 
Miracle at the Museum of Broken Hearts

Copyright 2011 by Talli Roland

Smashwords Edition

Miracle at the Museum of Broken Hearts © Talli Roland 2011

E-edition published worldwide 2011

© Talli Roland

All rights reserved in all media. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical (including but not limited to: the Internet, photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system), without prior permission in writing from the author and/or publisher.

The moral right of Talli Roland as the author of the work

has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Cover design by Notting Hill Press In-house.

All characters and events featured in this book are entirely fictional and any resemblance to any person, organisation, place or thing living or dead, or event or place, is purely coincidental and completely unintentional.

PRAISE FOR TALLI ROLAND

Talli Roland is rapidly running up my ladder of favorite authors . . . If you haven't read anything yet from Roland, get her on your list!

Chick Lit Plus

All of Talli's books are funny, romantic and easy to read, and you find yourself constantly turning the pages, becoming involved in the story and wanting to find out more.

Kim the Bookworm

Talli's writing is fresh, lively and different. Her words carry you along and her characters make you care what happens to them.

Bookersatz

She's a fantastic story-teller and I really can't wait to see what's next as she has the potential to become a huge chick lit star.

Chick Lit Reviews

Bestselling novelist Talli Roland is also the author of  Build A Man, Construct A Couple,  The Hating Game, and  Watching Willow Watts. Her novels have been shortlisted for industry awards and placed on Book of the Year lists. A former journalist, Talli is now a full-time author and lives in central London, UK, with her husband (who she's still trying to convince to buy her a cat!).

Visit her website at www.talliroland.com.

CHAPTER ONE

'You can't be serious.' My best friend Mel shoved up her glasses, peering at the newspaper ad I'd handed her. 'A Museum of Broken Hearts? You working there?' She snorted, and a crumb of cranberry muffin flew out from between pursed lips, landing on the small table in front of us. 'You might as well stick Gandhi in a war museum.'

I shook my head and grabbed the ad. 'No, it's perfect. It's in my field of expertise, and it's a great chance for me to get involved in a project right from the get-go. Exciting new opportunity for assistant curator at London's newest attraction,' I read aloud, my excited voice echoing around the tiny coffee shop. 'The ideal candidate will have a degree in sociology or anthropology, with experience coordinating and organising display materials.' God, it really was ideal. 'See?'

Mel sipped her espresso. 'Sure, you've got the right degree and experience. But aren't you forgetting something?' Leaning back, she raised an eyebrow.

'What? Oh, the notice period at my job?' I made a face. 'I wouldn't worry about that. I could walk out tomorrow and no one would know.' Stuck in a dusty room in the basement of the British Museum, I was more used to seeing arrowheads and fern fossils than actual human beings. I'd even started talking to Ernie, an ancient skull in the corner, for a bit of company. It was definitely time to move on.

'No, no.' Mel waved a hand in the air. 'You, Rose, are the living, breathing definition of an incurable romantic. A poster child for happy endings. A—'

'Okay!' I interrupted. 'I get the picture.'

'For goodness' sake, you almost didn't pass your thesis defence because you didn't want to downgrade the importance of romance in relationships.'

'Mel, you've made your point.' For once, I wished my friend didn't feel the need to be so bloody direct all the time. My cheeks coloured as I recalled my thesis advisor's words that while my paper was certainly one of the most creative they'd seen at the University College London, a little thing called biology undermined my theory that humans partnered primarily for romance. I'd barely scraped by, only just managing to graduate and land my horrendous job at the British Museum. Two years later, and I was still there. This position at a new museum could be my chance to escape Ernie and the arrowheads. Sure, I believed in happy endings. And yes, I thought romance was highly underrated. But so what? You didn't have to believe in, um . . . the Berlin Wall to work at the Checkpoint Charlie museum, now, did you?

I downed my cappuccino and pushed back my chair. 'I'm going to apply.'

Mel sighed. 'Fine. Just don't come crying to me when you run across a broken heart that can't be fixed.'

A few hours later, on the Tube back to the tiny flat I'd shared with Gareth, I turned Mel's words over in my head while trying to avoid breathing through my nose – something you never wanted to do in the sweaty rush-hour confines of the Central Line. In my educated opinion (and after six years of university and two degrees, I was nothing if not educated), no broken heart or relationship was beyond fixing.

Okay, so my parents were still divorced. Dad was currently shacked up with a twenty-year-old hippie in a housing co-op (i.e., squat) after "tuning in, turning on, and dropping out" of the corporate rat race. Mum couldn't even bear to utter his name. But I knew one day, Dad would miss his old life and return to the spacious home in the affluent London suburb of Virginia Water, where Mum still lived. She'd drop the defensive act, throw her arms around him, and that would be that. All it needed was a bit more time. All right, loads more time.

Men had to have their own little rebellious phase before truly settling down, didn't they? Just look at me and Gareth. There we were, sailing along for almost three years in a wonderful relationship chock-full of flowers and chocolate. Well, the first year was chock-full of flowers and chocolate. The second was pretty much just chocolate, and by the third, I was lucky to get a half-eaten Gummi Bear. But that was simply the normal transition phase from romantic love to solid, unshakeable love – or so I'd thought. Turned out that for Gareth, it had been a transition from London straight to Vietnam, where he'd been inspired to build a community school and teach for the past year.

Despite the besuited man beside me pressing his willy against my leg, I couldn't help a tiny smile as I thought of Gareth's latest postcard, picturing a village in the midst of lush vegetation. Although it hadn't said much (or anything, besides "Hiya"), Gareth had signed it "lots of love", and even strewn a whole row of x's under his name. Obviously he was starting to miss me; about time. Even though he'd stuck me with all the rent and bills – not to mention taking off without a proper goodbye – I knew that when he returned, our relationship would be back in that heady romantic phase once again. The two of us were a perfect match, despite Mel's constant admonition that I'd be a fool to let "that bloody tosser" back into my life.

The Tube rattled into Queensway station. I unglued myself from Willy Man (really, if you did feel the urge to shove your groin against someone, at least have the decency to ensure it was a respectable size) and pushed through the packed carriage toward the exit. Out on the street, I drew in a deep breath of diesel-scented air, then dodged the tourists and souvenir stands for home. It was already seven, and Beano had probably ripped the sofa to shreds by now in retaliation for his late dinner. As much as I loved to complain about the ginger cat Gareth had also ditched me with, secretly I was glad for the company. I'd never admit it – I kept up a brave face, even with Mel – but that first month after Gareth leaving had been sheer torture. Eventually, my optimism had kicked in, but only Beano's presence in our silent, echoey flat had kept me from going to pieces.

I turned the key in the lock and swung open the door to our one-bedroom, first-floor abode, with large sash windows overlooking the tree-lined street. I loved this part of the city. Even though the main drag was full of greasy Chinese restaurants, shops selling scarves for one pound, and dingy hotels, after turning onto any side street you'd be worlds away. Neat white Victorian terraces marched down the quiet leafy road, and lanterns cast a soft glow against the late November sky.

'Hey, Beano.' I kicked off my shoes, leaning down to give my kitty a quick scratch on the sweet spot under his neck. After pouring some food in his bowl, I cracked open the laptop and pulled up my résumé. A few tweaks and a spell check later, and it was ready to go. Holding my breath, I typed in the address from the newspaper ad and hit "send". I didn't want to get too excited, but I knew I was perfect for the position. Just perfect.

Right, now what to do? There was only one thing for it. I shoved An Affair to Remember into the DVD player, flopped onto the sofa, and let the sweet sounds of romance carry me away.
CHAPTER TWO

Two weeks later, I'd almost given up hope on the new job. At Mel's insistence, I'd even emailed to follow-up and make sure my résumé had been received. Instead of an enthusiastic "we never dreamed we'd get a candidate as qualified as you" response, though, I got nothing. Well, unless you counted several emails in my spam box offering to elongate my nonexistent penis.

I was just slurping my soup (all I could afford, what with covering Gareth's half of the bills) with Ernie the Skull when my mobile started ringing. After rummaging in my handbag, I pulled out the phone, squinting at the unfamiliar number on the screen.

'Hello?' A dribble of liquid ran down my chin and I swiped at it impatiently.

'Rose Delaney?'

The voice was deep and smooth – and undeniably sexy. The hairs on my arms lifted and I patted them back down again. God, it had been a while! As soon as Gareth got through the door (and hopefully it wouldn't be much longer), I was going to jump his bones. Not that he was really the "jumping" kind – more of a tender, thoughtful, "making love" kind of bloke. I got lucky there.

'Yes, this is she.' My voice came out all prim and proper.

'This is Heath Rowan, calling from the Museum of Broken Hearts, about the résumé you submitted.'

'Oh! Yes, hello.' My heart started thumping.

'I'd like to have you in for an interview, if you're still interested in the position. Does this afternoon at four suit?'

This afternoon? I bit my lip, glancing down at my clothes. Working in a basement, there was never any need to dress up, and today I'd thrown on a crumpled pair of jeans and an old, soft sweater that was a cast-off of Mum's. Timing wasn't an issue – I could nip out of here whenever I liked, as long as the work was done – but no way could I rock up to an interview looking as if I'd escaped from The Museum of Derelict Clothes. If I wanted to get there by four, though, I wouldn't have time to change.

'It's fine,' I said finally. 'But I have to warn you, my work attire is very casual.' "Casual" being an understatement. More like fit for the rubbish heap, as Mum would say.

'Don't worry,' Heath answered. 'I'm not interested in what you look like. I'm interested in your skills. So I'll see you at four, then. Take the Tube to Liverpool Street station, then follow the signs to Spitalfields Market and turn right onto Brushfield. That will take you close to Fournier Street, and we're at number sixteen.'

'Okay, brilliant. I'll see you at four.' East London – full of bohemian artists, independent shops, and little cafes – was the perfect location for a quirky new museum. Excitement whirled inside me and I took a deep breath to calm down.

What did this Heath bloke looked like, I wondered? From his voice, he sounded maybe early thirties, tall, dangerously handsome . . . Right, no time for daydreaming if I wanted to leave here early.

'Back to the fossils,' I said brightly, smiling over at Ernie. 'And mate, if I'm lucky, this might be the last batch of boring ferns I ever need to catalogue.'

The next few hours passed as slowly as ever, and finally it was time to head to East London. I bolted out of the British Museum, onto the Tube, and over to Fournier Street. My fingers were shaking and my heart fluttered uncomfortably. God, I wanted this job. I needed this job. No offense to Ernie and his fern friends, but if I had to spend another minute in that pit, I was going to fossilize, too.

Right. Squaring my shoulders, I took a deep breath then marched over to the red-bricked facade of number sixteen. Banging the gold knocker against the blue wooden door, I arranged my face into a smile, praying Heath had meant it when he'd said he was more interested in skills than appearance (because really, does a man ever mean that?). I'd smoothed back my long, curly auburn hair into a ponytail, but the soft pink sweater sadly hadn't transformed into a neatly ironed white blouse. Ah, well.

'Rose?' The door swung open and I tried not to swoon, although I could feel my mouth flapping open. There, right in front of me, was a man straight from a nineteen-twenties black and white film, all broad shoulders, dark wavy hair, and perfect features. It was my daydream come to life.

I snapped my mouth closed when I noticed his brown eyes shooting me a funny look. 'Yes, that's me.' Sticking out a hand, I noted with pleasure how his solid fingers closed around mine. 'Lovely to meet you.'

'Come on in.' Heath ushered me inside, then motioned me to follow him down a narrow corridor. Trying to keep my eyes away from his bobbing bottom, I glanced around the empty rooms of the small, old-fashioned interior. The doorways were crowned with elaborate wood carvings, and a stunning fireplace sat proudly in the lounge. In the late afternoon sun, the floorboards shone and dust danced in the air. I could just envision the walls lined with artefacts, and glass display cases positioned like jewels. A wave of longing washed over me as I trailed behind Heath up some stairs, running my hand over the smooth wooden railing.

'Have a seat.' Heath pointed to a chair in the only furnished room in the house, what looked to be his office. It was stunningly sparse, with a metallic desk, two folding chairs, and a MacBook.

'Thank you for coming on such short notice,' Heath began, fixing those dark eyes on mine. A pang of something shot through me and I forced myself to nod. 'You see, we had the position filled, but they pulled out at the last minute.' He shook his head. 'I can't believe someone would let us down like that. Anyway, by the time I'd rung the other applicants I'd interviewed, they'd already accepted positions.'

Disappointment seeped in as I realised I hadn't been his first choice . . . or even the second or third.

'What I'm saying is that I need someone committed, and someone who can work quickly. The museum is scheduled to open just in time for the Christmas season.'

My jaw dropped. Christmas season? It was already the twentieth of November, and the building was just an empty shell.

Heath caught the expression on my face. 'I know,' he said grimly. 'You can see how much work needs to be done. But there's no point sugar-coating it. If I do take you on, we're going to have to work night and day to get this ready.'

I nodded, my heart leaping. Was he really thinking of taking me on? 'That's no trouble.' It wasn't like I had anyone but Beano to come home to. 'What date do you hope to open?'

'I've already invited the media to our grand opening on the fifteenth of December. Christmas is a prime time for relationship breakdowns and broken hearts, you see, so opening the museum during the holiday season really is ideal. Not everyone wants Santa and candy canes.' Heath's brow furrowed and his eyes flashed, and I leaned back in my chair. God. I'd never thought of the Christmas season as anything other than Santa Claus and candy canes. And cozy fires, roasted chestnuts, and lots of pressies all wrapped up in shiny foil . . .

