The Hopeless Romantic's Handbook

by Gemma Townley

  She stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. If her life was going to take off anytime soon, she realized, she was going to have to do something about it. Like Elizabeth Stallwood said, if she didn’t change herself, her life wouldn’t change either. But if she did change … well, who knew what might happen. Fine, she thought. Today she would do things differently. Today, she would say yes instead of no, and take the road less traveled.

  Today would be the day that she stopped dreaming and started doing.

  Picking up her things and putting on her coat, she left her flat and made her way purposefully toward the bus stop.

  “What the hell happened to you?”

  Kate scowled at Gareth. “I took the bus.”

  Gareth looked at her, waiting.

  “It was raining,” she continued, her voice brittle as she took off her coat, which was dripping with water, and hung it on a peg in the Moreleys’ hallway. “And two buses went past, full of people so I couldn’t get on. Then I got on one, but I didn’t realize it was terminating in Clapham Junction and the driver told me I’d have to wait for another one to get down to Dulwich. So I did, but the next one was full again …”

  “And you took the bus why?”

  Kate stared dismally at her reflection in the hallway mirror. Her hair was plastered to her face, and mascara was wending its way down her cheeks.

  “I thought it would make a change,” she said, cursing Elizabeth Stallwood and promising herself that she wouldn’t read another word of that stupid book.

  “Right,” Gareth said uncertainly. “Well, the bad news is Magda’s looking for you. Penny wants to film the house unveiling this morning.”

  “This morning?” Kate looked at him in shock. “But that’s impossible. We’re meant to do it tomorrow. Magda said it would be tomorrow.”

  Gareth shrugged. “Better take it up with her nibs,” he said. “In fact, speak of the devil…”

  Kate spun around and saw Magda racing toward her.

  “Kate. Got to bring forward filming to today. Don’t argue, just get everything ready, will you?”

  “But I can’t! It’s impossible!” Kate cried. “Nothing’s ready. We’ve got to paint, to hang wallpaper—there’s no way—”

  “I said don’t argue,” Magda interrupted as she looked up from her clipboard, and Kate’s heart sank. “I don’t want to hear any— Bloody hell. What happened to you?”

  Kate grimaced. “It’s raining. I was waiting for a bus. Several buses, in fact.”

  “You look awful!” Magda said, goggling at her as if she were some strange, wild animal that she didn’t want to get too close to.

  “Yes, I do,” Kate agreed.

  “You can’t go on camera looking like that,” Magda said. “Not a chance. Oh, bloody hell. Where’s Lysander? Maybe we can do the clothes today instead. Okay, Kate, we’ll leave you till tomorrow. Gareth, where the hell’s Lysander? Tell him I want to see him right now.”

  She marched off toward the kitchen and Kate felt her shoulders drop a couple of inches in relief. Saved by the bus. Or lack of one, rather.

  “Someone’s lucky today,” Gareth said archly. “You could have been in trouble there.”

  “Just get me a hairbrush,” she said with a little smile as she walked toward the Moreleys’ sitting room. “Elizabeth Stallwood, all is forgiven,” she muttered under her breath. “Here’s to doing things differently.”

  As soon as she got to the Moreleys’ sitting room, Kate knew that things were not going smoothly. It had been decided last week—three days into the project—that the unveiling would take place in the sitting room, instead of the bedroom where Kate had been focusing all her efforts. After failing in her argument for sticking to the original plan, she had begrudgingly come up with a plan B, which involved hastily stripping the wallpaper above the fireplace in the sitting room, rehanging plain wallpaper, and painting it the lovely browny pink color she’d used in the bedroom. She had carefully explained to her trusty builder, Phil, just what she wanted him to do, and he had spent the previous afternoon trying to implement the plan.

  What neither of them had banked on was that when he started to strip off the wallpaper large chunks of the wall came with it.

  “You’re going to have to take it all down and replaster,” Phil said with a sigh when Kate arrived, her hair wrapped up in one of Mrs. Moreley’s towels.

  Kate looked at him in shock. Magda, who had materialized beside her, just laughed.

