‘Thanks. I feel a lot better.’
‘How’s it going anyway?’ She slid in across from him, picked up the catalogue. ‘Wow. Fascinating. You know, you ought to get out more.’
‘I know, I know,’ he admitted, running his long fingers through his shaggy curls. ‘But if I can get the business to turn a profit this year, then pretty soon I’ll be able to expand, take on a few more guys. I mean, my old man left it in a real state. Everything was about flying by the seat of your pants with him. You want to know what his filing system was? A cardboard box shoved under the kitchen sink.’
Ricki stole a slice of toast from his plate. ‘You could do with a bit more flying by the seat of your pants.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means,’ she tore off a bite, ‘that you’re too bloody serious. When was the last time you went out?’
‘You don’t get it.’
Ricki looked at him. ‘I do get it. You miss him.’
Sam shifted, stared out the window. ‘Yeah. Well … actually,’ he changed the subject, ‘I was picking on Rose for a change.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ Ricki grabbed Rose’s hand, pulled her down onto her knee. ‘I’ll take some of that action. So what are we picking on her for today?’
‘Piss off!’ Rose squirmed but Ricki was strong and held her fast.
‘I’m thinking she can do better than Jack’s Café, what do you think?’
‘I agree. Two thousand per cent.’
‘And that blond guy she likes gave her a kiss today!’ Sam added.
‘No way? Posh Pants?’
‘Enough!’ Rose managed to wriggle free. ‘I don’t need career or love advice from you two losers! Besides,’ she straightened her apron imperiously, ‘I’ve got plans.’
Sam and Ricki looked at each other. ‘Oooooooooooowwwww!’
‘Like what?’ Sam wanted to know.
‘They’re private,’ Rose sniffed, heading back to the kitchen to get Ricki’s coffee. ‘But rest assured, it doesn’t involve pouring you idiots cups of tea all day long!’
‘Good. Glad to hear it,’ Ricki called after her. She looked at Sam, shook her head. ‘Fuck.’
‘Yeah, that about sums it up,’ he agreed. ‘You OK?’
‘Just tired,’ Ricki yawned. ‘And lonely. And tired of being lonely.’
Sam finished off his tea. ‘So get a girlfriend.’
‘Yeah, right. If it were that easy, even you would have one by now.’
‘Hey, I’m not lonely!’ he objected. ‘I’m just too fascinating and busy and …’
‘Old?’
‘Yeah, old. You could always lower your standards.’
Ricki snorted. ‘I will if you will.’
‘Actually,’ he considered, ‘I’d rather be alone.’
‘Me too.’
Rose came back with her order and, handing her a fiver, Ricki stood up. ‘Well, I’d better get my skates on; I’ve got a new client today.’ She kissed Rose on the cheek. ‘Give me a ring if you need a hand with Rory this week, OK?’
‘OK. Thanks.’
‘And you,’ Ricki turned to Sam, ‘take care of yourself. Don’t get too obsessed about work. Take it easy.’
‘I’ll take it easy when I’ve retired early to my holiday home in Tuscany.’
‘Yeah, well, ciao, baby!’
Sam picked up the catalogue again.
Rose replaced the ketchup dispensers.
The breakfast rush was over.
Straightening a few chairs, Rose propped open the door. Fresh air rushed in. She closed her eyes; it felt cool and refreshing on her face.
Her luck was turning; she could feel it. Not only had the man she’d had a crush on for two weeks finally noticed her but she also had a job interview; the first real interview of her life. And wasn’t just any job; it was prestigious – for the position of junior assistant to the acting assistant household manager of a grand house in Belgravia.
Number 45 Chester Square.
Belgravia.
Even the name had poetry!
Last Saturday afternoon, she’d taken Rory there on the bus, just to make certain she knew where she was going. They’d stopped in front of number 45, with its tiers of neat window boxes and round bay trees bordering the front door. The brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head gleamed against the lustrous black paint. The windows sparkled in the sun. Everything was even, balanced; pleasing to the eye.
Nothing bad could ever happen in a house as beautiful as this. A longing filled Rose’s chest. She wanted to have her own front-door key. She’d step inside and find a world marked by ease and elegance, a world completely removed from the one she inhabited now.
Perched behind the till, Rose took out a copy of Hello! magazine, losing herself in the glossy pages of celebrity photos.
The café was peaceful; quiet.
Then Sam’s phone rang.
‘Yes? Yes, that’s right. A drip? What kind of drip? Oh. A gush, eh? Yeah, well,’ he checked his watch, ‘I could come by now but I may not be able to fix the whole thing today.’ He collected his things. ‘What’s the address?’
A pack of off-duty dustmen piled through the door. Sam pushed past them, waving to Rose as he went.
Rose nodded back.
In a few short days, life was bound to become very interesting indeed. But until then, there were tables to serve.
Olivia Elizabeth Annabelle Bourgalt du Coudray sat in the gold-and-blue breakfast room of number 45 Chester Square, twisting the enormous diamond eternity ring round on her finger, waiting for her husband’s wrath to begin.
She’d made the mistake of getting up in the night, waking her husband. So he’d spent the entire night tossing round as violently as he could, whipping the sheets on and then kicking them off again, pulling at the pillow and sighing in frustration. And now, sick with nerves, Olivia sat holding her cup of coffee, knowing that as soon as he came down he’d lecture her and accuse her of keeping him up.
Her husband, Arnaud, liked to get angry. Along with Cuban cigars, and being recognized in public, it was one of his favourite things. There was nothing like a good rant to start the day off; his eyes lit up and his skin glowed. It didn’t matter that he owned half of the world’s tennis-ball factories or that his family wealth was such that he was regarded as a political figure in France (his views were petitioned on everything from the future of the European Union to cheese production). Even billionaires could have their peace destroyed by an insomniac wife.
As one of six daughters of the famous Boston Van der Lydens, Olivia had spent her youth gliding between New York, the Hamptons and the French Riviera, lingering in Boston only so long as it took to scrape together a degree in Art History. She’d been privileged, emulated; photographed regularly for Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar. When Arnaud began his rigorous courtship of her, the American press greeted it as