Okay, last Christmas had been a bit of a dud, what with Gareth taking off just a few days before Christmas Eve. Mum had been in the Bahamas and Mel had gone up to her parents' in York, and I'd spent the day sobbing into Beano's tuna-scented fur. I shoved away the memory, forcing myself back to fluffy snow and dancing elves. That was the true meaning of Christmas.

'So tell me, Miss' – Heath glanced down at my résumé – 'Delaney. I can see you have all the relevant experience. Why do you want to be assistant curator here?'

I twisted my hands in my lap as I considered his question. 'Well, I delivered a thesis on the whole reason men and women come together,' I said finally, deliberately avoiding exactly what my stance had been. 'I'm particularly interested in human relationships.'

Heath raised an eyebrow. 'Yes, I noticed on your CV that you majored in sociology. So tell me, why do men and women come together, in your opinion?' His slightly sardonic tone held a hint of a challenge, and I wondered exactly what had happened in his personal life to make him so sceptical. Unrequited love? A Love Story scenario?

'Well, of course there is a bit of biology to it,' I answered delicately, shifting in the chair. 'But I do think elements of romance and attraction play a major role.'

'Let me guess, you believe in love at first sight.' I could tell by his voice that he didn't.

I thought back to that first second I'd seen Gareth – right outside the flower shop by the Tube – and how I'd known straight away he was the one for me. Him rushing back and buying me a rose once he'd found out my name had helped too, of course.

'I do believe in love at first sight, yes. But I understand every relationship has its ups and downs, ebbs and flows,' I added, trying to draw the conversation back to the job on offer. 'And I would love the chance to bring my skills here, and help display cherished objects from once-happy relationships. Maybe even bring some closure.' And perhaps a reunion! I kept that last bit to myself, but wouldn't it be cool to heal a few crushed hearts?

'Closure. Right.' Heath rose to his feet and I scrambled up, noticing he towered over me by a few inches. Gareth was a little shorter than me, and I usually had to crouch down to kiss him.

'Well, despite our differing opinions' — Heath thrust out a hand—'Rose Delaney, welcome to the team. If one person can be a team, that is.' He paused, shaking his head. 'Here, let me try this again. Welcome to the Museum of Broken Hearts.'

I took Heath's palm in mine, noting how he squeezed my fingers reflexively. 'I can't wait to get started.'
CHAPTER THREE

Two days later, I was outside number sixteen Fournier Street again, ready for my first day of work. Yesterday, I'd informed my manager at the British Museum I was quitting (he had to ask my name, if you can believe it – sod the leaving notice!), gave Ernie the Skull a final pat, then trotted down the grand stairs of the iconic building for the last time. On the way out, I'd paused to buy a hotdog from the ever-present vendor lingering outside the gates. It was something I'd always meant to do, but my constant hurrying to and from work meant I'd never got around to it. And after the tummy pain I'd been experiencing since ramming the sausage down my throat, it certainly wasn't something I was keen to do again.

Even now, I was still feeling queasy, and my face was hot and sweaty. Not exactly the ideal state to be facing your new boss. My stomach rumbled again as I pictured Heath's solid form, the way he'd shoved back an errant lock of hair, his bobbing bottom . . .

'Rose!' A shout made me turn my head, and my cheeks reddened even more when I spotted Heath at the museum's ground-floor window. 'Are you going to come in?' He grinned and I noticed the sparkling whiteness of his teeth. How had I missed that before? Then it struck me this was the first time I'd actually seen him smile.

'Coming!' I scurried over to the door, pushing against it the same time Heath swung it open from the other side. 'Ouf!' I slammed into his solid chest, breathing in the spicy scent – kind of like cinnamon, nutmeg, and my favourite biscuit ingredients all rolled into one.

'Sorry,' we chorused, quickly stepping away from each other. His face had returned to an unreadable mask, and I wiped away the small beads of sweat that had gathered on my upper lip. Just the after-effects of bad sausage, I was sure. Nothing to do with the close proximity of my cookie-scented boss.

'Come on up to the office,' Heath said. 'Let's run through our work schedule for the next couple weeks until the opening.'

I nodded, thankful he'd turned away so I could collect myself.

'Can I take your jacket?' Heath asked when we'd entered his barren workspace. Nothing had changed since I'd last been in here – it was still practically Siberia.

'Sure.' I shrugged off the turquoise coat Mum had bought me for Christmas (the only good thing about last year's holiday). It matched my eyes perfectly, setting off my sausage-poisoned pale complexion nicely. I'd made an effort today, dressing in a pair of softly flared grey trousers and a wraparound cobalt-blue top. Hell, I'd even put on my lucky gold chain and heart earrings.

Heath's eyes flashed with what looked like appreciation, and I smiled to myself. Ha! I knew men were interested in more than "skills". That was the reason I'd always tried to look nice around Gareth, slathering myself in deliciously scented creams and pouring my chest into too-tight bras to give the illusion of cleavage. It was only since he'd left that I'd defaulted to sloppy jeans and sweaters.

As Heath elaborated on my role here – cataloguing, writing up descriptions, and organising the rooms – I couldn't help noticing he looked rather nice himself. He'd ditched the formal black suit he'd been wearing the last time we'd met, and today he was clad in perfectly fitting jeans and a navy blue sweater that settled nicely across his broad shoulders. Unbidden, my mind flicked back to Gareth, who lived in torn, stained denim he proudly proclaimed he only washed twice a year, and a ripped T-shirt he'd had since the nineteen-eighties. But that was okay, I told myself. Gareth had showed he loved me in other ways. Like pushing off to Vietnam. An unfamiliar ribbon of bitterness curled around my insides.

'Does all that sound okay?' Heath's question snapped me back to reality, and I blinked.

'Um, yes. Great.' I hoped. I'd no idea what he'd just said. I was so happy to be out of my arrowhead hell, though, I'd agree to polish his shoes with a toothbrush if I had to. My cheeks flamed as I pictured myself bending over in front of him . . .

For God's sake, get a grip, I told myself as I followed him back down the stairs, through the empty rooms, and down a narrow stone staircase into a dank, cold cellar. My heart sank as Heath clicked on the overhead light, gloomily illuminating a jumble of boxes. Those were the museum's artefacts? I'd seen better organisation after the Saturday afternoon feeding frenzy at Primark.

'Sorry for the state everything is in,' Heath said, catching the expression on my face. 'I did warn you there's a lot of work to be done.'

I sighed. 'Yes, you did. Well' – I stepped over a box and into the middle of the chaos – 'I should get started.' I rubbed my arms, trying to get warm. Already the wet damp had taken hold. 'After I get my coat.'

'Sorry about the temperature in here.' I swear I could see puffs coming from Heath's mouth as he spoke. 'Until we open, we don't have the budget to heat the whole building.'

I shot him a curious look as I navigated across the boxes toward the staircase. 'Tell me, how did you get involved in this project?' I'd met loads of museum people in my time, and Heath seemed more business man than historian.

'What, I don't look like your typical curator?' He smiled as if he already knew the answer. 'Well, to be honest, I'm not. That's why I needed someone with experience setting up collections. I worked in the City as a financial lawyer. Then, my grandmother died.' His face twisted and my heart twanged in response to his pained expression. 'This was her house. She'd always dreamed of opening a museum, to display all the items she'd amassed over the years. She left me this place in her will – along with the funds she'd saved over the years to complete the project – and appointed me curator.' Heath shook his head, as if he was still unable to believe what had happened. 'Gran always collected things; items that were emotionally significant to people, but hurt too much for them to hang on to. Over time, she became kind of famous for it, and people would send packages here to the "Broken Hearts Woman". Gran always said passing things on was a way for people to come to terms with whatever trauma they'd experienced, and she hoped displaying everything would show others they weren't alone in their pain. I had no idea she'd squirreled away so much.'

'Wow.' I surveyed the forest of boxes. All this had been collected by one woman? 'So you left your job to set up the museum?' Double wow.

Heath nodded. 'Yes. She'd done so much for me . . .' That same pained expression crossed his face, and he shrugged. 'Once everything is good to go and the museum has been open for a while, I'll hand things over to someone and go back to the City. There are always jobs for lawyers,' he added wryly. 'This is just a necessary detour.'

'Right.' My heart jumped. If Heath returned to the City, did that mean I might be promoted to curator one day? One day soon, all things being well? Already I was picturing myself sitting upstairs in the office. Oh, hello, yes, I'm the curator at London's hottest new museum, I'd say to all the cool people I'd meet at . . . well, wherever the cool people hung out.

I looked at the boxes in front of me with determination. I'd work around the clock to get everything whipped into shape. This museum would be more than ready to open by the fifteenth of December. It would be there with bells on! Given that it was Christmas, it probably would have bells. And garland and holly . . . and maybe I could even throw in a bit of mistletoe. Sure, it was the Museum of Broken Hearts, but even bad relationships responded to seasonal greenery, right?

Gareth used to love mistletoe. Our first Christmas together, he'd covered almost every surface of the flat with it, and we'd kissed nonstop for the Twelve Days of Christmas. Secretly, I'd renamed it the Twelve Days of Chapped Lips, since he'd been a tad overenthusiastic. But that was romance, and I was hardly complaining.

'I'll just grab my coat,' I said hastily, aware that for the second time today, I'd drifted off into my own thoughts. After heading upstairs, I threw on my jacket – practically melting with relief at its cozy confines – then carefully made my way back down the narrow cellar steps. The last thing I needed was to fall over and break a leg.

As I eased into the dimly lit room, I noticed Heath staring intently at a gold locket dangling on a chain from his fingers. With the shadows falling across his face, I couldn't make out his expression, but I could tell by the rigid set of his shoulders and the way the chain was threaded through his fingers that it meant something to him. Could this have something to do with his negativity toward love and relationships? Who had that locket belonged to?

'Um, hi,' I said quietly, wanting to alert him to my presence. It felt like I was intruding on a private moment.

Heath jerked at the sound of my voice. The chain slithered from his fingers and the locket plopped into a large box on the floor. He kicked it into a corner, then set another box on top of it. 'Sorry, just examining the, er, artefacts.'

'Okay.' Obviously there was way more to it, but Heath's face had that shuttered look I was rapidly becoming familiar with. Maybe I could probe more later, when – if – I got to know him better. 'So, I'll just start cataloguing everything. Once I've finished, we can see what we've got and how to organise it all.' It was going to be a big job, but I couldn't wait to begin.

'Fine.' Heath glanced at his watch. 'I've got some paperwork to do, then a meeting with the council at eleven. Help yourself to coffee and tea in the kitchen. I'll leave you to it.'

I watched him disappear up the stairs, then rubbed my hands together for warmth, and plunged in.

Several hours later, I was knee-deep in objects, including chopsticks from a couple's "Last Supper", a pair of red Y-fronts (from the pair's final romp . . . thank goodness for plastic gloves), and a raggedy stuffed toy poodle that had belonged to a terminally ill patient. If it wasn't for the accompanying letters Heath's grandmother had neatly bagged with each item, the artefacts would be better suited to a jumble sale than a museum. But each yellowed note detailed the object's story, giving it an inescapable pathos.

No description I could write would top the little vignettes the owners had scrawled, so I planned to suggest to Heath we display the letters alongside the items. Seeing the senders' actual handwriting – and reading their tragic tales – made me feel connected to them. I was sure our visitors would experience the same emotion.

Take this note, for example, written in a shaky, spidery script, and tucked in with a tarnished salt shaker:

My husband Wilfred and I received this salt shaker on our wedding day. Ever since, it has stood on our kitchen table. Mornings, for Wilfred's poached eggs. Teatime, for his chips. And late at night, because I was too tired to clear it away. Every day when I saw that salt shaker, I'd think of how happy I was. Fifty-six years later, I was still as happy and in love as that new bride. But now Wilfred is gone. I don't want to think of that any longer. Remembering my joy makes my sadness grow stronger. Without my Wilfred, nothing is right.

Before I could wipe them away, my tears splashed onto the lined paper. Crap! I pressed the fabric of my coat against the paper quickly, noting the ink already showed the splatter of liquid. God, what kind of assistant curator was I, ruining items by sobbing all over them?

Pull yourself together, Rose, I told myself firmly. This old woman had fifty-six years of happiness and love. And maybe she'd managed to find happiness and love again – along with a new salt shaker to adorn her table.

As much as I wanted to put an optimistic spin on everything, though, I had to admit the tales of heartache and woe were bringing down my love-a-happy-ending mentality. That was to be expected, I guessed, until I managed some professional distance. Even the arrowheads had seemed interesting when I'd first started at the British Museum, but that had soon faded. By the end of this week, I fully expected to be back on my game.

Glancing at my watch, my eyes popped when I noticed it was already past five. Down in the cellar, I'd lost all track of time. After peeling off the plastic gloves, I smoothed my hair and climbed the stairs to the ground floor, blinking at the bright overhead light. Outside, darkness had fallen, and I could hear the pitter-patter of people rushing past on their way home.

'Heath?' I called, listening for any sign of movement. But the house was silent and still, so I clutched my coat even tighter around me and headed into the cold, misty night.
CHAPTER FOUR

'How was the first day? Fixed any broken hearts yet?' Mel leaned forward to slurp from an over-full martini glass, eyes peeping up at me under her thick blunt fringe.