  “Replaster? Are you mad? We’re filming tomorrow. Kate, tell the man. No plastering. He’s going to have to cover it up.”

  Kate bit her lip. Magda was right—there was no time to replaster. But how could they cover up something so awful? How could she live with herself? This was why she ended up with people like Carole Jacobs threatening to sue.

  Magda swept out of the room and Kate looked at Phil helplessly.

  “Is there anything else we can do?” she pleaded. “Some trick of the trade you can use to save the day?”

  Phil shook his head sadly, as he always did when filming had to take precedence over workmanship. It had taken a great deal of persuasion to get him to work for Future: Perfect— as he told Kate at the time, he was a simple bloke; he enjoyed what he did, and once he had enough money in the bank, he and the missus were going to retire to Spain, where the sun shined and the wine flowed. Working with a bunch of neurotic “TV people,” as he referred to Penny, Magda, the film crew, and associated runners, and never doing anything properly was not what he enjoyed. Kate hated cutting corners, too, but she’d had too many stand-up arguments with Magda already, and they never got her anywhere. What mattered in Magda’s book was what the camera saw; the rest could go hang. Or not, as the case may be.

  “The paper’s hanging off the wall,” Phil said in a monotone. “Look at the plasterwork Or, rather, the lack of it.”

  Kate followed his eyes to the wall where the Moreleys’ gold and pink wallpaper was hanging desolately, large clumps of plaster clinging to it for dear life. Phil was right—he couldn’t paper over that. Nor could he paint it. There was no way anyone could rectify that mess in just twenty-four hours.

  “Phil, we need to do something.” She felt sweat start to trickle down her back. “Maybe we could just film right behind the sofa, so the peeling bit won’t be visible.”

  Phil shook his head again. “And what are we going to fix the new wallpaper to? Are we going to start it midway down the wall? Come on.”

  At that moment, Magda came storming back in. “Come on, come on,” she said briskly. “What are you standing around for?”

  Kate took a deep breath. “Magda, we’re going to have to delay filming. I haven’t had enough time, and we need to replaster—look at the walls. We’ll have to film the unveiling on Thursday instead.”

  Magda laughed. “You’re joking, right? You better be joking. Filming is tomorrow. Camera crew will be here tomorrow. By Thursday we’ll be on our way to Sarah Jones’s to turn her into a dominatrix housewife. Understand?”

  “But look at the walls!” Kate begged. “The bedroom ones are beautiful, but these … well, they’re awful.”

  “So cover them. Come on, Kate. Phil, ever heard of a staple gun?”

  Kate saw Phil flinch. Staple guns were worse than the devil as far as he was concerned. “If we use a staple gun, the paper will stay up for a day or two and then it’ll fall down again,” he said tersely.

  “By which time we’ll have finished filming,” Magda said with a bright smile.

  She swept off, leaving Kate glowering after her. How was she supposed to bring romance into people’s lives when no one cared what happened when the cameras stopped rolling?

  “You want me to staple gun the old wallpaper with plaster hanging off it to the wall?” Phil’s expression was blank.

  “We don’t have an alternative,” Kate said weakly, and watched as Phil mooched off.

  Then she frowned. Wasn’t this the day for doing things differently? Ther
e was always an alternative, wasn’t there? “Phil,” she said, and he turned round.

  “Maybe you want me to use a bit of double-sided sticky tape an’ all?” he asked.

  Kate shook her head. “Underneath the plaster, do you know if it’s brick?”

  Phil nodded. “It is.”

  Kate found a smile wending its way across her face as she realized she might have a solution after all. “So let’s take it back to the brick, then. Take it right back and we’ll paint the bricks instead of the plaster.”

  “The bricks? You sure about that?”

  “It’ll be a feature!” Kate said with growing excitement. “It’ll look great. I know it will. It’ll add a warmth to the room, a bit of the history of the house exposed. The Moreleys will be able to look at it and think about all the different things that those bricks have been there through.”

  “And you think they’re going to like it?”

  Kate frowned, coming back to earth. “Of course they will. Or do you want to staple-gun wallpaper to the wall?”

