London Bound (A Heart of the City romance Book 3)

by C. J. Duggan

  My thoughts were interrupted by a muffled chime coming from the crumpled pile on the floor. I bent over, searching through the damp mess, feeling the lump in my cardi pocket that was illuminating the thin fabric.

  Mum.

  Quickly swiping the screen to avoid the loved-up picture of me and Liam, I tapped on Mum’s text.

  Just saw the pic on Instagram, you FINALLY got to see the Eiffel Tower, more pics please!! Xx.

  I stared at Mum’s message, confused. I didn’t post any –

  I froze, a sudden horror looming over me. ‘Oh no, he didn’t.’

  I swiped and tapped the screen urgently, a part of me fearing that it could be true, and just as I tried to tell myself it wasn’t, there it was. Loud and proud on Liam’s Instagram profile, a picture of the Eiffel Tower – a few, actually, from different angles, different filters.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding me!’

  He was so distraught at breaking my heart, he’d gone on to take photos, whack a filter on them, even fucking hashtag them: #Eiffeltower #parislove #wonderwhatthepoorpeoplearedoing

  And he didn’t stop there: seemed like Liam had a busy afternoon being quite the tourist, while I sat here in my undies, cold, battered and bruised. I glowered at the screen, tears clouding my vision, barely believing how incredibly selfish he could be.

  I threw my phone down and buried my head in my hands. It was over, I knew it was, and more than anything I wished I could bring the numbness back.

  I wished I was a fucking robot!

  Chapter Three

  I woke the next morning on top of the covers, still in only my underwear. There had been no more knocks on my door. No messages, no phone calls, no pleas from Liam for forgiveness or to be taken back. When I dressed, packed and headed downstairs to check out, Cecile at reception told me awkwardly, and with a sad smile, that Monsieur Jackson had booked into another room late last night.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, putting the room key on the counter. ‘Has he checked out yet?’ I hated to ask but I had to know; I had our tickets for the painful trip back to London, something I could barely think about.

  ‘No, mademoiselle.’

  ‘Okay, well, um …’ Leave the ticket at reception and just go. ‘When he comes down, can you please tell him I am in the restaurant?’

  Cecile nodded. ‘Of course, I am very sorry to see you go. I hope you have enjoyed your stay here in Paris.’ Her eyes were kind, and I could tell it pained her to do her usual checkout spiel, knowing full well that Paris was not going to be the city of love for me – far from it. I had hoped to take to the city like a true natural and that maybe Liam and I could return here every year for the anniversary of our engagement. But now I thought if I never saw that tower again, it would be too soon.

  ‘I did,’ I lied. ‘Thank you for everything. You have been very kind.’

  Cecile’s beaming smile was back once more, her eyes alight as she stood tall with pride.

  ‘De rien, merci beaucoup.’

  I smiled. ‘Am I okay to leave my bags here?’

  ‘Oui, I’ll have Gaston take them for you.’

  ‘Merci,’ I said, quietly. I felt like I was annihilating such beautiful words with my accent.

  In the restaurant I was greeted by the familiar sight of Simone, a bored waitress from Tottenham who wore her hair in an impossibly high topknot bun. From the intel I had gathered over the weekend, she had been working at Hotel Trocadéro near on three months, didn’t speak French but made it work, seeing as a lot of tourists stayed here. Cathy, the other breakfast girl, was a local.

  ‘Fake it till you make it,’ Simone said with a wink. ‘Where’s your man?’

  ‘Oh, um, he’s in the shower,’ I said, masking my lying mouth by sipping my coffee.

  ‘So you heading back then, to London?’ she asked. ‘Yeah, and you?’

  ‘Oh, don’t even, I’m trying to stick it out just to prove to my ex that I can live without him.’

  That got my attention. ‘And how is that working for you?’

  ‘He’s here every bloody weekend.’ She laughed, rolling her eyes.

  ‘Oh.’ My shoulders sagged. I had hoped she was about to tell me a heroic tale of girl power and self-discovery, not weekend booty calls, mid-week mind games and text arguments. I zoned out after a while, a glazed look in my eyes, until they refocused on a figure standing at reception, talking to Cecile.