I snorted. Yeah, right. I'd need to be a miracle worker to rectify some of the tales of woe I'd read earlier. Melancholy still rested on me like a weight, so I threw Mel a bright grin – and took a big sip of wine – to cheer myself up. Thank goodness my friend had been free tonight. If I'd had to go back to just Beano, well . . . it might have taken more than my favourite film to see the bright side of life. A whole bottle of Tesco's Finest red, probably.

'As first days go, it was quite good. It's nice to be in charge of something, you know?' I remembered Heath's words about going back to the City eventually, and a glimmer of hope shot through me.

'What about this boss of yours? Sounds like he's going to be a slave driver.' I'd told Mel about the fast-approaching opening deadline and how busy I was going to be up until mid-December.

'Well, he's . . .' My cheeks flushed as I pictured Heath's dark eyes and the way he filled out the blue sweater. 'He's nice,' I finished lamely.

'Nice?' Mel quirked an eyebrow. 'Right-o. Nice. You know, judging by the way you're blushing, I reckon someone's got a little crush on Mr Bossman.'

'Mel! Of course not. He's, like, some kind of City lawyer.' I knew what Mel thought of people who worked in the City. Filthy money-grubbing heartless swines, or something along those lines. 'Anyway, you know I'm in love with Gareth. Did I tell you about his postcard? He even put four x's.' I met her eyes triumphantly. And here she was saying he'd never come back to me.

Mel rolled her eyes. 'He's probably had enough of poverty and sees you as a free ride to come home to. Once he has his life set up again, I reckon you'll see the back of him faster than he can say konichiwa.'

Stung by my friend's harsh words, I dropped my head to examine my wine. There was no point arguing; she'd see the truth when Gareth stuck. 'I think konichiwa is Japanese. Gareth's in Vietnam.' I pushed back my chair. 'I'd better get going. I've got to make an early start tomorrow.'

'I'm sorry.' Mel looked repentant. 'It's just, I don't want to see you hurt again.'

I sighed as a wave of exhaustion swept over me. The cold and the endless shifting of heavy boxes packed with detritus from people's pasts were making my body, head, and soul ache. 'I know. I'll talk to you tomorrow.'

I shuffled out into the street, thankful it was just a ten-minute walk home. The misty night had turned into one of those rainy, chilly evenings where everything smelled of wet wool, and my knuckles turned ruddy red from the cold as I clutched the umbrella.

As people pushed past, I wondered if they all had stories of heartache and woe similar to what I'd read today. Well, sure, probably, I told myself. Everyone had some trouble in their life. But that didn't mean it had to define you, or colour your future. The most important bit was keeping your head up and staying positive.

When I got back to the flat, I was going to do just that. Finish watching An Affair to Remember, pour myself another large red, curl up with Beano, and dream of the moment when Gareth would walk through my door.
CHAPTER FIVE

The next two weeks passed in a blur as the museum opening loomed closer. Slowly but surely, I was making my way through the boxes, organising like a demon now that I had my system down pat. Ten days remained until the grand opening, and I still had five large boxes to get through – not to mention setting up the rooms. But as I'd opened the boxes, I'd managed to map out everything in my head. I was going to lay out each room as if someone still lived there: with the salt shaker on the kitchen table; the pants in the bedroom; the broken mirror in the living area. A mounted frame with a scan of the item's original letter would accompany every artefact. This would be a living, breathing house of heartache, and even the thought made me cringe.

Luckily, for every tale I'd read, I'd managed to construct an alternate reality. That broken mirror? Smashed by a flailing limb during a particularly energetic bout of sex. The glossy violin? Its owner had decided he preferred the clarinet. I knew I shouldn't be sullying the items' historical accuracy, even in my head. But if I didn't, I'd have probably dropped dead of depression by now. How did people deal with such sad stories?

Once I'd created my own little way of coping, I was actually enjoying the job. The hours flew by and before I knew it, it would be six and time to head back to Beano. I loved the feeling of ownership and responsibility, and I'd give anything to make a success of my position and be up for promotion. Things had been so crazy I'd barely seen Heath, except to run my ideas by him which, thankfully, he'd loved.

After setting aside the last item in a box – an old, worn bunny that put me in mind of the Velveteen Rabbit – I scrambled to my feet and stretched. Every muscle in my body throbbed, and my eyes itched from the dust. Yawning, I pushed my hair behind my ears and trudged up the cellar steps.

'Oh, hello.' Heath emerged from the kitchen as I reached the top. 'On your way home?'

'Yes. Just a few boxes left until we can start setting up, if you can believe that.' I was proud of how much I'd done so quickly. If I kept it up, surely he'd have to give me the curator post, right? It would be terrible if he brought in someone new after I'd worked so hard.

'I can't believe it, actually. That's brilliant, Rose.' I basked in Heath's impressed expression. 'Look, I've hardly seen you since you started here. Why don't you let me take you out for a bite? You've been locked in that cellar for weeks now. It's the least I can do.'

A flash of nerves hit as I pictured us sitting across from each other in a cozy restaurant, candles flickering in Heath's dark eyes. Despite my hesitation, though, I knew this would be a great opportunity to elaborate on my skills. Museum skills, of course. 'Um, okay.'

'Great. Just let me grab my coat and I'll be with you in a second.'

I nodded as he dashed up to his office. This would give me a chance to get to know Heath on a personal level, too. After all, he was hardly going to appoint me curator if we barely had a relationship.

He came back downstairs sporting a smart-looking black wool coat and a camel-coloured scarf draped around his neck in a casually cool way. Instantly I tugged at my own ragged scarf I'd picked up at a car boot sale, all too aware the cream had turned the unattractive colour of Beano-pee. It was definitely time to get rid of this thing.

'Let's go.' Heath put a hand on the small of my back and guided me through the door. Outside, the soft glow of streetlamps lit the night, and the air was cool and crisp. The hum of the city – voices, footfalls, and the whoosh of buses in the distance – surrounded us.

'Where are we headed?' I asked, after we'd walked for a minute or two in silence. As much as I wanted to fill up the empty space with chatter, every time I opened my mouth, the words seemed to dry up. What was it about this man that made me so nervous?

Heath turned toward me and grinned, and something stirred inside. God, he was almost another person when he smiled. 'Well, it's a cold night and I'm in the mood for something filling. There's a great curry house over in Whitechapel, if you don't mind a stroll?'

Curry house? Visions of candles and meaningful looks fled, and my tension eased. A busy curry house was just what I needed to feel comfortable with Heath. 'That would be fantastic.'

We chatted companionably about the museum and the remaining tasks as we wound our way down Brick Lane, past all the tourists chomping on cheap Indian, and over to Whitechapel Road.

'Almost there.' He pointed to a building with a queue snaking out the door. 'There's always a bit of a wait, but I promise it's worth it.'

My stomach rumbled loudly at the thought of food. Heath laughed then placed his gloved hand against my belly. Even through my thick coat, I could feel its warmth. I tilted my head up, surprised to see an almost-tender look in his eyes. Then, his usual mask slid into place, and he let his hand fall away.

'Table for two?' The maitre d' asked a few minutes later, leading us into a buzzing restaurant packed with happy diners laughing, eating, and chatting. The smell of fragrant spices drifting through the air was amazing, and I turned to Heath.

'Wow!' I took a deep breath in, filling my lungs and soul with the heady scent.

Heath nodded as he shrugged off his coat and settled into his seat. There was barely enough room to pull out the chair, the tables were packed so tightly. 'I know. I love this place.'

'So what do you usually get here?' I scanned the menu, totally out of my depth. Gareth and I had been more along the lines of French brasserie than fiery curries.

'Why don't we order a selection of dishes, so you can try lots of different things?' Heath said. 'Some have a lot of chillies. Do you like it hot?'

'Er . . . well, to be honest, I don't really know. I've never tried anything super spicy.' It wasn't exactly romantic, was it? And with Gareth, I'd always wanted to be sure to end the evening in bed, not the loo.

Heath raised his eyebrows. 'What? You've never tried something spicy?' The way he was staring at me, you'd almost think I'd said I never brushed my teeth. 'Well, you've come to the right place. They're known for their heat here. Don't worry, I'll take it easy on you this time. After all, I need you.'

We laughed and I felt myself relax even more. 'So, Heath, tell me a bit more about your grandmother.' I was curious about the woman behind the museum.

He dropped his eyes and I wondered if he was going to clam up. Then his shoulders heaved in a sigh. 'I miss her,' he said finally. 'She took me in after my mother . . .' He shook his head, as if to clear a bad memory. 'Well, after my mother couldn't take care of me any longer.'

Yikes. Maybe that was what had turned him into such a sceptic? An image of Heath clasping the gold locket ran through my mind, and my brow furrowed. Where was that locket? I hadn't come across it in my cataloguing. It must be in one of the last few boxes I had yet to organise. 'How old were you?' I asked.

'Six.' The waiter put a plate of fluffy, steaming bread in front of us, and Heath tore it apart with a vengeance. 'Yes, I was only six. Gran took me in and raised me.'

'And have you kept in touch with your mum?' By the look on Heath's face, I'd probably overstepped the line on that question. I was here to impress him with my skills, not pry into past hurts. But I couldn't seem to stop myself.

Heath bit into the bread and chewed slowly, his eyes unreadable. Finally, he swallowed, and said: 'Mum would drop by every once in a while, when she had the time. Usually when she wanted to ask about Gran's will. I don't keep in touch with her anymore.'

'Is it drugs?' The words popped out and I clapped a hand over my mouth. God, I couldn't imagine what it would be like having an addict as a mother.

Heath gave a short barking laugh. 'No, it's not drugs, but she's just as addicted to her work. Mum owns a chain of pizza places. You know, ParteePizza.'

Wow. While they weren't known for their quality, ParteePizza had sprung up everywhere across the UK. There was practically one on every corner, and they were always mobbed after the pubs and clubs let out. Heath's mum owned ParteePizza? She must be rolling in it. So why was she so interested in the will? And how could she have given up caring for her son to focus on a business?

'I guess she had to work hard for that,' I said, trying to keep my tone neutral.

Heath's face twisted. 'Yeah. Hard. At first, I remember she'd drop me off at Gran's early in the morning, then pick me up when it was dark. I don't even remember spending time with her. Eventually, she just . . . decided it was better if I stayed with Gran until the business was set up. Well, I got through primary school, then secondary school, and then I moved away for uni. And Mum never came to get me again. Sure, she'd come by every once in a while and send us money, which Gran saved up for me. But Mum was always too busy to really get involved.'

'And you don't see her anymore?' I asked, breaking off a piece of bread.

Heath shook his head. 'She visited Gran about two years ago. I just happened to be dropping off some groceries at the same time. When I went inside, she was grilling Gran on the property value of the house, saying Gran should sign over power of attorney to her.' His eyes flashed. 'I sorted that out.'

I gulped, just imagining the angry words. How sad that a business – especially one like ParteePizza, which tasted more plastic than pizza – had come between mother and son. I thought of the locket again and the way Heath had just stood there, clutching it. If that had belonged to his mum, obviously he did still care about her.

'Oh good, here's the food.' The serious expression left Heath's face as a waiter set plate after plate of steaming, aromatic food in front of us. 'I can't believe you've let me blather on like this; I haven't talked so much in ages. Here I am, inviting you out to dinner to get to know you, and all I do is blab about myself.' He gave me a lovely lopsided smile, and I couldn't help grinning back.

I do have that effect on people – Gareth used to tell me I was the perfect listener. He would go on for hours about his hopes and dreams . . . okay, sometimes I wished he would ask me a question in return. And sure, his hopes and dreams could be a teeny bit boring, and I'd often resort to thinking about chocolate brownies. But it's not exactly romantic to interrupt someone spilling out their heart and ask them to be interested in you, is it?

'Now.' Heath spooned some chicken swimming in a red, yummy-smelling sauce onto my plate. 'Tell me about you. Where does your family live? Fill me in.'

I took a bite of meat, loving how the warmth and spice oozed down my throat and into my belly. This place wasn't dark and candle lit, and I had to shout to be heard. The man across from me was my boss, and already I could feel my lips burning from the spicy food. But somehow, it all just seemed right. And possibly even a touch romantic?

Get real, Rose, I told myself firmly. This was not romance. Now maybe if Heath leaned across the table and spooned some curry between my parted lips . . . my cheeks heated up as I envisaged the scene, and I coughed to clear the image. Heath glanced at me, eyebrows raised.

'Too hot for you?' he asked.

I shook my head. 'No. It's fine. Just fine.'
CHAPTER SIX

The next morning, I made a beeline for the unpacked boxes in the corner of the cellar. It was just after seven, and Heath usually didn't get in until eight. I'd been thinking about it all night, and if that locket really had belonged to his mother and he'd been gripping it with such intensity, he must want a resolution – whether he realised it or not. Today, I was determined to track down that piece of jewellery and find any clues to its ownership. I glanced around at the stacks of items, neatly filed and catalogued. All these objects might be the products of broken relationships, but maybe one story could end on a positive note.

I pictured the tearful reunion between mother and son, liquid spilling from their eyes as they wrapped their arms around each other.

'I'm so sorry I let you go,' his mother would say. 'I don't know how I ever thought my work was more important. Nothing is more important than family.'

They'd both turn to me, and Heath would take my hands in his. 'Rose, we can never thank you enough for bringing us back together.' Then, he'd draw me against his solid chest, and . . .

'Rose!'