  “Bricks it is,” Phil said, his eyes twinkling. “I tell you, things are never boring with you around.” He wandered off just as Gareth reappeared.

  “We’re going back to the brickwork,” she said. “In the sitting room.”

  “Isn’t that a bit eighties?” Gareth asked, one eyebrow raised.

  “No, it’s very now. Very warehouse apartment, actually,” Kate said a little defensively.

  “Right. Only, we’re not in a warehouse apartment are we?”

  The hopeful smile slipped off her face. “I just thought it would be … different. You know.”

  “Oh, yes, I forgot. You’re doing ‘different’ today. So, fancy a drink after work?”

  Kate shook her head. “You know my rule. No socializing after work on Monday or Tuesday,” she said firmly, then met Gareth’s pointed stare. “Right. I see what you mean. Okay, yes. A drink sounds like a good idea. Definitely.”

  “You don’t usually offer to lend me huge amounts of cash, either,” Gareth said, grinning. “If you did that, it would be different.”

  Kate raised her eyebrows. “I said different, not insane,” she said. “Don’t push your luck.”

  “So,” Gareth said several hours later, “you never told me how the speed dating went. Get many numbers?”

  They were in a bar just around the corner from the Footprint Production offices in Acton, an area of West London once known for its sprawling housing estates, now gradually being gentrified with the overspill of professionals from Shepherd’s Bush.

  Kate grimaced. “I’ve managed to wipe it from my memory,” she said. “It was awful. I tell you, never again.”

  Gareth raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t have a good answer to the animal question, I take it?”

  Kate looked up with a frown. “You know about the animal question?”

  “Well, duh!” Gareth’s tone was incredulous. “Everyone knows about the animal question. It’s the first thing you get off pat; otherwise you’re sunk.”

  “Thanks for warning me,” Kate said crossly.

  He shrugged. “So what did you say? Something cute and furry?”

  “A dolphin, actually.”

  “Oh dear.” Gareth cringed.

  “It’s cute!”

  “It’s a fish. No one wants to shag a fish,” Gareth said, shaking his head.

  “It’s a mammal, not a fish. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, because there was no one there who was remotely interesting,” Kate said, keen to move the conversation on.

  He nodded with faux sympathy. “No one ask for your details, did they?”

  “Yes, some did,” Kate said. “Well, one, anyway.”

  “Out of how many?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  “Ouch. Well, I can see why you want to do things differently. One out of twenty-four’s enough to make you want to skip the country. You poor thing.”

  “I’m not a poor thing,” Kate said irritably. “Anyway, I don’t want to meet someone speed dating. If it’s going to happen, it’ll happen.”

  Gareth emitted a low whistle. “You say that now, but give it a few years and you’ll be going to speed dating every night of the week. I mean, things aren’t looking that good, are they?” he said, shaking his head again.

  “Yes they are!” Kate said, indignant. “They’re looking very good. There are millions of guys out there. And I only want one of them. Somewhere out there is my perfect guy.”

  “Yeah, that’s where you’re going wrong,” Gareth said. “No such thing as perfect. You want to aim for about eighty percent. Eighty-five percent and you’re onto a serious winner.”

  “Eighty percent? What does that even mean?”

  “It means,” Gareth said with studied patience, “that you have to approach it like … like shoe shopping. The ultimate pair simply doesn’t exist, so you just have to decide where your twenty percent compromise will be—color, quality of leather, cut, fit, shape of heel… you know.”

  “But I don’t want to compromise,” Kate complained. “I shouldn’t have to compromise.”

  “Everyone compromises,” Gareth said, exasperated. “Everyone!”

  “No,” Kate said. “No, they don’t. Because if everyone compromises, then what’s the point? If all you’re ever going to get is eighty percent, then why not take seventy-five percent, or seventy? Why not just marry the first person you meet and hope for the best, and if they end up cheating on you or leaving you for someone else, then hey, no big deal. I mean, why not just forget all about love?”

  Her eyes were flashing, and Gareth shrank back a little. “Fine.” He held up his hands in surrender. “Whatever you say.”

  “Sorry.” Kate shrugged. “I just… I want more than that, you know?”

