 
Primrose Hill is Suddenly Single

Ándrèa Hicks

Nightingale Lane Books

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Ándrèa Hicks

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Yes, it's true...

A rose by any other name...

Jog on...

Work hard to spend harder...

Doing the right thing...

Sometimes you just have to vent...

Love, look at the two of us...

Madam Fate pokes her pretty nose in again...

You should always have a Plan B...

If music be the food of love, I'd rather have chocolate...

# Yes...it's true...

I know, I know. Got to get over it, right? There's nothing wrong with being an independent woman of the world. We girls don't have to rely on guys for our happiness. Happiness comes from inside us. That's what the sisterhood says on Facebook, anyway. And they're never wrong. And I've made a point of remembering it, even though Marcus dumped me by text just before he was due to pick me up for "a special date". A special date where he'd probably decided to give me the elbow, face to face, but then, with some help from his mates, no doubt, was encouraged to find an easier way to do it. So. Not. Good. The rat. And...I'd done the pink fluffy handcuffs thing he insisted on. Personally, I found it mortifying. Not my idea of a romantic night in, particularly when he left me handcuffed to the bed while he went to get some wine, then met an old friend and went to the pub for a drink, forgetting all about me. I was so cold, and I needed to pee. Badly. Any longer and we'd have both been embarrassed. Me more than him, of course. He thought it was hilarious. Needless to say, the pink fluffy handcuffs were binned.

'You're so ditzy,' he'd said, like it was meant to be a compliment. 'It's why I'm so attracted to you.'

'Oh, really,' I wanted to say. 'Not because you think we could be a real item, or in a long-term relationship because you're falling in love with me, but because I'm ditzy, and because I allow you to keep me prisoner; banged up like a criminal in the Middle Ages while you go to the pub, where it's warm, and where there's a loo within walking distance. Charming. And actually, I'm in no way 'ditzy'. I've got a degree. In history. I think that makes me the least ditzy-est person you know.'

The moron...

#

# A rose by any other name...

The clock in the corner of my laptop says it's one a.m. I shut it down, sighing. I'm on a mission. At least, I'd been on a mission. I think "the mission" had ended in a big fat failure. Being single is okay, but, I can't get away from the fact that we live in a world of doubles. Think about it. Ant and Dec, Wills and Kate, fish and chips. Even Sooty had Sweep, and they were together for years. And wherever I look, people are in twos, at the pub, in restaurants, even at work. I knew of at least two couples who had hooked up over the photocopier. There's the 'two' word again. It's been three months since I've had even a whiff of a date. Cara, my closest friend said that I'm only twenty-six and I should stop angsting about it, and that if I want to meet someone new I'll probably have to change my life. Completely. Which is easy to say when you're just about to marry your childhood sweetheart who looks like Ryan Gosling, and probably earns nearly as much.

I look around my flat. From my bed I can see pretty much all of it. It's what's described as open plan, and as the estate agent politely described it when I saw it for the first time, compact. It seems that open plan in the case of my flat, means no plan whatsoever. My whole apartment has only four rooms, but I make the most of them, even though I say it myself. The living room has my own special decorative touch, and is just big enough for a two-seater sofa, a chair, a coffee table, and a couple of occasional tables. It's all second-hand stuff from a junk shop on the Portobello Road, but I painted the tables in cream chalk paint so they all match, and found some lovely fake fur throws which cover the sofa and chair. The kitchen I painted pale blue, and the cupboards white, which makes it look clean and fresh. I've barely used the oven, but the microwave gets a lot of action. From the kitchen you go into the living room and from the living room to the bedroom. Leading from my bedroom is a small bathroom. It isn't much but it's completely me. It cost a small fortune. This is London after all, but I love it, and probably would have paid a bit more. It just felt so right, and I have a wonderful view across to the St. Katherine Dock if I stand on the balcony and crane my neck to the right, lifting my left leg as high as I can, and hold onto the trellis that runs down the wall by the French doors. You see. Perfect.

