Chapter 2
Anna Rose examined her top lip. She hadn’t seen those fine vertical lines before.
Her mother had warned her. Don’t scowl, don’t pucker – and no big smiles. It will give you early wrinkles and crow’s feet.
Mirror, mirror, stay away. The years slip by. Stuck with her ex-husband, who has nowhere to go.
‘Please, Anna,’ he said, ‘I’ll pay the bills. Can’t help being ill. I’ll find a place. But, for now, please let me stay with you. I don’t feel safe by myself.’
Anna felt sorry for him. And, to tell the truth, she needed the extra money.
Especially if she wanted to stay pretty. Find another fella. Give up being a dogsbody. But nearly four years down the line the ex still hadn’t left.
Never mind. David Rose was her penance and duty. All those years when he pursued her, wooed her, looked after her.
David Rose, the once famous Mayfair restaurateur – patron of the legendary Valentino’s, which he’d named after the eponymous lothario – had lived for romance.
Handsome waiters dressed in white shirts and velvet waistcoats served impeccable dishes and an excellent wine list.
And if music be the food of love, to encourage proposals, a beautiful couple sang romantic ballads, reclining on a chaise lounge atop a rostrum strewn with flowers in the centre of the room, accompanied by a pianist.
Very soon, Valentino’s became the go-to proposal restaurant. But money and fame had given David a taste for playing the tables. It started well enough. Sparked by his wins at roulette and blackjack he continued his nightly visits to the casino until Lady Luck turned her back, his gambling addiction took hold of him and he lost everything to chance.
After a quick shower, Anna returned to her dressing table. She peered at her face again.
Be brave, Anna! A lovely face. Almost doll-like, save for the landscape of fine lines etched around her sparkling almond-shaped eyes.
No time to waste. Swiftly applying mascara, tinted moisturiser, and her “kiss me” lip gloss, she gave her long dark hair a curt brush.
Next, she slipped on a simple, shift dress in a soft shade of powder blue, hastily clipped on delicate pearl earrings, and tucked her dainty little feet into cream leather kitten heels.
Audrey Hepburn style, her heroine, ever since she’d seen Breakfast at Tiffany’s .
No need to think about her life, just get on with the day. And tonight, after she had made the dinner, she would close her bedroom door and write. Keep the demons at bay. Escape into her beautiful world of hope, where everything turned rosy pink and there were no dark angels.
The children’s stories she told in her nursery-school days had always captivated the little boys and girls. What a gift she had. Such a bitter twist that David and she hadn’t been able to have kids of their own. A low sperm count, the doctor had said. They had tried IVF for two years with no happy ending.
But for now Anna had taken a job as a medical receptionist. Despite her talent as a teacher, the nursery schools were taking younger women – they were cheaper. Anna’s magic with children wasn’t considered at a premium.
Down she went, swooping past her ex, whose extended temporary residence was in the guest bedroom.
She held her breath, and waited for his daily request.
‘Anna, make me a cup of tea,’ he wailed from his bed. ‘Please, Anna…’
‘No! I’m going to be late.’
Resigned, kettle boiled, she brought him a white mug of pale grey liquid. She crept into the darkened room and turned on the light.
‘Oh, it’s hurting my eyes! Please turn it off.’
‘For goodness’ sake.’ She opened the curtains. ‘I’m going to be late. I need this job.’
‘I once was a man. Don’t make me feel like a loser. You’ve had a good life, Anna. I’ve done my best.’
He glanced at the tea. ‘You could have let it brew for longer.’
‘Don’t push your luck.’
She gulped down an instant coffee with a dash of milk, grabbed her coat and off to Planet Earth she went to the medical practice in Harley Street.
There were no seats on the packed bus to Baker Street. Steadying herself on the handhold, her legs braced stiffly apart, Anna stared in disgust at a young man with a mop of blond hair and full, girlish lips who sat with his backpack in a designated place for the disabled and elderly. He was too busy texting to notice her. She felt giddy. The heaving bodies squeezed her bones.
Next stop, backpack man got up and, pushing past Anna, roughly nudged her shoulder with his bulbous bag.
‘What are you doing? Bloody rucksack! You just hit me. Shouldn’t be allowed on a crowded bus.’
‘I am so sorry. I didn’t see you,’ he said in a clipped foreign accent.