My head snapped up to see Heath silhouetted against the light shining down from upstairs. 'Oh, hi.' It figured he'd be early the one day I wanted to poke around in his past. My cheeks coloured as he thumped toward me, his tall frame seeming even bigger in the tiny basement confines.

'What are you doing here? I thought since I didn't get you home until late, you might come in at a reasonable hour for once.' He shook his head. 'And here you are, getting stuck in already. I'm really lucky to have found someone as dedicated as you.'

So you'll give me that curator position when you leave, I asked inside my head? If I did manage to engineer a mother-son reunion, he'd be so happy, he'd probably give me a job here for life.

'It's my pleasure.' I smiled up at him. 'Thanks again for last night.' We'd lingered over dinner as long as we could, laughing as I shared my tales of terror from the British Museum. Heath's cool, staid exterior had thawed, and he'd been relaxed and easy to talk to. He'd walked me back to the Tube, before heading off to . . . God, I still didn't know where he lived. Funny, after the initial outburst about his childhood, I hadn't learned much else about Heath's life.

'Right, well, I'll be upstairs if you need me.'

I nodded as he went back up the steps, pausing until the floorboards above me stopped creaking and I was certain he'd gone to his office. Then, I selected a box and carefully combed through its contents. No locket there. Onto the next one . . . still nothing. I was about to get seriously annoyed when a flash of something metallic caught my eye. Afraid it would disappear back into the box's depths, I reached in gingerly, relief flooding through me as my fingers closed around a thin chain. Swinging from the end was a slightly tarnished gold heart-shaped locket. Holding my breath, I clicked it open.

Inside was a photo of a woman who had Heath's dark eyes and regal nose. Or rather, Heath had her eyes and nose. She was beautiful, smiling into the camera playfully. And in her arms, looking up with adoration and the beginnings of a grin on his chubby face, was a toddler I assumed was Heath. With such a striking resemblance, this had to be Heath's mum – but just to be sure, I'd look her up on the ParteePizza website. As the owner, there was bound to be a photo of her there. Then, I'd . . . well, I'd figure out what to do next. Somehow.

Excitement filtered into me and I shoved the locket down deep into the pocket of my jeans for safekeeping. I couldn't wait to get this happy ending underway.

For the first time since starting this job, I left the museum promptly at five. There was only one box left to catalogue anyway, and I could finish it tomorrow morning before Heath and I began setting up rooms in the afternoon. Heath had ordered in all the extra furniture we'd need to make everything look genuine, and I couldn't wait to see my idea come to life. Now, though, I wanted to get home and track down Heath's mum on the internet. My heart pounded at the thought of wiping away the hurt and resentment on Heath's face whenever he spoke of her. This would be a new beginning for them both.

The Tube ride home passed in a blur and before I knew it, I was turning the key in the lock of my flat. Beano pressed against my legs and I absently picked him up, breathing in his kitty scent as I poured food into a dish. Then, with Beano busy crunching and munching his tuna treats, I flicked on my ancient laptop. As it rattled to life, I dug into my pocket and drew out the gold locket, popping it open again. God, Heath's mother was gorgeous, I thought, staring at her face. Hopefully she hadn't changed much in the past few years so I'd be able to recognise her now.

I opened the internet browser and typed in "ParteePizza", holding my breath as the corporate website filtered onto the screen, along with a giant photo of a pizza dripping with cheesy goodness. My stomach rumbled in response.

Welcome to ParteePizza, the UK's biggest and fastest growing pizza chain . . . and the creator of the ParteePizzaPotato!

I shuddered at the thought of pizza and potatoes, but my traitorous tummy let out an enormous groan. Right, enough about potatoes, I thought, scanning the site. Surely there must be something about the corporation . . . ah, here it was. I clicked the "About Us" tab, then followed the link to "Founder and CEO", my heart pounding as I waited for my super-slow internet connection.

Finally, a photo appeared on the screen: a woman in her mid-fifties, dressed in a sharp suit, with dark glossy hair cut short in a bob. Although her lips curved upwards, I couldn't actually say she was smiling. For a second, I wasn't even sure this pulled-together woman was the laughing, carefree one in the locket. Then, I looked into her eyes – those dark eyes that were exactly like Heath's – and I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, it was her.

Liz Hough, Founder and CEO of ParteePizza, the words underneath her photo said. Hmm. Hough? Heath's surname was Rowan. Maybe she had remarried?

I scanned the accompanying biography. Businesswoman of the Year, Honorary Business Degree from Bristol University, member of the Board of Directors for children's charity KidCollection . . . My heart leaped. If she was helping a children's charity, that must mean something. Perhaps it was a way of placating her guilt? I had to find a way to bring the two of them together.

Liz prides herself on her friendly and open approach to patrons of ParteePizza. Do you have something to say? Email now: lizhough@ParteePizza.co.uk, and she'll respond within twenty-four hours.

Yeah, right. I tapped my fingernails against my teeth as I read the text on the screen. I wasn't so naive to think it was actually Liz responding to those emails. If I did send a message, would it even make it through? Most likely, some corporate lackey would just delete it as coming from a crazy person. No, I couldn't chance it on an email. I needed to see Liz myself, and tell her about Heath and the locket in person.

I clicked back over to the "About Us" tab, looking for the address of the corporate headquarters. Ah, they were out in Hounslow, in suburbia-land near Heathrow. Maybe I could pop into work tomorrow morning, unpack the remaining box, then tell Heath I had an important appointment. If everything went to plan (Liz would agree to see me, after I told her why I was there, right?), I could be back in East London by lunch-time. A warm glow filled me as I thought of the two of them patching things up after years of hard feelings, mother and son together again.

Full of hope, I couldn't help clicking over to my inbox. Maybe Gareth had emailed? I hadn't got a message from him since, well . . . I couldn't actually remember. As nice as the postcard and all those x's had been, it hadn't said anything. Once again, though, my email was only popular with companies offering penis enlargements.

Oh, well. Gareth was off doing his thing, and that was fine – our happy ending would come sooner or later. Right now, I had two other broken hearts to fix.
CHAPTER SEVEN

I awoke the next morning to Beano sitting on the bedside table, tail thumping impatiently. As much as I enjoyed another presence in the flat, sometimes I wished that presence wanted something other than food.

I'd tossed and turned all night as doubts crept in. Was it really such a great idea to turn up at ParteePizza unannounced? Maybe I should call first . . . Finally, I'd decided to see how I felt in the light of day. Perhaps I just needed time to formulate the perfect words to heal the rift.

Yawning, I reached out to stroke Beano's soft fur. It was still dark outside, and I could tell by the bedroom's frigid temperature that the day would be freezing. After a quick shower, I stood in front of my closet, wondering what to wear. I was still as uncertain about my plan as I'd been the night before, but if I did decide to head to ParteePizza later, I'd need to look professional yet compassionate – something that screamed do-gooder, not lunatic.

Finally, I chose a soft grey flannel pencil skirt I hadn't worn since Gareth had left, pairing it with a red polo neck. The red was cheery against the muted colour of the skirt, and the outfit looked pulled together yet upbeat. After jamming on my black pumps, I twisted my hair into a chignon, jabbed on some mascara and blush, then grabbed my trusty turquoise coat and pushed out into the cold grey London morning.

Almost an hour later, I swung through the door of the museum. It was still early, but already the lights were on and the scent of coffee hung in the air.

'Honey, I'm home!' I called out, grinning.

'Thank you for coming.' Heath's voice drifted down from his office. Oh, oops. I hadn't realised anyone else was here – Heath must have arranged a breakfast meeting with someone.

A man in a dark suit with a briefcase was making his way down the stairs, Heath following behind. I nodded as the man went out the door, clocking Heath's anxious expression with dismay.

'What's going on? Who was that?' I bit my lip. Whoever it was, I could see that it certainly wasn't something good.

Heath sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. 'That was a council member. Apparently, even though I'd been assured our planning permission for the museum would go through in plenty of time, it's been held up for some reason or other.'

'What does that mean? We might not be able to hold the opening on the fifteenth?' My heart dropped as I thought of the many journalists and officials Heath had already invited – all for that specific date. The Christmas season was so busy that if the opening didn't come off as planned, it would be almost impossible to reschedule before New Year's.

'I hope not.' Heath's tone was grim, and his lips tightened. 'If you can think of any way to hurry along a group of councillors, please let me know. For God's sake, there's only a week until our opening. Guess we'll have to cross our fingers and hope for the best.' He shrugged on his jacket. 'Right, I'm off to the bank. I'll see you around lunch-time.'

I nodded and watched him go, my mind racing. Could I think of a way to hurry along the councillors? All it needed was someone influential; someone with a bit of business clout . . . someone like Heath's mum. As a big businesswoman, she could put pressure on the council somehow, right? ParteePizza did have quite a few outlets in East London.

Yes, this would be perfect. I'd tell her Heath still cared, and that assisting the museum would be the ideal way for them to make up again. It would, too – it'd show Heath his mother cared about more than money. No matter what had happened between them, she couldn't refuse this chance to get her son back again, I was sure. I might have been hesitant to head to ParteePizza earlier, but with the perfect opportunity for closure falling into my lap, I was certain now this happy ending was destined to be.

Adrenaline shot through me and I rushed out the door, hurrying along the street toward the Tube. If everything went smoothly, I could visit Heath's mum and be and back again before he even noticed I was gone.

Two hours and one major Tube delay later, I emerged from the Hounslow Tube station. The map I'd Googled told me ParteePizza's headquarters were nearby – thank goodness, because my pumps were killing me. Navigating through a gaggle of teenage mums and their prams, I trotted down the street, my heart beating fast. What if Heath's mum was out of the office? What if . . . no. I pushed away the flicker of doubt and took a deep breath. I'd come this far. There was no stopping now.

Ah, here it was. I paused in front of a metal and glass building, the windows emblazoned with the giant red and yellow ParteePizza logo. Smoothing down my skirt and jamming my curls back behind my ears, I fixed a confident smile on my face before opening the door.

'Hello,' I said brightly to the security man behind a desk. 'I'm here to see Liz Hough.'

He raised an eyebrow. 'Name?'

'Er, um, Rose. Rose Delaney.' God, why did I sound so unsure about my own name? Come on, Rose, I told myself sternly. Get it together. 'I don't have an appointment,' I added hastily, as he picked up the phone. 'It's, it's about her son. Heath.'

The security guard's other eyebrow flew up and he threw me an inquisitive look. 'Jess?' he said into the receiver. 'A lady is here to see Mrs Hough. No, no appointment. About Mrs Hough's son, she says. Heath.'

Silence fell, and my heart beat so strongly the vibrations almost knocked me off my feet.

'Okay, I'll send her up,' the man said finally, and a whoosh of relief swept through me. Major obstacle cleared! From now on, it would be smooth sailing.

'Top floor.' The security guard handed me a visitor's badge in the corporate colours (bonus, it matched my top) and motioned me toward the lift.

Okay, deep breaths, I told myself. Soon, I'd face Heath's mum and deliver the best news an estranged mother could dream of. I couldn't wait.

The lift dinged at its destination. I wiped my sweaty palms, then strode over to the receptionist's desk.

'I'm here to see Liz Hough? The CEO of ParteePizza?' Duh. I wanted to smack myself as soon as the words left my mouth. Of course the receptionist knew Liz was the CEO of bloody ParteePizza! I could see by the woman's condescending expression that she agreed I scored high on the idiot factor.

'Mrs Hough is ready for you,' the receptionist responded smoothly. 'Please go on in.' She pointed toward a foreboding oak door.

A swarm of butterflies circled in my gut as I approached. Should I knock before entering? Swing open the door and yell: 'I come bearing glad tidings?' Nervously, I rapped on the solid wood, ears twitching as a voice responded 'Come in'.

'Hello.' I cracked opened the door and tiptoed into the room, unsure what to expect. Decorated in soothing muted tones from beige to dusky pink, the office was a departure from the harsh oranges and reds the rest of the building was slathered in, and it calmed my nerves. Anyone who liked these colours couldn't be all bad, right?

Liz Hough swung away from the window, and my mouth dropped open at her resemblance to Heath. 'Hello,' she said in a clipped voice. 'Please take a seat.'

God, and they both spoke in that calm, controlled way. I lowered myself carefully onto a stiff leather sofa.

'So.' Liz settled into a scary-looking ergonomic chair behind her metal desk. 'You're here about my son. How much is it going to be, then?' Her flinty eyes met mine, and I blinked.

'Er, how much?' What?

'Yes.' Liz reached into a desk drawer and withdrew a cheque book. Flicking to a fresh cheque, she glanced up at me. 'Come on, now. You said it was about my son. You didn't have an appointment. I'm not daft – I know how these things work. What, did Heath spin you his tale of woe? Evil mummy CEO of ParteePizza who abandoned her son for a career? How much should I pay you so you don't tattle to the tabloids?'

My eyes popped and for a second, my mind went blank before racing at a hundred miles an hour. Holy. Crap! Heath's mum was going to pay me to stop her story from reaching the papers? That was the first thing she thought when someone wanted to see her about her son? Logically, I could understand why she might be worried. ParteePizza had built its image on jolly families, and having its CEO splashed across the news with such a negative story certainly wouldn't do the business any favours.