  Liam smiled at Cecile, thanking her for what could only be assumed was the message she had passed on for me, then he tentatively turned to the restaurant and approached me. Simone had mercifully moved onto the next table to address a dirty spoon crisis, as Liam arrived before me. His dark eyes glanced at the empty chair, silently asking permission to sit.

  When I didn’t respond he took it as a yes and pulled out the chair. I looked straight into his eyes with a deadpan expression; I wanted him to feel my pain, my disappointment, my heartbreak.

  ‘I’ve ordered a taxi for ten fifteen,’ he said.

  I lifted my chin, giving nothing away. ‘Do you have everything?’ he asked, like he always did. Always the control freak.

  ‘Of course,’ I snapped.

  ‘Well, I think the trip home will give us the chance to … talk.’

  I shrugged. ‘Why wait?’

  Liam sighed. ‘Claire, please don’t be—’

  ‘What? Difficult? Sorry, but you don’t get to call the shots, not on this.’

  Liam shifted in his seat, smiling painfully at the couple at the next table, before he turned back to me, leaning forward. ‘The taxi will be here soon.’

  ‘Okay, well, until then we have some time to kill.’ I wasn’t backing down on this, no way, no how. I crossed my arms and sat back in my chair, staring him down, much like the suited Frenchman had done to me yesterday. Who’d have thought I would actually be grateful to him for showing me how it’s really done? Liam swallowed, shifting once more in his seat.

  Ha! What do you know? It really does work!

  Truth be known, I didn’t really want to talk, not here or on the train. I had nothing in my head, no begging requests for him to take me back, no heartfelt speech to give; nothing. But seeing as the ball was in my court, a situation that was so rare in our relationship, I wanted to at least say something, and the only thing that had sprung to mind was the very same question I had asked myself on the long, rainy walk back to the hotel.

  I looked at Liam, my hard stare finally faltering. ‘Why?’ It was the simplest of words but held the most meaning, and I knew it was the very question that Liam had been dreading, if the look on his face was anything to go by.

  He closed his eyes as if summoning the strength to reply. It made me feel worse that he had to psych himself up to answer me. Surely he would already know why – he was the one breaking up with me. Did he have a gambling problem? A secret wife and kids back in Australia? Did he love listening to Nickelback? How bad could it be?

  ‘I, um – Christ, why is this so bloody hard?’

  His big brown eyes looked so pitiful, for a second I actually felt sorry for him; I was ready to say, ‘Never mind,’ and give him a hug. Until his shifting stopped and he looked into my eyes and I saw it: for some inexplicable reason I knew the answer, I just knew, and all of a sudden I didn’t feel sorry any more. I slowly let my arms unfold as the realisation washed over me like a tidal wave. I took a deep, steadying breath.

  ‘Who? Who is she?’ I scrunched the serviette in my fist with white-knuckled intensity. ‘The girl who’s watering our fucking plants?’ I said way too loudly – even Gaston from the hotel door turned.

  ‘It’s not what you think,’ he said. ‘Nothing has happened.’

  ‘No, but you want it to.’

  He fell silent, unable to even look me in the eyes.

  I had been hard-pressed to think of one question, but now it seemed I had a million of them tumbling in my head. How long? Why her? Why Veronica from upstairs?

  But as the painful silence drew out b
etween us, there was only one question that I really wanted him to answer.

  ‘Do you love her?’

  Only then did his eyes look up to my face and in a moment where I felt I didn’t know him at all, I found I could read Liam better than anyone, and I could see the answer in his eyes. It was a crushing blow.

  ‘It’s hard to explain. It’s different with her. She just … gets me.’

  I could feel my stomach churning. I seriously didn’t want to know the details. I had heard enough.

  ‘Claire.’ He took my hand. ‘You will always be very special to me.’ His face was creased in sincerity, and it took everything in my willpower not to punch him. I might have done exactly that if Gaston hadn’t intervened.

  ‘Pardon, your taxi is here.’

