Worse still had been the slew of texts and emails and answering machine messages over the weekend from his mother, his brothers and their partners, all reminding him that his brother Nigel’s engagement party was coming up and they couldn’t wait to see him. Which meant that Hugh was in for another bout of familial nagging. Why was he still messing about with his record label? When was he going to treat it as the hobby it ought to be and get himself a proper job?
He knew what the subtext meant: he was the baby of the family, so they’d let him have his dream and do his degree in music instead of economics. Now he was thirty, they all thought it was about time he gave up his financially risky business and joined the long-established family stockbroking firm instead. Which was why Bella’s comment about him looking like a stockbroker had really touched a raw nerve on Friday night.
He happened to like his life in London, thank you very much. He loved what he did at Insurgo—finding promising new talent and polishing their rough material just enough to make them commercially viable without taking away the creative spark that had caught his ear in the first place. Insurgo had made a name for itself as an independent label producing quality sound, from rock through to singer-songwriters, with a sprinkling of oddities who wouldn’t fit anywhere else. Hugh was proud of what he did. He didn’t want to give it up and be a stockbroker like his older brothers Julian, Nigel and Alistair.
But the question that drove him really crazy was when his family asked when he intended to find a nice girl and settle down. That wasn’t going to happen any time soon. Jessie had cured him of that particular pipe dream. He knew his family meant well, but couldn’t they see that they were still prodding a bruise?
His business, his heart and his music had all taken a battering. And finding a new, suitable girlfriend wasn’t going to repair any of the damage. Sheer hard work and some quiet support from his best friends had rescued his business, but nowadays his heart was permanently off limits. And the music that had once flowed from his fingers and filled his head had gone for good. He didn’t write songs any more. He just produced them—and he kept a professional distance from his artists.
He ran through a few excuses in his head. None of them worked. Even being in a full body cast wouldn’t get him a free pass. He was just going to have to turn up, smile sweetly at everyone, and metaphorically stick his fingers in his ears and say ‘la-la-la’ every time his career or his love life was mentioned. Which he knew from experience would be about every seven minutes, on average.
He collected a double espresso from the café on the ground floor—on a morning like this one, a mug of the instant stuff in the staff kitchen just wasn’t going to cut it—and stomped up to his office, completely bypassing the team. What he needed right now was music. Loud enough to drown out the world and drown out his thoughts. A few minutes with headphones on, and he might be human enough again to face his team without biting their heads off even more than he normally would on a Monday morning.
And then he stopped dead.
On top of the post he’d been expecting to see, there was a neatly wrapped parcel and a thick cream envelope. It wasn’t his birthday, and the parcel didn’t look like a promo item. It was the wrong shape for a CD or vinyl, and in any case most unsigned artists pitching to him tended to email him with a link to a digital file on the internet.
Intrigued, he untied the ribbon and unwrapped the shiny paper from the parcel to discover a box of seriously good chocolates.
Whoever had sent them had excellent taste. But who were they from and why?
He opened the envelope. Inside was a hand-drawn card: a line-drawing of a mournful-looking rabbit with a speech bubble saying ‘Sorry’. Despite his bad mood, he felt the corner of his mouth twitch. Whoever had sent this was saying they knew he wasn’t a happy bunny—and Hugh had a very soft spot for terrible puns.
He opened the card to find out who’d sent it, and a wad of banknotes fell out.
What?
Why on earth would someone be giving him cash?
He scanned the inside swiftly. The writing was beautifully neat and regular, slightly angular and spiky—the sort you’d see on hand-drawn labels in an art gallery or upmarket bookshop.
Dear Mr Moncrieff
Thank you for rescuing us on Friday night and I’m very sorry for the inconvenience we caused you. I hope the enclosed will cover the cost of valeting the taxi, dry-cleaning your suit and replacing your shoes. Please let me know if there’s still a shortfall and I will make it up.
Yours sincerely
Bella Faraday
He blinked. She’d said something on Friday evening about reimbursing him, but he really hadn’t been expecting this. Since the parcel and the card had been hand-delivered, that meant that their new graphic designer must already be at her desk. Most of his team didn’t show their faces in the office until nearly ten, so she was super-early on her first day.
And, although he appreciated the gesture, it really wasn’t necessary. His shoes had survived and the rest of it hadn’t cost that much. He really ought to return the money.
He picked up his phone and dialled his second-in-command’s extension. ‘Can you send Ms Faraday up?’
‘Good morning to you, Tarquin, my friend,’ Tarquin said dryly. ‘How are you? Did you have a nice weekend? What’s new with you?’
Hugh sighed. ‘Don’t give me a hard time, Tarq.’
‘Get out of the wrong side of bed, did we? Tsk. Must be Monday morning.’
Hugh knew he shouldn’t take out his mood on his best friend and business partner. Particularly as Tarquin dealt with all the stuff Hugh didn’t enjoy, and with extremely good grace, so Hugh could concentrate on the overall strategy of the label and actually producing the music. ‘I’m sorry. All right. Good morning, Tarquin. How are you? Did you have a nice weekend?’
‘That’s better. Good, and yes, thank you. I’ll send her up. And be nice, sweet-cheeks—apart from the fact that it’s her first day, not everyone’s as vile as you are on Monday mornings.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Hugh said, but he was smiling as he put the phone down again.
Bella was leaning back in her chair, eyes closed, listening to the music. Lacey, the singer, had a really haunting voice, and the song was underpinned by an acoustic guitar and a cello. The whole thing was gorgeous, and it made Bella think of mountains, deep Scottish lochs, forests and fairies. Maybe she could design something with mist, and perhaps a pine forest, and...
She yelped as she felt the tap on her shoulder; reacting swiftly, she sat bolt upright, opened her eyes and pulled off the headphones.
Tarquin was standing next to her, his face full of remorse. ‘Sorry, Bella. I didn’t mean to give you a heart attack.’
Bella’s heart was galloping away. ‘You did give me a bit of a fright,’ she said. ‘I was listening to the CD—it’s really good.’
‘Yeah, we think so, too.’ He smiled. ‘Lacey’s a bit of a character. She always performs barefoot.’
‘Like a fairy.’ The words were out before Bella could stop them. ‘Sorry. Ignore me. Did you want something?’
‘Yes. Hugh just called down. Can you go up to his office?’
Uh-oh. This must mean that Hugh had seen her parcel and her card. And she had absolutely no idea what his reaction was going to be. ‘Um, sure,’ she said.
‘Don’t look so worried. The boss knows it’s your first day, so he probably just wants to say hello and welcome you to Insurgo,’ Tarquin said kindly.
Bella wasn’t so sure. If that was the case, why hadn’t Hugh come