'No, no!' I forced a laugh. 'I'm not here for anything like that.' I caught sight of a photo on the corner of her desk – a dark-haired boy, nestled in Liz's arms and looking up at her like she was everything in the world to him. A dark-haired boy that wasn't Heath. My heart caught. Liz had moved on to a new family. It might be too late for Heath to have that growing up, but he should have a mother in his life now. Determination pumped through me.

'I'm here because I know Heath would like to see you.' My words echoed in the silent room.

Liz tilted her head. 'Really. And how exactly do you know that? The last time I saw my son, I believe his words were something along the lines of "see you when hell freezes over". Or "go to hell". Something with hell.' She laughed, but I caught a flash of pain in her eyes.

Digging into my bag, I drew out the locket and handed it over to her, watching as recognition slid over her face when she popped it open.

'Oh.' Her eyes softened and for a split second, I caught a glimpse of that happy woman in the locket.

'I've seen Heath staring at this, over and over.' Well, maybe not over and over, but still. 'He obviously cares about you.' I paused for a second, choosing my next words carefully. 'And he needs your help. The Museum of Broken Hearts – your mother's museum, as you know – is scheduled to open the fifteenth of December. But there have been a few hold-ups with the planning permission, and it could be delayed. It would mean a lot to Heath if you could help him push the permission through . . . ' My voice trailed off as the tender look on Liz's face morphed into anger faster than I could say "extra cheese".

'That bloody Museum of Broken Hearts!' Liz spat out. 'Most delusional idea my mother has ever had. I wanted that building to launch our flagship East London branch of ParteePizza, you know – we even had the designs all drawn up, ready to go. But oh no, Mother had to go down the sentimental route once again.'

Liz got to her feet and strode over to the window, her back to me. 'I can't believe Heath is going along with it. That boy should know better, after all his training in the City. Looks like he's inherited his grandmother's sentimental streak.' Her voice rang with derision, and I swallowed hard. This was not how the conversation was supposed to go. Given what Heath had told me, I'd known the building was a potential source of conflict between them, but I'd just thought . . . well, I'd thought once I mentioned the locket and Heath's emotions, that would pave the way.

'Look, you might not be the museum's biggest fan, but it would mean a lot to Heath if you could help,' I said. 'He's been working so hard to make the museum a success.' There must be a heart somewhere inside this woman!

'Well.' Liz waved a hand in the air dismissively. 'I do have some influence with the council after all my investment in the area, but Christmas is a very busy time of year. I don't think giving even a second to help that museum is a good use of my time.'

'But what about giving a second to help your son?' The words were out of my mouth before I had a chance to stop them.

Liz leaned toward me. 'If Heath does still want me in his life – and if my help means so much to him – why hasn't he asked me himself?'

I gulped. 'Um . . .'

She pushed back from the desk and got to her feet. 'Exactly. Thank you for coming. Now, if you don't mind . . .' Liz looked pointedly toward the door.

I stared at her, frantically trying to think of something to say. But words failed me, so I grabbed the locket off the desk and turned to go.
CHAPTER EIGHT

Early the next morning, I hurried to the museum. The streets were dark and empty with streetlamps casting eerie halos in the thick fog. I shivered, quickening my pace. This was Jack the Ripper territory, and at moments like this, it was all too easy to imagine.

Forget Jack, I told myself. Just think of the day ahead. Setting up exhibits was my favourite part of the whole process – when the hard work of cataloguing and organising ended, and the items really came to life.

After returning from ParteePizza yesterday (thankfully, before my boss had come back from the bank), Heath and I had positioned all the furniture he'd ordered in, making the house look lived in and real. Today, I'd place the artefacts in strategic positions in each room to make it look like they'd been left there by their owners. Above each object on the wall – in tarnished frames I'd tracked down from an antiques dealer at Spitalfields Market – would be an accompanying letter, detailing the item's story. As museum-goers filtered through the rooms, they'd almost feel like they had wandered into the owners' lives . . . or so I hoped. Now I'd see if my concept actually worked, and I was practically shaking with nerves and excitement.

But all of that would come to nothing before Christmas unless we could get the proper planning permission to open the museum. Poor Heath. Although he hadn't said anything while we worked yesterday, I could sense the tension in the air. I'd longed to throw him an encouraging word – to be able to say that his mother was on the case – but the way yesterday's conversation had unfolded, I suspected Liz would rather cut off a finger with a pizza slicer than help this museum succeed. I could hardly believe she hadn't jumped at the chance to make amends. Maybe she just needed more time to psych herself up?

Sighing, I unlocked the museum door and flicked on the lights. No more cold cellars for me; yesterday, we'd brought up each and every neatly labelled item, all ready to go. I grabbed the collection for the child's bedroom and made my way up the stairs.

I was just about to place a well-loved teddy on the bed when I heard the door downstairs opening. Shaking my head to clear it, I noted with surprise the skies outside had lightened. Dust motes danced in the sunlight streaming in through the large sash window. I'd been so absorbed in getting the bedroom just right, I'd barely noticed time passing.

I stood back now, smiling as I observed my handiwork. Almost all of the items had been positioned, and the space looked as if a young one had just popped out to play. I'd even left the bed covers slightly rumpled, like someone had been lying there. Running my eyes over the objects of the broken-hearted, I couldn't help shivering. Now that the room was set up, the items seemed even more poignant; more real.

'Wow!' Heath appeared in the doorway, his cheeks red with cold. 'Brilliant job in here. It looks fantastic.'

A feeling of pride swept over me. 'It does, doesn't it? I'm going to do the adult bedroom this afternoon, then the lounge and kitchen tomorrow. Then, all we need to do is mount the frames, fill in any missing gaps, and we're ready to go.'

Heath's face twisted. 'Except for the bloody planning permission from the bloody council.'

Oops. In my excitement, I'd forgotten about that. I gnawed on my lower lip, thinking maybe I could plan another visit to ParteePizza. There must be something I could say to convince Liz to help.

But a few hours later, just as I was trying to toss a tatty trilby onto a hat stand, Heath burst into the bedroom. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes twinkling. I'd never seen him so revved up.

'We got it!' He took my arm and spun me around. 'We got the planning permission!'

'Oh, fantastic!' I couldn't help laughing as I lurched off balance and tumbled onto the bed. 'What happened?' It must have been his mum! A thrill of happiness mixed with nerves went through me. Had she told Heath I'd paid her a visit? I risked a glance up at him, but his face told me nothing.

Heath shrugged and collapsed onto the bed beside me, his shoulders sagging with relief. 'Who can understand the mysterious ways of the council? All I know is that they rang me up just now and told me everything's been approved. Guess my grovelling yesterday with the councillor worked.' He got up and pulled me to my feet. 'Forget all this for now. Let's get a drink to celebrate.'

I glanced around the room. 'Okay, I guess I can. I'm almost done here, anyway, and we have another week to put the finishing touches on things.'

Heath met my eyes, a slow smile spreading across his normally serious face. 'Thank you for working so hard. I couldn't have done it without you.'

My cheeks flushed and I jabbed a curl away from my face. 'Er, that's okay.' I almost said he should be thanking his mum, but I snapped my mouth closed just in time. Had Liz hurried things along? And if so, why hadn't she said anything to Heath? Didn't she want to make up with her son?

'Are you okay, Rose?' Heath gave me a puzzled look, and I realised I'd been shaking my head back and forth as I tried to puzzle out recent events.

'Sure, sure,' I mumbled. 'Now come on, let's go get that drink.' God knows I needed one.
CHAPTER NINE

'I think we're all set.' I turned and smiled at Heath as the two of us completed our walk-through of the museum. It was almost eight o'clock the night before the opening, and the two of us had been working our fingers to the bone the past few days to get everything sorted. There were always those last-minute details that took up so much time – clocks on the wall, missing vases, fresh flowers, and candles – not to mention dealing with umpteen visits from the caterers and even a few eager members of the press who wanted to interview Heath before the opening.

The rap of the doorknocker made me jerk, and Heath raised an eyebrow. 'Who on earth could that be?' He looked at his watch, then thumped toward the entrance. 'Not another reporter, surely.'

I heard the creak of the door as it swung open, then Heath's startled voice: 'What are you doing here?'

'I couldn't make your grand opening tomorrow, so I wanted to come have a look at the premises tonight. My goodness, you've been busy.' The controlled tone of none other than Liz Hough floated through the air toward me, and my heart jumped. Could this be the grand reunion I'd been dreaming of? Right here, right now? I'd been so busy this week I hadn't had a chance to even think more about Liz and if she'd been behind pushing through the planning permission. If she was here now, it must have been her, right?

A smile lifted the corners of my mouth and warmth rushed through me. I couldn't wait for the two of them to patch things up. Scooting over to a settee in the corner of the lounge, I grabbed an old magazine from the nineteen-fifties and flipped through the pages, trying to look like I wasn't listening even though every bit of me was tuned to the voices in the foyer.

'Well, aren't you going to show me around?' Liz asked.

Heath let out a puff of air. Uh-oh. I knew that puff of air, and it wasn't a good sign. I could just picture the expression on his face, eyebrows knit together and brow crinkled.

'Why?' he asked. 'So you can make fun of Gran's idea? Tell me how I'm wasting my life here? Size up the building again?'

I caught my breath at the fury in his voice.

Liz laughed without a trace of happiness. 'If I wanted this museum to flop, I wouldn't have got in touch with the council to approve the planning permission so quickly, now, would I?'

The old house fell into silence, and I strained to make out what might be happening. Had Heath fallen into his mother's arms with appreciation? I got up off the settee and tiptoed over to the doorway, peeping around the corner.

Oh.

No hug. Nothing. The two of them were standing stock-still in the entrance, facing each other like a Mexican stand off.

Finally, Heath spoke. 'How did you find out about the planning issues, Mother? Surely you haven't lowered yourself to hiring a private investigator to check into my affairs.'

Liz gave that same hollow laugh again. 'Private investigator? I've better things to do with my time. No, I had a little visit from your assistant, Rose, who took the liberty of filling me in. One call to the councillor reminding him of all the investment ParteePizza has made in this area, along with the promise to open up a few more franchises, and he fell in line with the museum soon enough.'

'What? Rose got in touch with you?' I could practically see the wheels spinning in Heath's head, and I ducked back inside the room and leaned against the wall, holding my breath as a smile spread across my face. He had to be happy I'd taken initiative.

'Yes, she's quite the assistant. Not only worried about the business, but also about you. And our relationship.'

'Our relationship?' Heath's voice was dangerously low and my grin started to fade.

'Well, our lack of a relationship.' Liz let out a puff of air similar to Heath's. 'Look, don't you think it's time to put everything behind us? And maybe try to get to know each other again?'

I held my breath. Please say yes, I chanted inside my head. Please say yes.

'I know Gran was very important to you, Heath,' Liz continued. 'I understand you want to honour her wishes. But you don't have to throw away your whole life on this museum because you think it's what she wanted. Do it for a few months, sure, and get it out of your system. But then move on. I can't imagine the museum will be financially viable.'

Uh-oh. I winced. She'd started off fine – Heath had only planned to do this for a few months, anyway – but now I sensed she was heading into dangerous territory.

'Once you start making a loss, we can turn this place around quickly. Give it a new identity as the premier ParteePizza East London destination restaurant. You can work for me. I could use a good corporate lawyer.'

Oh no. My heart hit the floor. I'd thought Liz helping would show Heath she'd moved past money as the number one factor in her life. But her last words – whether she'd meant them that way or not – only served to show ParteePizza held the top spot in her heart.

'And you want to start again.' Heath's voice was colder than I'd ever heard, and I could just imagine the thunderous look on his face. 'Tell me this, Mother. Why in God's name would I want to start again with you, when it's obvious nothing has changed? You only care about your bloody business. That's why you've come by, isn't it? Nothing to do with me – you want to make sure to get your hands on the premises when the museum flops. And helping me with the proper planning? Was that just to get me on side, to butter me up?'

Liz snorted. 'My, my, you have quite the suspicious mind. I have to admit, I was hoping you'd see I'm not all bad, Heath. I do understand you wanted to do something for Gran. But this museum' – I could hear the disdain in her voice – 'is a collection of other people's rubbish. You're clever enough to see that. ParteePizza is a much more economical use of space.'

I wrapped my arms around myself, cringing at the harsh words. This was not how the reunion was supposed to go down. Biting my lip, I prayed things would somehow turn around.

But Heath just laughed bitterly. 'Goodbye, Mother. And please don't bother dropping by again. The less help you give us, the better.'

All I could hear was the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, then the sound of Liz's high heels clicking on the floorboards. And then, with a sense of finality, the door thudded closed.

'What the hell were you thinking?'

I jumped as Heath appeared before me. Risking a glance at his face, I drew back at the anger flashing in his eyes. 'I'm so sorry. I saw you looking at the locket a few weeks ago, and I thought maybe it was time for you to patch things up with your mum. Or, er, she tried to patch things up with you.'

Heath shook his head with an expression of disbelief. 'Relationship meddling aside, what on earth gave you the right to tell my mother about our issue with planning permission? That's confidential information. I should have you dismissed right now.'

What? I sucked in my breath, my heart beating so quickly I felt lightheaded. He wouldn't do that, would he? God, I'd never even stopped to think what might happen if he didn't approve of my . . . interference.

'Please don't fire me,' I said, trying to keep the tremble from my voice. My face was hot and beads of sweat were breaking out on my upper lip, even though every bit of me felt cold. 'I'm so sorry. I was only trying to help.'