‘Of course not! You blind fool! You’re a teenager. You don’t see anyone over the age of twenty-five. Yes, yes! Typical! You’re German, aren’t you? We know what you lot are like. Ruthless! Bagging mattresses around hotel pools at 6 a.m., while the rest of the guests are asleep.’
Anna stopped short. That’s exactly what her mother would have said. It just popped out of her mouth as if it were nothing to do with her.
Maybe she’d become bipolar? Could it be depression? David Rose had worn her down. How dare he make her suffer. It wasn’t as if she was his wife anymore.
Damn him!
The young man scuttled off the bus, shamed.
The next stop was Anna’s.
She ran along the pavement like an untethered emu. Arriving at the Edwardian building, she flung herself up the stone steps and rang the bell.
‘Hi, Sam! So sorry I’m late, had a terrible time on the bus,’ she said into the intercom. The porter buzzed her in.
‘Morning, Anna.’ The old Scotsman handed her the daily schedule and looked at his watch. ‘You’re fifteen minutes late, and it’s going to be busy today. Luckily, Nurse Aileen isn’t here yet. And you know what she’s like. A hard-working woman and a stickler for time.’ He had kind eyes, with a glimmer of good humour, despite his outwardly dour demeanour. Anna liked him.
‘Thanks, Sam. I’ll get to it. Just hope we don’t have any more problems with Dr Patel’s clients. His secretary fits them in like sardines in a can. And he always keeps them waiting. The women look normal going up and when they come down their lips look like… like… pork sausages!’
‘Anna, please speak quietly. Dr Patel is in the downstairs bathroom because there’s something wrong with the loo on his floor. The walls have ears,’ he said.
‘Okay,’ Anna moved closer to Sam and whispered conspiratorially, ‘But what about that Mrs Cougar, shouting and screaming at me the other day!’ You were off duty, but I’m sure you heard about it. Every five minutes, she said, “Call him again! Call him again! Call him again!” Like a broken record, and no “please”! As if it’s my fault she waited half an hour to see him. So, I said, “Please, there’s no need to shout – this isn’t a fish market!”. And that was it – she went crazy. Said she would report me for insulting her. ‘Anna, your tongue is running away with you. Calm down.’ The porter looked askance, as Dr Patel appeared.
Anna paused as the dapper doctor bounced up the stairs. Then, making sure that he was out of earshot, she grasped Sam’s arm and moved closer to him to whisper, ‘So, anyway, it gets worse. Then the other woman waiting to see the doctor started, said she was first. It got very vindictive. Well, what was I to do except tell them to keep their voices down? And then, can you imagine, they both turned on me.’
‘Anna! You are not the UN peacekeeping force. Don’t interfere with other people’s business. And it’s not your place to criticise Dr Patel. You’ll get fired if he hears you’ve been gossiping about him. Not that it would come from me. Now get on with your work.’ He patted her arm. ‘The first patient is due in five minutes.’
Happy to be ensconced in the peaceful reception room with its inviting brown velvet sofa, leather armchairs and polished walnut table displaying a tempting array of glossy magazines, Anna settled herself at the grand Edwardian mahogany desk and glanced at the appointment list, ready and waiting to activate her charm for patients.
Anna greeted an impeccably groomed, tall red-headed woman with a polite smile. ‘Hello, Mrs Askew. You’ve come to see Dr Lederman.’
‘Yes.’
‘Would you like to sit down? He shouldn’t be long.’
Mrs Askew gave Anna a cursory glance, picked up a magazine from the waiting-room table and settled herself in the leather armchair.
Not even a hello? How rude of you , Anna thought . No doubt your life is enviably neat. A house in the country, a flat in town. A wealthy husband who deals with financials, while you arrange perfect dinner parties between eating out at top restaurants, visits to the theatre and swanky holidays.
Christmas in Barbados? No, probably at the country estate with the family and then to the Caribbean or Mexico for New Year.
Skiing in Feb, Gstaad or Courchevel? June in Sardinia or Santorini?
September to Kenya, South Africa, Zanzibar, not to forget weekends in Paris, Rome or New York.
That’s where I used to go.
We have more in common than you know. Probably stayed in the same hotels and no doubt you ate at my husband’s restaurant.
So perhaps you might be a little more polite next time. A nod would be fine.
Never mind, one day your husband will tire of your sour face, find a lovely young calf and put you out to pasture.