  Snapping out of my violent thoughts, I pulled my hand away and grabbed my bag. Like a zombie, I weaved around the breakfast tables, following Liam out. It was almost like I was underwater, struggling for breath, disoriented. The smiles and goodbyes from Simone and Cecile all seemed as if they were playing out in slow motion, the sound muted as my foggy mind ran over every horrid moment from the second Liam had dropped a bombshell on me yesterday. Flashing images of our seventy-two hours in Paris pinpointed every time he had rolled his eyes, or argued that I was wrong, or told me not to be stupid; it was a montage of putdowns, something I hadn’t even thought about before. His contempt for me hit me like the fresh air hitting my face as we left the hotel.

  As the taxi driver loaded our bags into the car, I felt Liam beside me, touching me on the shoulder. ‘Claire?’

  I blinked, turning to see his concerned eyes, before my gaze dropped to my hand, holding the crinkled train ticket.

  ‘Claire, come on, the taxi’s waiting.’

  I looked at him, examining his face silently before I smiled slowly and I shook my head. I shoved the ticket into his chest.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  Liam’s mouth gaped as he clutched the train ticket. ‘W-what?’

  ‘I’m staying in Paris,’ I said, lifting my chin. Spinning on my heel, nodding to Gaston, who was already retrieving my bags from the taxi with a big grin, I said, ‘Goodbye, Liam. I never did like those fucking pot plants.’

  READ ON FOR A PREVIEW

  Chapter One

  Let’s get one thing clear. Being an au pair is nothing like in The Sound of Music. To start with, I’m certainly not a nun, I have zero musical abilities, and I failed sewing in high school. There’s no handsome Captain von Trapp and there’s definitely no choreographed frolicking.

  All that aside, it had sounded appealing. The plan was I would sacrifice x amount of hours caring for someone else’s children, then stroll through a foreign city during my downtime, immerse myself in some culture, learn another language, study maybe, truly find myself, all before falling in love with a wealthy fisherman called Pascal who enjoyed crafting small objects out of wood with his bare hands. Come nightfall, we’d make an incredible paella with the freshest seafood while we sipped wine, arms interlinked as we toasted to us. I mean, we all have to have goals, right?

  The reality was somewhat different. For one, I landed a job in my painfully small hometown in Australia, so the chances of meeting a handsome fisherman called Pascal were pretty slim. Instead, my days consisted of shampooing a toddler’s hair or wiping the bottom of a five-year-old, and defrosting meat for an early dinner. It was hard to feel like an adult when sitting at a tiny table with my knees around my ears, trying to convince the children how delicious each mouthful was. ‘Look, they’re little trees, eat your little trees,’ I’d say, coaxing them to eat broccoli.

  And as much as my employers made me a part of their family, there was never that feeling of freedom, the kind that let me wander into the lounge to flake out on the sofa and idly channel surf, or to fling open the fridge for an impromptu snack. There was no inviting friends over for dinner and definitely no bringing guys around. It wasn’t all bad, but it had been my whole life for the past three years, and I had needed a change.

  Now, seemingly a million miles from home, I sat on a plush white sofa, shoulders squared, surrounded by white walls and fresh white flowers. Everything was white, save the glass-and-gold coffee table dividing me from them: Penny Worthington and her equally cold daughter, Emily Mayfair. Like her mother, Emily’s smile didn’t reach her eyes; there was no warmth there. She swept her blonde bob from her face and looked down at the paper she was holding, no doubt a background check they’d organised through a private detective. I wouldn’t have put it past them.

  ‘Won’t be long now, we’re just waiting on one other,’ said Emily. Even her name sounded like she had married into money: Lord Mayfair or something equally distinguished. So distinguished I had been rather taken aback. The Worthington’s driver – yes, they had a driver – had picked me up from the Park Central Hotel and driven me to a beautiful brownstone in Turtle Bay Gardens. I’m not sure what I had expected; I’d always thought of New York as cramped apartments with fire escapes and air-conditioner boxes hanging out of the windows. Instead I saw an enclave of row houses, gardens arranged to form a common space with a stone path down the centre and a fountain modelled after the Villa Medici in Tuscany, or so Dave the driver informed me.