I've spent a lot of time recently, sitting up in bed surfing the newest dating sites. I know Marcus didn't work out, but I can't let it put me off forever. Obviously, we weren't compatible. Just one of those things, I suppose. There was a time when I thought he might be the one, but fate had other plans. At least I could help my romantic destiny along by unleashing the power of technology.

I listed on the sites as "looking for a serious relationship", and uploaded my favorite picture of me, wearing my new Stella dress mum and dad bought me for my birthday. They knew I was down in the dumps and I think they were trying to cheer me up, bless them. But a Stella dress is a dress to impress. The problem, of course, is that I no longer have anyone to impress. The photo is an image of me laughing my head off with my friends, large drink in hand. Okay, inside I was hurting, but that's the thing about us girls, we know how to put on a brave face, partly because we don't want to be "that girl who's always being dumped" and bore the pants of everyone else, but mostly because too much sympathy hurts even more. All I need to do is post a headline to pique the interest of the right person; the one who's looking for his soul mate, although I don't want to be too obvious, obviously. I spend a long time thinking about it, and I come up with 'This Primrose Needs a Flowerbed'. Perfecto. I glance at the clock again. Two-thirty. OMG. Day-dreaming is the thief of time. I need to sleep.

# Jog on...

I can hear banging. My eyes flick open. Did I hear banging? No...no, don't be silly, Primrose. It's your imagination. Or maybe I dreamt it. I wait...and listen. Oh, God, there it is again, loud enough to wake the dead. I glance at my phone, the glowing numbers piercing the darkness. 4:59 a.m. Who in their right mind would bang on my door at four-fifty-nine am, unless they were up to something? I swallow hard and sit up. It must be a serial killer. It's always a serial killer!

Patting around on my bed I find my laptop, still slightly warm, and tucked under a pillow. Not what I'm looking for. I reach further over to the other side of the bed until my hand brushes against the cricket bat I've kept beside the bed ever since I got my own flat. I listen for a bit longer hoping whoever it is will go away, but there it is again. The noise sounds thunderous in the silence of my bedroom. It's unnerving.

I throw off the bedcovers and grab my phone from the night table, using it to light my way to the light switch. I flick the light on and tiptoe into the kitchen, then through to the living room which takes one whole step. I turn on the light, trying so hard for it not to make a noise, but of course it does, with a loud, 'CLICK'. I pause for a moment, listening, then start to key 999 into my phone.

With my phone in my left hand and my bat in my right, I press my face gingerly against the door and look through the peephole. Another bang crashes against the door and I jump back scared to my core. My breath comes in short bursts and I decide I'm not going to be a victim in my own flat. Time to take control of the situation. I take a deep breath and find my strongest voice.

'I have a weapon, and a very big, angry dog in here, so I advise you to do one.' I back away from the door and hold my bat in front of me like a light sabre, ready to swing it at the intruders.

'You haven't got a dog, and you'd better put that bat away before you break something.' My mouth drops open and relief floods through me. I throw back the three bolts and unlock the Yale and open the door into a brightly lit pastel green hallway, throwing myself into my neighbour, Michael's arms.

'It's you. Thank God, it's you. I thought you were an axe murderer...or something.'

He kind of shrinks in my arms, a big deal for such a huge guy. Pressing his arms tightly against his sides and looking completely embarrassed, he clears his throat. 'Er, yeah, nice to see you too, Primrose.'

Michael is not alone. My friend, Lexie is with him, and after I disentangle myself from Michael's arms, I pull a face at them.

'Y'know, I really love you two, but honestly, this is waaay too early for a visit.' I frown at Michael who looks pretty much like me; just woken up puffy face, eyes that desperately want to close, and the most serious case of bed-head I've seen in a very long time. He's wearing a crumpled pink tee shirt and pyjama bottoms with a SpongeBob SquarePants pattern on them. He wears no shoes, only socks that are meant to be white, but so aren't. One has a huge hole, revealing a rather large and ragged looking big toe, complete with black wiry hairs. It's too early for this kind of thing. I want to gag.