Heath shook his head and his shoulders heaved in a sigh. 'I'm not going to fire you, Rose. Even if I wanted to, I need your help for the opening tomorrow. But I don't need your help with the business behind the museum – and certainly not with my mum. Some things can't be fixed.'

I nodded, my eyes filling with tears. I couldn't believe how things had turned out. Mother and son were even further apart than ever. Was Heath right? Were some things beyond fixing? My eyes scanned all the objects in the room, detritus of broken relationships and relics of smashed hearts, hopes, and dreams.

Heath's dark eyes locked on mine. 'Do what you must to keep the museum functioning. Just stay out of my personal life.' Each cold word, practically dripping with ice, was like a jab to my heart. He waved a hand in the air. 'I don't have time for this. I'll see you tomorrow.' I watched as he left the room and thumped up the stairs to his office.

I sagged onto the settee, my heart feeling heavier than ever. Not only had I messed things up with Heath and his mum, but I had a feeling Heath would never open up to me again. And I could forget about that promotion. For God's sake, the man had almost fired me! I drew my legs to my chest, wanting to disappear.

The Museum of Broken Hearts was the perfect place for me right now.
CHAPTER TEN

'Everything looks great,' I said to Heath the next evening, taking in the long-stemmed glasses and bottles of champagne chilling on white-draped tables. Despite the season, the only sign of Christmas was a few sprigs of mistletoe and holly I'd managed to smuggle in. It wasn't festive, but the museum was definitely ready to face the public.

Dressed in a dark suit with an expensive-looking silk tie, Heath looked pretty great, too, although I managed to keep that thought to myself. We'd spent all day checking and double-checking the exhibits, liaising with the caterers, and making sure everything tonight went according to plan – and we'd barely spoken, besides the obligatory business exchanges. I longed to claw off the mask and uncover the Heath I'd seen behind it, but he was keeping me firmly at arm's length. Not that I could blame him.

Now, it was almost seven o'clock, and I'd changed into my best party dress, a deep pink crushed-velvet number that hugged my body before falling in soft lines to just above my knee. Whenever I'd worn it, Gareth had always said I looked like a Titian painting. My heart twisted when I thought of him. In my many emails, I'd told him the big opening was today, harbouring hope he'd at least respond to wish me good luck. But when I'd checked this morning, there'd been nothing. Not even penis spam!

Lying in bed last night with Beano curled around my head like a kitty hat, Heath's words had echoed in my mind. Some things can't be fixed. Were Gareth and I one of those things? Did I really want a happy ending with him, or did I just want a happy ending? Maybe not everything could have a positive resolution. Maybe some things, like Heath and his mum, were just too far apart. Finally, after tossing and turning for hours, I'd managed to drop off to sleep around three.

Thank goodness I'd plastered on loads of concealer to hide the bags under my eyes, I thought, peering into an old, cracked mirror in the hallway. Heath appeared in the reflection behind me, and I swung around, cheeks flushing as I met his steady gaze.

'Ten to seven. Almost time.'

I nodded. 'Um, Heath? I'm, you know, really sorry about yesterday.' I was desperate to clear the air before the night began.

Heath sighed, and his eyes softened. 'I know you are, Rose, and I know you were only trying to help. Hell, you did help with the planning issue. I can't believe you actually went to see my mother, though.' He shook his head. 'You really did want us to play happy families, didn't you?'

Relief flooded through me that he was returning to the man I'd come to know, not that horribly stiff Robot Heath. 'I'm sorry,' I said again.

He reached out and touched my arm. 'I know. Look, just . . .' Heath broke off, an embarrassed expression on his face.

'What?'

'Thank you for caring that much,' he said. 'I was furious at what you'd done, but it's been ages since someone tried to do something like that for me . . . despite the way you went about it.' He shot me a mock-stern look and I dropped my head, breathing in his cookie scent. Memories of my daydreams shot through my mind, and I could feel my cheeks go even hotter. 'Rose—'

'Rose?' The voice of my best friend made me jump. I shook my head to clear it, noticing Heath looked as dazed as I felt.

'Oh!' Mel came into the corridor where we were standing, her gaze flitting back and forth between us. 'I'm not interrupting anything, am I?'

'No, of course not,' I said hastily. 'Come in, come in. Welcome to the Museum of Broken Hearts. You're the first one here.' It was so good to see her. With my crazy work schedule for the past few weeks, I'd barely had time for anything other than a few rushed conversations here and there. 'Mel, this is Heath, the curator. Heath, this is my best friend, Mel.'

Watching the two of them shake hands, I could tell by the expression on Mel's face that she liked him right away, despite what she always said about City folk.

'I wanted to come early before the place got packed out,' she said. Turning to Heath, she shot him a megawatt smile. 'My friend has been so busy, I've barely seen her.'

'Sorry about that.' Heath grinned back and a small pang of jealousy shot through me at their easy interaction. I shoved it away – why on earth was I feeling jealous? 'But I have to say, Rose has been invaluable. I couldn't have done it without her.' He rested a hand on my shoulder and smiled down at me, and my tummy took a funny turn.

'It's been lovely to meet you, but I'm afraid I must go check on the caterers before the hoards arrive. Hopefully we'll have a chance to chat later.' Heath smiled again, then strode off into the kitchen.

'Well?' Mel asked.

'Well, what?'

'Oh, for goodness' sake. I knew you had the hots for him, and the expression on your face tells me I was right. Looks like he has a thing for you, too.'

'Shhh!' I hissed. The last thing I needed was for Heath to overhear her juvenile declarations.

Mel shook her head. 'I haven't seen you look like that since the beginning of the Gareth days.' She snorted. 'How is the world traveller, anyway?'

I shrugged. 'Fine, I guess. I haven't heard much from him lately. And Mel, Heath and I are just colleagues. That's all.' That's what I'd been telling myself, anyway, despite the strange things that happened in my gut each time he was around.

'Sure, sure. And Santa Claus is really the Queen.' Mel rolled her eyes. 'Look, I'd better let you get to work. I'll catch up with you later.' She motioned toward the foyer, now crammed with people jostling to hang up their coats. Pasting on a bright smile, I scurried over to welcome them in.

An hour later, the museum was swarming with people. Journalists, politicians, and representatives from arts organisations were jammed into the building, all ooing and awing over the unique concept and the tales behind the objects. My mouth was dry from answering so many questions, and my cheeks hurt from smiling. Every once in a while, I'd catch Heath's eye from across the room. I could see by his smile he was pleased with how the night was unfolding. He should be – if the admiring noises were anything to go by, the Museum of Broken Hearts was a hit.

I was right in the middle of giving a reporter from The Star a tour of the kitchen when there was a tug at my elbow.

'Rose. You need to come with me,' Mel hissed.

'I'm just speaking to this gentleman,' I said, furrowing my brow. What on earth was she doing?

'No, you need to come with me now.' She gave the reporter an apologetic look. 'Sorry.'

He raised both hands. 'No need to apologise. I've got everything I need, anyway.'

I nodded at him as Mel dragged me through the crowd in the foyer and toward the entrance. 'What's going on?' I whispered, trying to keep my voice low.

Instead of answering, Mel just swung open the door. And there in the street – with an armful of red roses – was Gareth.
CHAPTER ELEVEN

My mouth dropped open.

'What is he doing here?' A tsunami of shock and disbelief swept over me.

'I asked him the same thing.' The set of Mel's lips showed she was anything but impressed with Gareth's sudden reappearance. 'He turned up at the door and tried to come in, but I told him it was best if he waited here and I'd go get you.'

'Thanks, Mel.' I touched her arm, grateful she'd given me a chance to deal with his surprise return in privacy. Well, as much as any street in London could be private. 'Wow. I can't believe he's back.'

'Yeah, me neither. You all right?'

I drew in a deep breath. 'I guess so.'

'Okay. I'm going inside. Come find me if you need me.'

I nodded, then took a few tentative steps toward Gareth. His hair was longer than it had been when he'd left, and he looked like he'd lost some weight. He'd always been rangy, but now he was downright skinny. Heath's solid frame flashed through my mind, and confusion filled me. Wasn't this what I wanted: Gareth coming home, the big romantic gesture, the blissful ever after? So why didn't I feel happy?

Gareth's face lit up when he spotted me. 'Rosie!' He rushed toward me, sweeping me into his arms. A thorn from a rose pricked my cheek and I drew back quickly.

'I've missed you so much. I couldn't bear to spend Christmas away from you.' He put his lips on mine and pressed against me enthusiastically.

Just go with it, I told myself, despite my stinging cheek and freezing bare arms. Here I was, being kissed on an East London street in the glow of the streetlamps right before the holidays, by a man I'd been longing to hear from for months . . .

I pulled back. 'Did you really miss me?' If he had, wouldn't he have emailed?

'Oh Rosie, Rosie.' Gareth tugged a curl. 'You know I did. I thought about you each and every day.' He pecked my lips again, and I couldn't help noticing his felt dry and rough. Could I stand another Twelve Days of Chapped Lips?

'How about we go inside, you show me this museum you've been working on,' he continued, obviously not noticing my lack of response, 'and then we can go home. I've really missed a proper bed and a shower without roaches.'

'Home?' I repeated lamely.

'Yes, home. Our home.' Gareth smiled and put an arm around my waist, squeezing me closer.

A jet of anger hit me. Our home? I was the one who'd covered all the expenses for the past year while Gareth had travelled. And now that I thought about it, it hadn't been just for that year. I'd been paying our bills for quite some time before he'd left, too. Not to mention all the cooking, cleaning . . . I could go on. And now Gareth thought he could rock up with some roses, give me a kiss, and everything would go back to normal?

'No,' I said in a small voice.

Gareth's grip on me loosened. 'Sorry, hon, what?'

I cleared my throat. 'I said, no. No, you're not coming home with me.'

His jaw almost hit the pavement. 'But, but, I have nowhere else to go,' he stammered. 'And I got you roses.'

I shook my head. Had he really thought giving me flowers would make up for everything he'd done? Or rather, hadn't done. As much as I wanted to blame him, I had to admit that just a few weeks ago, turning up out of the blue with a bouquet probably would have been enough for me to run off home with him. So what had changed?

My time at the Museum of Broken Hearts, surrounded by dozens of objects with sad histories, was bound to burst my romantic bubble a bit. But it was more than that. Seeing Heath with his mum had made me start to wonder if sometimes, people couldn't – or even shouldn't – be brought back together, for a variety of reasons. Not everything deserved a happy ending, and perhaps my relationship with Gareth was one of them.

I breathed in the cold air, noticing tiny flakes falling from the dark sky.

'Goodbye, Gareth.' As I turned to go, an overwhelming feeling of relief swept through me, and I knew beyond a doubt I'd made the right decision. I hadn't actually wanted Gareth back; I'd just wanted a fairy-tale conclusion.

'Wait. Rose, wait!' Gareth's footsteps echoed in the street. Hurriedly, I pushed into the museum, relishing the noise and warmth of the crowd.

'Rose.' Gareth's voice followed me inside. 'Rose!'

The crowd went silent and I could see the reporter from The Star inching his way closer. I was going to kill Gareth if he made a scene here. He hadn't talked to me in months, and now he'd decided we belonged together? Mel was probably right – Gareth had seen me as a free ride, and he was desperate to keep it going.

Taking a deep breath, I turned to face my ex. Funny, even though he'd been gone for almost a year, I'd never thought of him in past tense.

'Gareth, please go.' My voice was calm and steady, and I met his eyes. They looked panicked, moving back and forth quickly across my face.

Gareth shook his head. 'No. No, I won't go. Because . . . because I want you, Rose. I need you. We belong together.'

'You might need me to pay your bills, but you certainly didn't need me enough to get in touch much over the past year.'

A murmur went up from the crowd, but I held Gareth's gaze.

'What, I have to prove how much I want you? Well then, I will.' He sank down to one knee as I watched incredulously. Sure he wouldn't—

'Rose Delaney, will you marry me?'

The hum from the audience grew louder, but I couldn't take my eyes off the spectacle of Gareth kneeling before me. What on earth was he doing? Well, whatever he was playing at, it wasn't going to work. All the over-the-top gestures in the world couldn't make up for the heartache and loneliness of the past year. How could I take him seriously when he'd pushed off with no goodbye, then barely even scrawled a postcard?

'Gareth, get up.' I sighed, shifting uncomfortably under the eyes of everyone around me.

Gareth shook his head again. 'No, I'm not moving from this spot. Not until you agree to marry me. We'll have a Christmas wedding. Tie the knot under the mistletoe.'

Oh, Lord. A few months ago, that very vision would have floored me. Now – coming from him – it just seemed ridiculous. A wave of exhaustion swept over me as all the early mornings, late nights, and anxiety of the recent past caught up with me.

'Fine. You stay here. I'm going.' And with that, I turned on my glittery pumps. The crowd parted to let me through, and I thudded up the stairs to Heath's office, closing the door and leaning against it, trying to breathe. A few minutes later, the buzz below resumed, and I tiptoed over to the chair behind Heath's desk and collapsed into it, tears pushing at my eyes. Bloody Gareth, turning up like that and making a scene. I'd worked so hard to make this opening professional and polished, and he had to pull a stunt like that.

There was a knock on the door, then Heath's muffled voice came through the thick wood. 'Can I come in?'

I smoothed my hair into place and quickly wiped beneath my eyes. If he'd come to fire me, I might as well get it over with. Not that I could blame him: first, I'd meddled with his personal life. Then, I'd caused a scene at the museum's most important event. I was hardly the ideal assistant curator, was I? Maybe I should have stuck with Ernie the Skull. At least I couldn't mess up his life. 'Sure. Come on in.'