  “No, you’re right.” Gareth nodded sagely. “So come on then, what are you looking for? What’s Mr. Right going to be like?”

  Kate leaned back, thinking about it. Her lips relaxed into a little smile. “Well… he’s got to be gorgeous, and clever and kind and …”

  Her voice trailed off as her eyes clocked the barman and he grinned at her. She felt herself blush. He was gorgeous: tall, tanned, with short blond hair and the most amazing smile.

  “… and crazy about me,” she concluded, forcing herself back to Gareth, who gave her an inquisitive look.

  “And you think someone like that will just walk into your life? Well, if he does turn up, tell me will you? Because I want to go out with his brother. Now go and get us another drink.”

  Kate swiveled round. “A drink?” That would mean going up to the bar. Now that the barman had smiled at her, he’d think that she was going up there to talk to him. She grinned. “No problem. What do you want?”

  “Lager top, please,” Gareth said, handing her his glass. “And some peanuts. Or crisps. See if they’ve got those low-fat ones.”

  Kate bit her lip and walked toward the bar.

  “Hey. How’re you?”

  She gulped. He was American. And even better looking close up. He had lovely brown eyes and long eyelashes and the squarest jaw she’d ever seen.

  “I’m fine. Thank you,” she said, doing her best to appear completely unfazed. “I’d like a lager top, please, and a glass of pinot gri-gio.”

  “Sure,” he said. “Although, if the wine’s for you, can I suggest the chardonnay instead? It’s from California and it’s really something.”

  Kate smiled. “Sure. Chardonnay sounds good, thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.” He grinned at her, and she felt herself blushing again. “You live near here?” he asked.

  Kate shook her head. “Work,” she said. “Although I live relatively near. Shepherd’s Bush. Hammersmith. You know …”

  The barman shrugged. “Actually, I don’t. I’m new in town. Don’t know anywhere. Or anyone.”

  “You … you don’t?” Kate asked. “So, why are you here? I mean, what made you come to London?”

  “I’m an act
or,” he said, putting the drinks in front of her. “From LA. Wanted to try my hand over here, you know?”

  Kate gave him a nervous smile. She didn’t know at all, but now was no time to admit that. “Wow,” she said, “that’s amazing.”

  “And what do you do?” he asked.

  Kate shrugged self-deprecatingly. “I work in television,” she said. “My production company is just up the road.”

  “Television? Well, that’s very interesting,” the barman said, his eyes lighting up. “That’s five pounds, twenty pence for the drinks, by the way. And I’m Joe.”

  Kate fumbled in her purse for money and finally managed to dig out the right change. “Here,” she said. “I’m Kate.”

  “Nice to meet you, Kate,” Joe said, smiling.

  “And you,” she said, now feeling distinctly hot under the collar. Joe. Joe the actor from LA. Joe the utterly gorgeous actor from LA with a smile that would make anyone swoon at ten paces. And Gareth doubted that someone like that would walk into her life? Okay, so it had been her who had done the walking, but they were both here, weren’t they?

  “Maybe I’ll see you again,” Joe said, still smiling.

  Kate nodded. “I hope so.”

  “Might help if you gave me your number.”

  She stared at him. “You … you want my number?”

  “You don’t want to give it to me?”

  “No! I mean, yes. I mean …” Kate pulled out a business card. “My mobile’s on it,” she said hurriedly. “If you want to … Well, you can get me on that number at any time.”

  “Any time, huh?” Joe asked, his eyes twinkling. “Well, that sounds like quite a proposition.”

  Kate managed another weak smile and, clutching the drinks, made her way back to the table where Gareth was sitting.

  “Took you long enough,” he said. “What were you doing— chatting up the barman or something?”

  She smiled enigmatically.

  “You were!” Gareth yelped. “Ooh, let me take a look.” He pushed Kate to one side to get a better view. Then his mouth dropped open. “Well, I can see why you took your time. Very tasty. Maybe we’ll go up there later and see if we can’t get his number.”

  “He’s already got my number.” She almost didn’t want to say it out loud in case it jinxed things.