  ‘Oh, Emily, I think we’ll just begin. You know what Dominique is like.’

  Dominique? Who was she? Was Emily the mother of the children I was meant to be caring for, or the less-punctual Dominique? And more importantly, why was I about to be interviewed by three women? I took a sip of the water I was holding, kindly provided by the maid. A driver and a maid; they made my previous employers, the rather self-sufficient Liebenbergs, look middle-class. I chose to hold onto my glass of water for fear of leaving a condensation ring on the coffee table. I was certain that act alone would mean instant dismissal.

  ‘So, Miss Williams, tell us a bit about yourself,’ Emily said, skimming the pages before looking at me expectantly.

  Oh God, how had I not prepared for perhaps the most obvious question of all? Somehow I’d thought I could simply wing it, turn on a bright and cheerful – not ditsy – façade and fake some confidence. I started by making eye contact with the maid, who promptly came forward and took away my empty glass. But before I could begin the Sarah Williams story there was a distant commotion; doors were slamming and a voice spoke loudly out in the entrance.

  Penny Worthington closed her eyes, apparently silently summoning the strength to remain calm. Emily sighed deeply. The maid prepared to throw herself into the path of the impending cyclone.

  ‘Hello Frieda, my love, how’s that gorgeous man of yours?’ A loud and heavily pregnant blonde woman burst into the room. She shimmied out of her jacket and handed it, and her purse, to a mortified-looking Frieda.

  ‘He is well, thank you, Miss Dominique.’

  ‘Frieda, how many times do I have to tell you? Call me Nikki; every time you say Dominique it’s like you’re running fingers down a blackboard.’ Dominique, or rather Nikki, brushed wisps of hair out of her face. She had none of Penny and Emily’s poise or elegance but as soon as Nikki turned I saw the same perfect nose and blue-grey eyes. There was no mistaking that she was Penny’s daughter.

  ‘Hello, Mother.’ She pecked Penny on the top of the head. ‘Sorry I’m late.’ She waddled around the couch and sat beside Emily.

  ‘You’re always late,’ said Emily through pursed lips.

  ‘Well, you’re always in a bad mood, so neither one of us can win. Ugh, Frieda, my love, can you please get me a water? I am so fat.’ She sighed, turning to look at me with a big smile. ‘And you must be Sarah?’

  I knew within an instant of her turning that smile on me that I loved her. Warmth and authenticity just radiated from her.

  I stood, leaning over to shake her hand so she didn’t have to bend over her belly. ‘And you must be Nikki?’ Her smile broadened as she looked at her sister and then at me. ‘Oh, I like you, you don’t miss a beat.’

&nb
sp; I was flooded with relief, inwardly saying a prayer that it was Nikki’s children I would be caring for and not Emily’s. My eyes skimmed her belly, thinking maybe this was the reason I had been called here so quickly; maybe Nikki, clearly the black sheep of the family, needed help with her soon-to-be-here baby.

  ‘We haven’t begun as yet, Dominique. We had just asked Sarah to tell us about herself.’

  Something told me that there would be no way in hell Penny would resort to calling Dominique ‘Nikki’.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Nikki said, rolling her eyes, ‘don’t you know enough about the poor girl? How many more hurdles must she jump before you give her the job?’

  Penny and Emily had matching glares, and it wasn’t just because they had the same eyes, although that probably helped.

  ‘Let me ask a question,’ Nikki said, propping herself on a cushion that looked like it was more for show than actual use. ‘What brought you here, Sarah?’

  It was a question that was not easy to answer. Being dumped from the Liebenbergs’ employment had not exactly been part of the plan, but neither had following them to Slovenia where they were opening a remote medical practice. Admitting as much, however, might make me seem unreliable, and an au pair is nothing if not reliable; I would have to think of something better.

  Nikki looked at me as if trying to tell me that she wanted my answer to be perfect, so I responded honestly.

  ‘I’ve dreamed of New York City all my life. I am so grateful to Dr Liebenberg for setting up this interview for me, I know he is a very good friend of your family.’