The door opened and Heath's head appeared around the side. 'Everything okay?'

I laughed bitterly. 'Well, no. Not exactly. You saw what happened?' Maybe there was a chance he'd missed the spectacle. Maybe he'd been in the cellar . . . in the kitchen . . .

Heath nodded, and my heart sank. 'It was kind of hard not to. You're the talk of the party down there.'

'Oh, God.' I dropped my head into my hands. 'Look, I understand if you want to let me go,' I said through my fingers.

'Let you go? Why would I want to do that?' The floorboards creaked, and I lifted my hands from my face to see Heath standing right next to me. 'I should be thanking you. You've given the media a perfect story. It's not just another boring opening, like the hundreds of others they've been to this year. One reporter told me he was calling his article Broken-Hearted in the Museum of Broken Hearts. Your man has been down there doing interviews and photo shoots, too.' Heath's disdainful tone told me exactly what he thought of that.

I shook my head. Gareth had bounced back awfully quickly, hadn't he? He'd probably have a new girlfriend to sponge off of next week. 'He's not "my man",' I said. 'Not anymore, and not for ages. I'm so sorry, Heath.'

Heath put a hand on my back, and I shivered beneath its warmth. 'Look, don't worry about it.'

The room went silent and I rubbed my arms to try to erase the goose bumps that had appeared.

'Are you cold?' Heath shrugged off his jacket, then draped it around my shoulders. His wonderful cookie scent enveloped me and I breathed it in, my stomach doing that funny shifty thing again.

'Thank you,' I said, noticing my voice sounded more high-pitched than usual. I drew the fabric around me, then glanced up. Heath was staring down, his dark eyes full of that tender emotion I'd only glimpsed briefly before.

'I'm glad to hear you say that bloke isn't your man,' he said, eyes still locked on mine. 'Because . . .'

Before I knew it, Heath's lips were on mine and his arms had snaked around my waist, pulling me to my feet and up against him. And I realised in a heartbeat that this was what I wanted. No grand gestures – just a man, pure and simple, who I cared for.

And who cared for me, too.
CHAPTER TWELVE

'Good morning.' Heath's voice cut into my sleep daze. Cracking open a lid, I rolled over to face him, my lips lifting in a smile.

'Morning.' I rubbed my eyes. I couldn't believe I was here, beside him, in bed. Okay, maybe not in bed exactly, but in settee. Memories of last night flashed through my head: Gareth proposing; Heath coming up to the office; us kissing . . . then going downstairs once Gareth had buggered off, and answering countless questions from journalists until Mel had shooed them away.

When everyone had finally left, Heath and I collapsed onto the settee in the lounge. He'd pulled me into his arms again and we'd picked up right where we'd left off. We'd chatted and kissed some more, he'd drawn an old crocheted blanket over us, and the next thing I remembered was waking up in the middle of the night, with his arms around me and my head tucked into the crook of his neck. It had been a perfect fit.

Now, in the grey light of a London morning, he looked beyond sexy, with a light sprinkling of stubble on his chin. I hated to think what was sprinkling my chin – most likely drool. The way Heath was staring at me, though, he didn't seem to mind.

'I'm going to run out and grab a few dailies to see what they've said about the museum.' Heath got up and stretched, and I couldn't help admiring his broad shoulders. 'Back in a sec.' He dropped a kiss on my lips, then grinned back at me as he pushed out the door.

I padded to the loo, splashed some water on my face, and rinsed my mouth. Given that I was still in party attire and I'd spent the night on a small settee, I didn't look half-bad. There was something in my eyes – happiness, excitement – that made me look alive.

Thank goodness I still had my work clothes from yesterday to change into. After scurrying up to Heath's office where I'd dropped my bag, I pulled on my jeans and sweater, then tidied my curls back into a ponytail. I was just about to pat on some lip gloss when I heard the tap of the doorknocker. Had Heath forgotten his keys, I wondered as I rushed down the stairs?

'Oh.' A yelp of surprise escaped me as I swung open the door to see Liz. What on earth was she doing here?

'Can I come in?' Liz's usually efficient and abrupt tone had disappeared, and she sounded exhausted. She looked exhausted, too, with big dark circles under her eyes and uncombed hair.

'Er . . .' I craned my neck to look over her shoulder, desperate to spot Heath. What should I do? If I let her in, he might think I was interfering again. But the way she was looking at me – with a mixture of hope and fear – made me think this time, she really was here for her son. Could that be true, or had I reverted to La La Land again?

I breathed a sigh of relief as I noticed Heath jogging down the street toward me, a brown bag from the Brick Lane beigel shop in his hand and a sheaf of newspapers shoved under his arm. His grin faded and his face went pinched and angry when he saw his mother.

'I thought I told you not to come here again,' he said, when he'd reached us at the doorway. I shivered at the icy tone.

Liz dropped her head. 'You did. And you had every right to.' She glanced up at him. 'Look, can I come in? I'd love to talk to you.'

Heath shook his head. 'No. No, you can't. I think you said everything the last time you were here.'

Liz looked at him with a pleading expression, but Heath just gazed back steadily. Finally, she jammed her hands in her pockets, her shoulders slumped. 'Okay. Could I ask you for one thing? Just one, and then I'll go.'

Heath was silent.

'I'd really like to have my locket back,' she continued. 'I never meant to leave it with Gran, you know. The clasp was faulty and it fell off one day. I searched everywhere, but I couldn't find it. Obviously Gran came across it, and stashed it away. She must have forgotten to tell me.'

Heath was staring at his mother with a strange expression. 'I found the locket with a bunch of my baby things in the cellar. I thought you'd got tired of it. Kind of like me.' His voice was hoarse.

Liz reached out and put a hand on his arm. Heath flinched, but didn't move away. 'Oh, Heath. I made a lot of mistakes, but I never stopped wanting what was best for you. I thought leaving you with Gran while I worked to build a life for us was the best. Somewhere along the way, though, I lost sight of why I was doing it.' She paused, and a tear dripped down her cheek. 'For you.'

Liz wiped her face, shaking her head. 'I can understand if you don't want to see me again. Just please, give me the locket.'

My heart beat fast as I awaited Heath's words. Would he tell her to go; refuse the request? Or . . .

I held my breath as Heath stepped closer to his mother. Then, he lifted his arms and gingerly put them around her, as if he was afraid she'd disappear. Trembling, Liz clasped him tightly, stroking his hair like he was still a tiny child.

They stood like that, on the doorstep of the museum in the foggy London morning, as commuters rushed by and shopkeepers' greetings rang out in the chilly air.

And finally, I understood that real life – with all its ups and downs, complications, broken hearts, and triumphs – was a million times more satisfying than any fairy tale ever could be.

THE END

Author's Note: I'd like to thank the Museum of Broken Relationships and Dennis Severs' House for providing the inspiration for the setting of this story.

CONTINUE READING FOR THE FIRST CHAPTER OF BUILD A MAN.

ALSO BY TALLI ROLAND

Build A Man

Slave to the rich, rude and deluded, cosmetic surgery receptionist Serenity Holland longs for the day she's a high-flying tabloid reporter. Unfortunately, every pitch she sends out disappears like her clients' liposuctioned fat, never to be seen again. Then she meets Jeremy Ritchie -- the hang-dog man determined to be Britain's Most Eligible Bachelor by making himself over from head to toe and everything in between -- giving Serenity a story no editor could resist.

With London's biggest tabloid on board and her very own column tracking Jeremy's progress from dud to dude, Serenity is determined to be a success, even going undercover to gain intimate access to Jeremy's life. But when Jeremy's surgery goes drastically wrong and Serenity is ordered to cover all the car-crash goriness, she must decide how far she really will go for her dream job.

There was nothing I didn't like about Build A Man. It had characters I really, really cared for, it had an inspired plot (Talli is a plot genius!), it had warmth and humour and it wasn't all sweetness and light, either . . . I can't recommend it enough.

Chick Lit News and Reviews

Build A Man is fast-paced, well-written chick lit that I can't recommend highly enough. Talli Roland has a sequel to this one coming out titled Construct A Couple and I've already added it to my wish list.

The Book Chick

The Hating Game

When Mattie Johns agrees to star on a dating game show to save her ailing recruitment business, she's confident she'll sail through to the end without letting down the perma-guard she's perfected from years of her love 'em and leave 'em dating strategy. After all, what can go wrong with dating a few losers and hanging out long enough to pick up a juicy £200,000 prize? Plenty, Mattie discovers, when it's revealed that the contestants are four of her very unhappy exes. Can Mattie confront her past to get the prize money she so desperately needs, or will her exes finally wreak their long-awaited revenge? And what about the ambitious TV producer whose career depends on stopping her from making it to the end?

I thought The Hating Game was incredibly well written . . . I really found myself blown away with Talli's debut novel. She's a fantastic story-teller and I really can't wait to see what's next from Talli. She could become a huge Chick Lit star, there's no denying it.

Chick Lit Reviews

_The Hating Game_ is a wryly observed take on reality TV and the numerous twists and manipulations that take place had me gripped but there is also a wonderfully romantic story running underneath which had me rooting for Mattie to come out as a winner. This is chick lit with attitude and I loved it!

One More Page

Watching Willow Watts

For Willow Watts, life has settled into a predictably dull routine: days behind the counter at her father's antique shop and nights watching TV, as the pension-aged residents of Britain's Ugliest Village bed down for yet another early night. But everything changes when a YouTube video of Willow's epically embarrassing Marilyn Monroe impersonation gets millions of hits after a viewer spots Marilyn's ghostly image in a frame. Instantly, Willow's town is overrun with fans flocking to see the 'new Marilyn'. Egged on by the villagers – whose shops and businesses are cashing in – Willow embraces her new identity, dying her hair platinum and ramming herself full of cakes to achieve Marilyn's legendary curves. But when a former flame returns seeking the old Willow, Willow must decide: can she risk her stardom and her village's newfound fortune on love, or is being Marilyn her ticket to happiness?

_Watching Willow Watts_ is made up of a bevy of fun and interesting characters, which made this book interesting to read throughout. Light-hearted, humorous, and a sweet happy ending made me a happy reader!

Chick Lit Plus

A fresh and well-thought-out narrative, likeable characters, dry wit and an interesting perspective on overnight fame.

Chick Lit Club

AVAILABLE NOW

Construct A Couple

With a great new job at a reputable magazine and a man who's the perfect match, Serenity Holland thinks she's laid the foundation for an ideal London life. When a routine fact-checking assignment uncovers shocking corruption threatening her boyfriend's struggling company, Serenity decides to take matters into her own hands – coming up with a plan to set the world to rights, not to mention saving her boyfriend's business and furthering her own career. Soon, though, Serenity realises her scheme might make her a star reporter, but it could also destroy everything else she's worked so hard to build.

 Join Talli's mailing list to keep updated on future releases (and read about contests, chocolate and wine!).

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Talli Roland has three loves in her life: romantic comedies, coffee, and wine. She lives in London, on a street with two Starbucks and (at last count) three other cafés that constantly tempt her outside her cosy little flat. She has a secret crush on Lord Sugar of The Apprentice and if she was forced to wax anyone's hairy chest, it would have to be Simon Cowell. Clearly she watches too much reality television. Despite training as a journalist, Talli soon found she preferred making up her own stories – complete with happy endings. To learn more Talli, go to her website, follow her on Twitter, or check out her blog.

CHAPTER ONE

If I see another set of boobs, I'm going to lose it.

Wrinkled or saggy, those insanely pert fake ones, I don't care – I'm sick of the sight of them. In my six months as receptionist here, I've seen more booty than Russell Brand . . . or maybe even that old Playboy man with the mansion. And that's just in the waiting room! What is it about cosmetic surgery clinics that makes women think it's okay to show off body parts normally buttoned under prim little cardigans or swathed in silk scarves?

Even as I think it, old Mrs Lipenstein is lifting her shirt and flashing another patient I call Lizard Lady (she looks like she's moulting), who makes admiring noises then reaches out and–

Oh God. I grimace and glance away before contact is made. As posh as this seating area is – all leather chairs and low lighting designed to make even shrivelled Lizard Lady look youthful – it should come with an X-rating.

"Mrs Lipenstein?" Peter strides into the room, and Mrs Lipenstein's face tries its best to smile. Which, in its current Botoxed state, means the corners lift a fraction of an inch.

"What do you think, Doctor?" she asks as she swivels in his direction, practically knocking him off his feet with her chest. "They've come out nicely, haven't they?"

Peter nods, his face carefully neutral. Honestly, I don't know how he does it when he has women shoving their tits in his face day and night. And not just tits – he's worked on butts and he's even performed vaginoplasties, which are . . . well, you don't really want to know, believe me. I've always wondered what doctors are thinking when they're faced with people's nether-regions. I know what I'd be thinking: gross.

It should bother me, having my boyfriend examine other women's goods on a regular basis, right? But somehow, it doesn't. Peter's so respectable, so responsible. I can't imagine him going behind my back with someone, let alone a patient.

Mrs Lipenstein trots down the hall behind Peter and the door to the consulting room closes. With Lizard Lady's perfectly sculpted nose jammed in a magazine, I grab the opportunity to creep into the bathroom – loo, whatever. Collapsing on the toilet seat, I jab a limp strand of sandy hair back into my ponytail and slip off my high heels.

