heard the curtain pull back behind her anyway.
‘No you’re not,’ said the deep voice that reverberated around her head all the time.
Tor spun round.
‘What are you doing here?’ she managed, as James leaned against the wall, arms and ankles crossed.
‘I followed you from the hotel. Once I saw Daniel Craig giving you the eye, I realized I probably shouldn’t let you out of my sight,’ he said, grinning boyishly.
Tor stared at him. ‘I would have thought you’d have been glad to see the back of me,’ she said quietly.
He shrugged. ‘I tried to give that a go, but . . .’ He stared at her, intently. ‘Anyway, I know you were trying to protect Cress.’ He paused. ‘Just like you tried to protect Kate that night.’ He glanced down at his feet and then back at her. ‘Do you still think I’m an arch-fiend?’
Tor swallowed, embarrassed. ‘No.’
‘And you know I’m not a new father, or a cheating bastard.’
Tor nodded, a smile beginning to break out.
‘Amelia’s one of my oldest friends, but we’ve never been lovers. She’s hopelessly in love with a married man – a famous director. He’ll never leave his family, even though she’s had his baby. A little girl, by the way.’ He stepped forward and gently brushed her hair off her shoulders. He stared down at her, so close.
‘Oh. Name?’ Tor asked, trying to concentrate.
‘Maya.’
‘Nice.’
‘Yes.’ He traced her collarbone with his thumb. ‘I went to a few premieres with her when this other chap let her down. The papers put two and two together and made five. We agreed to let them. It meant she didn’t have to answer their questions about the father’s identity every time she popped out for milk,’ he explained distractedly, his eyes running over her. She looked amazing in that dress.
He dragged his eyes back up to hers. ‘I love you,’ he said simply. ‘Have done ever since I last met you in a changing room. I thought you were the sexiest, sweetest, funniest woman I’d ever met. And I’m sorry that I acted on it . . . what that led to.’
Tor nodded. She knew he was.
‘Have I answered all your questions?’ he asked, stroking her cheek, desperate to kiss her.
‘Ummm,’ she smiled, desperate for him to kiss her. ‘Oh. No. I have got one more.’
‘Fire,’ he murmured, his eyes blazing. ‘Make it quick.’
‘Why do you have a letter from Planed Spaces in your bag?’
He stiffened a little – in the wrong way – and she added quickly: ‘It fell out of your bag. Cress found it.’
‘Uh-huh. Well – you can’t be cross,’ he said cautiously. ‘You weren’t supposed to know about it yet.’
She felt her heart dip. ‘Know what?’
He stared at her for a moment. ‘I bought your share in the partnership. For the children. I’ve put it in a trust for them. I was trying to make amends, do the right thing.’ He looked at her, trying to read her mind. ‘You said you wouldn’t be cross.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m not cross.’
‘You’re not? You look cross.’
‘Uh-uh,’ she whispered. ‘This is my horny face,’ she giggled, making him laugh.
She dropped her head back and he kissed her tenderly, exquisitely, slowly, as though they had the rest of their lives to spend in
this changing room together.
She felt his hand move up her spine and a gentle tug as he pulled down the zip.
‘I feel like I’m in a Bond film,’ she smiled.
‘Wrong James,’ he whispered into her hair.
‘Not for me.’
The dress slid silently to the floor, crumpling into an abject heap by way of apology for impeding the lovers.
‘We’re crushing the dress.’
‘Housekeeping can deal with it later,’ he murmured, pushing her up against the mirror, its cool surface making her gasp as it made contact with her skin.
‘What are we doing?’ she gasped, as his fingers wound through her hair.
He tipped her head back so that she found herself reflected in his rich, warm eyes.
‘The inevitable,’ he said.
Prima Donna
by
KAREN SWAN
ISBN: 978-1-4472-2374-0
Breaking the rules was what she liked best.
That was her sport. Renegade, rebel, bad girl.
Getting away with it.
Pia Soto is the sexy and glamorous prima ballerina, the Brazilian bombshell, who’s shaking up the ballet world with her outrageous behaviour. She’s wild and precocious, and she’s a survivor. She’s determined that no man will ever control her destiny. But ruthless financier Will Silk has Pia in his sights, and has other ideas . . .