A steady stream of patients diverted her from vengeful thoughts.
Anna chivvied the kiddies waiting to be seen by the doctors for twitches and this and that.
In between the comings and goings, she popped a boiled sweet in her mouth from a stash she kept in a drawer and checked her mobile for emails.
There were the usual missives from travel firms selling cut-price holidays to exotic places that she couldn’t afford but to which she subscribed just in case she had a windfall. She deleted those – but clicked the link in the message from her favourite online store, Eve’s Lingerie Boutique, which had announced a mega sale. Searching through the underwear sets, she chose a pretty lavender lace bra with pink rosebuds and matching briefs for ￡20 and saved it in her basket.
She felt safe in the refined elegant room. Calm. Not like home, where emotions were stripped bare.
Fewer patients than the early morning rush allowed her a cup of instant coffee that she made in the little kitchen, and a ginger nut biscuit.
Back at her desk, she flicked through the glossy magazine she kept hidden in her drawer.
Holidays, divorces, weddings and glamorous celebrity parties. Anna was in flight mode, sipping a pina colada in Barbados with Brad Pitt when the doorbell buzzed.
‘Your name, please?’ Anna asked politely.
‘Damien Spur. I haven’t got an appointment, but I’ve chipped a tooth. I spoke with Dr Lacey this morning. He said he would squeeze me in between sessions.’
‘That’s fine. Please come in.’
Anna looked at his wildly handsome face and felt a rush of pleasure that made her blush.
She dropped her eyes and scanned the diary. ‘I’m sure he won’t be long, Mr Spur. I can see there’s been a cancellation at midday.’
‘I will probably need a couple of visits, but I might make it three.’ He gave her a roguish smile.
She noticed his chipped incisor. She imagined him biting her neck.
‘You’re the thriller writer, aren’t you?’ Anna asked. ‘I’m ashamed to say I haven’t read your books. I mostly read historical novels. But I’m always seeing your photo in magazines.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Anna. Anna Rose.’
‘Ah! A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Now, can you find out what time Dr Lacey can see me?’
‘Oh, of course, Mr Spur.’ She buzzed up. ‘He’ll see you in fifteen minutes.’
‘That’s good,’ he said, scanning back and forth from her lashy brown eyes to her cute little breasts… and back again.
‘May I just say, funnily enough, I’ve written a children’s book.’ She gave him a flirty smile.
Here was a man who could change her life – and she must seize the opportunity. Carpe diem , do or die. She took courage.
‘I know you’re a terribly famous writer but I’m wondering, if you have the time, perhaps you could read my story. I would love to know your thoughts.’
Damien, please , said the Voice . She’s cute, but don’t get carried away. Children’s stories aren’t your bag – and what happens if she can’t write?
He smiled. ‘Well, okay. If it has potential, I’m happy to give you suggestions to improve it. But, if not, I’ll tell you the truth.’
‘Of course, I expect you to say what you think. It’s kind of you to read it. Thank you so much.’
‘What’s it called?’
‘ The Dog T hat Lost I ts Bark .’
‘Good title,’ he said.
‘Thanks. Pleased you like it.’
‘Yes, I do. Titles are very important. The first glimpse of what the reader sees on the bookshelf. Either it can pique their curiosity, entice them to open the door and see what’s inside, or, if it’s boring, they’ll skim right past it. Take War and Peace , Tolstoy’s legendary novel – those three little words cover the whole scope of human history.’
Yes , Anna thought as she listened to him talk, I’m going to sleep with you.
‘And then there are the great books with just a character as the title. Oliver Twist , Rebecca , Jane Eyre , etc. They plant questions in the reader’s mind. Who are they? What is their journey?’
‘I do hope you like my story,’ she said. ‘I can tell you’ll be a good teacher. Can I give you a hard copy? If you like, I could drop it round after work if you give me your address.’
Watch it, Damien. It’s getting a bit too cosy. Keep it professional, at least until you’ve read it.
‘Hard copy is fine, but don’t worry – I’ll pick it up at my next appointment. And maybe after I’ve read it, we can discuss it over coffee.’ He gave her a generous smile.
A timely buzz. ‘Dr Lacey is ready for you,’ said Anna, returning Damien’s smile as he disappeared up the stairs. ‘And so am I,’ Anna added to herself, clicking BUY on her Lingerie Boutique basket.