God, it's tiring, this receptionist gig. It's not the actual work so much, but having to be nice to snooty women who treat me like a piece of fat squished out of their thigh is beyond draining. The job was only supposed to be for a month or two, until I found my feet in London and made it big as a reporter in the tabloid world with a job at, I don't know, Metro or something. I want to see my byline on the thousands of discarded newspapers each day. I live for that moment.

Doesn't seem like much to aspire to, being face down on the floor of the Tube, right? But half a year, thousands of résumés, and several zillion article pitches later, and I'm still working at Transforma Harley Street Clinic, which isn't even on the famous Harley Street, for God's sake – it's on a little mews just off it.

"Hello." A loud knock at the bathroom door interrupts my thoughts. "Hello!"

Rap, rap, rap.

"Hello! Girl!"

Rap! Rap!

It's Lizard Lady; I can tell by her Russian accent. Peering in the mirror, I wipe away an errant trace of make-up underneath my lashes. In the dim light, my grey eyes are black and my round face looks like a luminous moon. Sighing, I slip on my high heels – Peter insists I dress up – then yank open the door.

"Yes?" Jesus, I can't even go to the bathroom in peace around here.

"I need vat-er," Lizard Lady says, feigning a pathetic cough.

"Sorry?" I understand her perfectly but I want to make her suffer. Silly idiot, she actually passed the water cooler on her way to the bathroom.

Lizard Lady puts a hand to her throat. "I need VA-TER!" she shouts, her hot lizardy breath hitting my face.

Peter walks by with Mrs Lipenstein in tow. "I think Mrs Markova would like some water, Serenity." He shoots me a look that says he's less than impressed by my attitude. We've been having a lot of those 'attitude' talks lately at home.

"Oh, wa-der!" I say, jacking up my American accent a notch. Smiling sweetly, I trot to the cooler and pour some liquid in a plastic cup, dribbling a bit down the side so Lizard Lady will get her claws wet.

"Here you go." I pass her the water, fascinated by the speckled, crinkly skin on her hands. Maybe she is moulting.

Lizard Lady mutters something in Russian that sounds like a sneeze. I scurry behind the reception desk and climb up on the rickety stool. I'd love Peter to buy me a padded one, but I had to beg him just to let me sit down, so I don't see that happening anytime soon. He has this nineteen-fifties notion that a receptionist should always be standing at the ready for an emergency, like administering a shot of Botox to a saggy eyelid or something.

Mrs Lipenstein goes out, still buttoning up her shirt – I'm surprised she's not going to flash her driver – and Peter ushers Lizard Lady into his room.

Alone at last. I click onto my Word document and re-read my latest tabloid pitch.

First there were pop-up shops. Then pop-up restaurants. Now, there's pop-up Botox, the latest trend in cosmetic surgery. Forget running to the doctor's office. Why not get topped up on the street corner?

Pretty good, right? And true. On Portobello Road last Saturday, I saw a stall with two doctors injecting a line of women with Botox. Street-market surgery: a great story for a tabloid.

"All finished here." Peter's fake jovial-doctor voice drifts down the corridor, and I close the Word window. He's a bit paranoid about me writing anything to do with cosmetic surgery. Apparently having a girlfriend who wants to be a tabloid journalist is bad enough (I keep telling him, though, Metro has standards). But when that wannabe journalist works at a clinic where confidentiality is uber-important, well . . . It's ridiculous, I think. All the famous people go to the real Harley Street clinics. We just get the leftover Euro trash and D-list celebs only tabloid-junkies like me recognise.

I glance at the bill Peter's handed me, momentarily stunned by all the zeros. And when I think what that is in dollars!

"That will be two thousand pounds, please," I say, scanning Lizard Lady's face. That's my new game: 'Guess the Procedure', because these women usually don't look much different than when they first came in. Sometimes I wonder how Peter can–

"Girl!" Lizard Lady shoves a fistful of bills at me.

"Thank you," I say calmly, reaching out my arm as far as it will go to grab the money from her hand, which she's barely bothered to extend an inch. I'm tempted to knock her arm so the bills go flying and I'll get to watch her scrabble around on the floor, but Peter's right there so I manage to restrain myself. Barely.

We both watch Lizard Lady leave, then Peter hoists himself onto the reception desk. "Who's next?"

I glance at the schedule, my eyebrows flying up when I see it's a man. I can count on my fingers the number of times a man has walked through that door – so much for equal Botox opportunity.

"A new patient. Jeremy Ritchie."

"Don't forget to have him complete the consultation form," Peter says, sliding off the desk. I bite back a reply that I always remember, even though technically, that's not true. But honestly, after being knocked off my feet in the rush to see Mrs George's new knee lift, it's a wonder I even recalled my name that day, let alone silly paperwork.

I settle back onto my stool, just about to check out Gawker when the clinic door opens again.

"Hello, welcome to Transforma Harley Street Clinic." I try to 'put a smile in my voice' like Peter insists, but with my half-assed effort it sounds more like I need to burp.

But the guy doesn't seem to notice the burp in my voice. He lumbers into the clinic and bashes his leg on the door, nearly knocking over a phallic-looking bamboo shoot. His face sags, his eyes are red, and sadness hangs off him – along with about twenty extra pounds.

Immediately, I start playing 'Guess the Procedure'. A little liposuction? A little – I lower my eyes to his crotch – extra endowment? Looks pretty sizeable already, but men never think they're big enough, do they? And they say women have body issues.

"Hello. I'm here for a consultation," he mumbles.

"For?" I'm not supposed to ask patients, but I'm super curious.

The man lifts his hands and looks at me. "I don't know. For everything, I guess."

"Everything?" Without meaning to, my gaze drops to his crotch again.

His round face colours and he smiles. He isn't bad-looking – late twenties, I'd say, with a decent crop of dark hair and bright green eyes against lovely tanned skin.

"Well." His smile widens to a grin. "Not everything." His voice has a soft lilt to it, different from Peter's crisp accent.

"Come sit down." I motion to the leather chairs. "We'll go through the consultation form together."

It's not normal practice – usually I just give the Botox Wannabes the paperwork, then watch to see if they can actually grip a pen with their talon-like nails. But this guy couldn't be further from our usual clientele if he tried, and there's something about him that makes me want to help.

"So." I give him my best competent-receptionist smile and position the pen over the first question. "Name?"

"Jeremy Ritchie."

I scribble it down with my big, loopy letters that never seem to stay on the line. "Age?"

"Twenty-eight."

"Kind of young for cosmetic surgery, isn't it?" I ask, before I can stop myself. I should know better – we've had women as young as twenty in here for their first bout of Botox. Purely preventative, of course, as Peter would say.

Jeremy shakes his head. "Look at me. I'm a fucking mess." He glances my way. "Sorry, but it's true."

"You're hardly a mess." I have to say that, but honestly he is a bit of a mess. Still, he doesn't need surgery to fix that. A new haircut over at the Aveda on Marylebone High Street, some clothes that fit properly, and he'd be fine. And – if he lost that extra twenty pounds or so – quite cute.

Jeremy sighs. "If that's really true, why can't I find a girlfriend? Someone who wants to stick around; who likes me?"

I reach out and touch his arm, feeling sorry for the guy. "Maybe if you just exercise?" I bite my lip, hoping I haven't gone too far. Peter's always telling me Americans are way too direct.

"It's not enough." He shakes his head determinedly. "No. This is it. I mean, I've got the money. I just need the looks. So why not use my money to buy them?"

It's hard to refute his logic, but it just seems . . . wrong. I don't know quite what to say, though, so I carry on with the consultation. "Let's start from the top. Rhinoplasty?"

"Is that the nose?"

I nod.

"Oh, yes. Definitely."

"Blepharoplasty? That's eye bag removal," I explain quickly. No one ever knows that one.

"Yeah."

Half an hour later, we've only made it as far as the neck. My sheet is full of checkmarks, and Jeremy's perking up more and more as we go through it. I can't help noticing the gleam in his gorgeous green eyes.

I've seen this so many times I can almost predict it. It's like when you go to IKEA, and suddenly you realise how much you've been missing; how many wonderful possibilities exist for your home. Before you know it, that horrible blue shopping bag they give you is cutting into your shoulder, filled to the brim with ten thousand tea-lights you'll never use and muffin tins you don't need.

This consultation form is IKEA for the face, and women who start off wanting just a squirt of Botox end up like a pin cushion.

"All finished?" Someone clears their throat and we both swing around to see Peter standing in the corridor.

"This is a new patient, Jeremy Ritchie," I say. "Give me five minutes and I'll have his consultation form completed for you, Doctor."

Peter peers over my shoulder at the paperwork, his eyes lighting up when he sees all the checks.

"No, no, that's okay, Serenity." He shakes Jeremy's hand. "Nice to meet you, Jeremy. Come on through. We'll finish your form together."

Jeremy smiles back at me and the pair heads into the consulting room. The door closes behind them and silence descends. I climb up on the stool, kicking off my high heels. Evil things! Nine-thirty and already I can feel a blister forming on my heel.

I click back to Gawker and try to focus on Lady Gaga's latest crazy outfit, but Jeremy's face keeps floating through my mind. By the looks of his consultation form, he really does want to be a new man. All to make himself more attractive to women? I shake my head. Then again, look what women do to attract men. I've seen it first-hand, courtesy of Mrs Lipenstein's new rack.

Talk about turning a cliché on its head. Men, going to extremes to get with women, rather than the other way around.

Hmm, might make a good pitch – even better than the Portobello one.

I tap my bare foot against the cold metal rungs of the stool. How many other men out there have had cosmetic surgery? Of course male celebs certainly have. But what about normal men? Men like Jeremy?

My foot taps faster. Jeremy could be a source. I could do an exclusive interview!

I click open a new Word document and start typing.

Every day, hundreds of women in Britain go under the knife, looking for transformation through cosmetic surgery. Now, men across the nation are flocking to clinics, too.

I'm not exactly sure men are 'flocking' to clinics, but it needs to sound dramatic. If the impossible happens and I do get this commission, I'll just throw in some stats from Google. You can find anything on there if you look hard enough.

In my article Man Up, I'll interview a man about to undergo multiple surgical procedures, desperate to make himself more attractive to women.

I'm sure Jeremy won't mind if I ask him a couple questions. I quickly type a few more lines, add that I'm a receptionist in a cosmetic surgery clinic for that 'inside scoop' intrigue, then skim it for typos. (I learned the importance of proofreading the hard way: just last month I sent out a pitch on how I could infiltrate Britain's biggest pubic relations firm to see if that world really was as sleazy as everyone suspected. It was the one time I actually got a response – the editor at Snap! was interested in learning more about pubic relations. Was it a new trend? D'oh.)

I scan my email contacts list. Who should I send this to? The Sun? Maybe even Metro? My heart jumps as I spot the name Leza Larke, the health and beauty editor at The Daily Planet, Britain's biggest tabloid.

Do I dare? I've never pitched The Daily Planet before – it seemed too far up there, way beyond even my Metro aspirations. But I know Leza's interested in cosmetic surgery. Earlier this year she was a judge on Botox or Bust, the hit TV show where contestants had to choose between boob jobs or Botox injections, then parade topless in a beauty pageant. This is right up her alley.

Worst she can say is no, right? And even then, my Metro dream is still intact. I double-click on her name and hit 'Send', watching as the email flies off into outer space.

"Serenity will set you up with an appointment for the injections." Peter's voice drifts toward me as the door to the consulting room opens.

I sit up on the stool and hastily switch the Word window back to the appointment screen. I wonder what Jeremy's decided on? I don't want him to do too much, of course; he doesn't really need it. But the more procedures he has, the stronger my article will be. Already I'm picturing Jeremy's dramatic before and after shots, along with a little photo of reporter Serenity Holland inset . . .

"Serenity." Peter's voice jerks me back to reality.

My head snaps up. "Yes?"

"Book Jeremy an appointment for Botox next week, please." Peter turns to Jeremy and claps him on the back. "We'll discuss the other procedures and set a schedule when you're in next. In the meantime, have a look through the patient leaflets and give us a call if you have any questions, all right?"

Jeremy nods. "Thanks, Doctor." He puts a stack of papers on the desk and smiles at me. Already his face looks brighter and more hopeful – and he hasn't even had the Botox yet.

"So what did you decide?" I nod toward the brochures.

"Botox next week, to start off," he says.

I hold my breath. I need more than that to make my story good.

"And then" – he jabs at the bags under his eyes – "I'll get rid of these, have a new nose, and maybe some chin liposuction."

Good, good. "And?" I don't mean to prompt him, but if he really wants to transform himself, he should go all the way, right?

Jeremy looks at me uncertainly.

"I don't know," he says, thumbing through the leaflets. "There's so much information here. Maybe a bit of liposuction on my stomach, too?" He pats his belly. "I've always wanted one of those six-packs. Women like that, don't they?"

"Of course." I mean, not me personally – I prefer a bit of a cushion when I rest my head on a man's tummy – but most women love it.

"So definitely that, then." We smile at each other over the desk. "I need to have a think about the other stuff."

I book him into an appointment for Botox next week and say goodbye as he walks out of the clinic. Taking a deep breath, I flash a look at my inbox. Nothing from Leza – yet. But inside, my heart is pumping. I have a good feeling about this.

Watch out, tabloid world. I'm on my way.

Visit Talli's website for purchase links.

www.talliroland.com