Sophie O’Farrell is Pia’s hapless, gawky assistant, the girl-next-door to Pia’s prima donna, always either falling in love with the wrong man or just falling over. Sophie sets her own dreams aside to pick up the debris in Pia’s wake, but she’s no angel, and when a devastating accident threatens to cut short Pia’s illustrious career, Sophie has to step out of the shadows and face up to the demons in her own life.
Christmas at Tiffany’s
by
KAREN SWAN
ISBN: 978-0-330-53272-3
Three cities, three seasons, one chance to find the life that fits
Cassie settled down too young, marrying her first serious boyfriend. Now, ten years later, she is betrayed and broken. With her marriage in tatters and no career or home of her own, she needs to work out where she belongs in the world and who she really is.
So begins a year-long trial as Cassie leaves her sheltered life in rural Scotland to stay with each of her best friends in the most glamorous cities in the world: New York, Paris and London. Exchanging the grouse moor and mousy hair for low-carb diets and high-end highlights, Cassie tries on each city for size as she attempts to track down the life she was supposed to have been leading, and with it, the man who was supposed to love her all along.
The Perfect Present
by
KAREN SWAN
ISBN: 978-0-330-53273-0
Memories are a gift . . .
Haunted by a past she can’t escape, Laura Cunningham desires nothing more than to keep her world small and precise – her quiet relationship and growing jewellery business are all she needs to get by Until the day when Rob Blake walks into her studio and commissions a necklace that will tell his enigmatic wife Cat’s life in charms.
As Laura interviews Cat’s family, friends and former lovers, she steps out of her world and into theirs – a charmed world where weekends are spent in Verbier and the air is lavender-scented, where friends are wild, extravagant and jealous, and a big love has to compete with grand passions.
Hearts are opened, secrets revealed and as the necklace begins to fill up with trinkets, Cat’s intoxicating life envelops Laura’s own. By the time she has to identify the final charm, Laura’s metamorphosis is almost complete. But the last story left to tell has the power to change all of their lives forever, and Laura is forced to choose between who she really is and who it is she wants to be.
Christmas at Claridge’s
by
KAREN SWAN
ISBN: 978-1-4472-1969-9
The best presents can’t be wrapped
Portobello – home to the world-famous street market, Notting Hill Carnival . . . and Clem Alderton. She’s the queen of the scene, the girl everyone wants to be or be with. But beneath the morning-after make-up, Clem is keeping a secret, and when she goes too far one reckless night she endangers everything – her home, her job and even her adored brother’s love.
Portofino – a place of wild beauty and old-school glamour. Clem has been here once before and vowed never to return. But when a handsome stranger asks Clem to restore a neglected villa, it seems like the answer to her problems – if she can just face up to her past.
Claridge’s – at Christmas, Clem is back in London working on a special commission for London’s grandest hotel. But is this where her heart really lies?
Players
Karen Swan lives in Sussex with her husband, three children, two dogs and her cat called Meltchet.
Visit Karen’s website at www.karenswan.com
or you can find Karen Swan’s author page on Facebook
or follow her on Twitter @KarenSwan1
By Karen Swan
Players
Prima Donna
Christmas at Tiffany’s
The Perfect Present
Christmas at Claridge’s
Acknowledgements
Enormous thanks must go to:
My husband Anders for his unwavering enthusiasm for holding lengthy discussions with me about non-existent people – the characters are every bit as real to him as to me and I adore him for that. And anyway, he’s very handsome.
My delicious children – because they’re my reason for everything.
Dad, Aason, Andrew and Eilidh for it never once crossing their minds that this book wouldn’t one day be published; Vic and Lynne for all the cups of tea (sadly this page is as far as they’re allowed to read of this book); Rod for having such a great job, Tash for jollying me along; Wallcoot for stifling her yawns; Molly Stirling for her excellent taste in books; Jenny Geras for her incisive and sensitive editing; Emma Kirby for giving me the confidence to set out on this path in the first place; Lizzie Buchan for her kindness and great advice.
First published 2010 by Pan Books
This electronic edition published 2013 by Pan Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Basingstoke and Oxford
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-0-3305-2016-4
Copyright © Karen Swan, 2010
The right of Karen Swan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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