Chapter 17
Anna’s morning began as usual.
First: wake up, wash, make-up, dress.
Then: radio on, Magic FM and a quick cup of coffee.
Next: check the dating app.
Messages: yes.
Message: We seem to be a good match, what do you think?
A generic one-liner from Hopeful Dick, Essex.
Anna glanced at his picture and winced. He was hideous. A shiny bald head, tiny eyes, a ring in his nose and a thin, sadistic smile.
She scrolled down his profile page, a game she played just to see if the personality matched the face.
Occupation: Ask me later
Income: Struggling
Dating activities: Cooking at home and walking. Favourite food Indian
Anna disliked Indian food and there was no mention of restaurants, theatre or travelling.
Turn-ons: Erotica, flirting, dancing, skinny dipping
Her eyes flickered and her mouth twitched.
Personality traits: Wild, thrill-seeking, adventurous, sexy
Valued qualities in a partner: Wild, thrill-seeking, adventurous, sexy
Anna wondered how on earth she – a woman who had not only been bedded by celebrity writer Damien Spur, but who had been mentored by him – she, who had been the queen of the social scene, and indeed still mixed with some very chic people, could have been contacted by such a creep.
Her lovely profile photos, her sophisticated likes: Fine dining, travel, theatre
Her sort of man: Handsome, wealthy, cultured, etc.
A zero match.
Not a good start to the morning. She’d only posted her profile a couple of days ago. But so far, no good.
There were mostly men with pathetic nicknames like Lost Soul and Try Me, or who lived miles away, like Eddie from Esher.
Maybe give it another week. No shame in it. Difficult to meet people nowadays. And most of her single friends were fishing in the same pond.
But why hadn’t Damien called? Surely he had sent her story to the agent as he’d promised.
She put on her shiny white raincoat and black velvet beret, ready to go out to the corner shop to buy some milk as she usually did at the beginning of the week.
It was a miserable morning. Dark grey sky and drizzling. But she liked where she lived. Thanked the good Lord every day that she had no mortgage to pay on her very nice Victorian house in Gondar Gardens. Next to civilised neighbours – a solicitor on her left with a very nice wife and two well-behaved children, and on her right, an anaesthetist, who wasn’t married but lived with a friendly nurse called Margaret who’d invited Anna for coffee last week.
She clip-clopped down the hill and while she was waiting to cross the road, she saw the shop owner on the other side taking the newspapers in out of the rain. At that very moment, a new thought popped into her head.
She had been coming to the store for three years and yet she didn’t know his name.
So this time when she went into the shop, she asked, ‘I don’t want to be intrusive, but what is your name?’
‘Christos Georgalides,’ replied the good-looking Greek with grey curly hair who always greeted her with a big smile.
‘Mine is Anna Rose. Lovely to meet you.’
‘Nice to meet you, too,’ he said. ‘It’s funny, I see you more than I see my own sister and yet we’ve never had a chat. Well, now we’ve met, would you like an Easter biscuit? My wife made them.’
‘Thank you.’ She took one of the powdery crescents from the paper plate on the counter and popped it in her mouth. ‘Mmm, scrumptious. So light and crumbly.’
She walked over to the fridge. ‘You know what, Christos? I think I’ll try the almond milk today for a change.’
‘It’s very good, and next week you can try my wife’s baklava,’ he said, putting the carton into a blue plastic bag.
Anna had a feeling on her way back to her house that today something special was going to happen. And it did.
As she came through the front door the phone rang.
‘Anna,’ Damien said, ‘expect a call from my friend, Justin Baird. He runs a top literary agency that has a large children’s division. He likes your book.’
She held her breath. ‘Damien, I never thought… This is fantastic! A million kisses! Oh, thank you. Would you like to come for—’
He cut her short. ‘My pleasure,’ he said. ‘Just be your sweet self. Got to go.’