'You said you wanted to go running today, remember?' Lexie said. I glance at her. She's head to foot in black and pink Lycra that grips her body like a second skin, running gear that shows the world she means business and won't be messed with. Her form fitting top, bum-sculpting leggings, and expensive running shoes are to die for. She's scooped her curly dark brown hair into a cute messy bun that wouldn't work for anyone else, but this is Lexie we're talking about. Everything works for her.

I shrug, beckoning them into my living room and shutting the front door in case we wake the neighbours. Michael sinks gladly into my squashy sofa and leans his head back with a sigh. I close my eyes, thinking, in your dreams.

'Well, I remember the conversation. I think what I said was, I can't run during the week because I must be at work by eight, then I said jokingly,' I look hard at Lexie, 'That's jokingly, which means it was "A Joke", unless you want to go at five in the morning. And I would just like to emphasise, it was "A Joke". Who in their right mind does anything energetic at five o'clock in the morning?' Michael lifted his head looking suddenly interested. I put my hand up to stop him from regaling us chapter and verse on his sex life. 'Yeah, okay, Michael, we don't want to know what you get up to at five in the morning, thanks.'

I turn away and fill the kettle, banging it down on the hob to show that I'm less than happy. How does she even have the energy this early in the morning, I think to myself? I turn and look at Michael who is gently snoring, his mouth wide open. Not the best look I've ever seen. I make a mug of coffee while Lexie jumps up and down on the spot and does arm and leg stretches. How can I get her to go away so I can go back to bed? And why is Michael here?

I sit in the chair and sip my coffee, relishing the warmth as I hug the mug with my hands. I'm suddenly conscious of Lexie rummaging around in my tiny kitchen.

'Look,' she said, stepping back into the living room 'I have been trying to get you to come running with me for months now and you have only come with me twice. Most of the time you find some way to weasel your way out of it. Well, this time you aren't getting away with ignoring me. I even had Michael let me in the building.' She put a glass of orange squash on the table next to me. I stared at it. I don't buy fresh orange. Too many calories. 'Where are your trainers?' she asks in a voice that sounds like she won't be argued with. I like Lexie, but she's really bossy.

I lean towards the table and pick up the glass. As I sip the juice, I point to the oven. Lexie pulls open the oven door revealing several shoe boxes lined up on the pristine racks. Lexie looks in each one, finds the one she wants and throws my trainers at me. Then she goes to the drawer under my wardrobe and pulls out the spattered white leggings I wore when I painted my flat, and a top I was about to take to the charity shop. 'You can wear these,' she says. I sigh, knowing I should say something about her going through my things, but to be honest I'm pretty used to both Lexie and my other friend, Hannah sticking their noses into my life. Living with them was a steep learning curve into how to accept with grace not having your own space, and therefore your own privacy. At times it was teeth-grinding, but I reminded myself they had to put up with me as much as I had to put up with them. I met Lexie when she'd put an ad in the local rag, looking for a flat mate. Her flat was in a nice area, and the room she was renting out was large and airy. It suited me very well and I snapped it up before anyone else went to look at it. Hannah, I met during my time at University.

I go off to the bathroom in a sulk to change and Michael heads back to his flat which is the floor under mine.

'Lexie is so pushy,' I moan under my breath as I brush my teeth. My inner voice kicks in. 'Stop complaining. It could be fun, and you need to work on your saddlebag thighs'. I frown at the reflection of the girl in the mirror. She has a pale, early morning face, and, "needs a wash" blonde hair scraped back into a style so tight it's almost face-lifting. There's a side of me that wishes I could be more like Lexie. She's driven and in control. Guys fall all over themselves to get her attention, but she hardly notices them. And she looked fabulous in her running gear. I look down. My leggings are covered in paint, and my top is a floral, baggy thing my aunt bought me years ago that I didn't have the heart to throw out. I look terrible. The inner voice kicks in again, even though I didn't ask for its opinion.

'You could be more like her if you tried harder. You have to put in the effort. The trouble with you is, you're lazy'.

'I can't run my way to a smaller nose or a bigger chest, smart arse,' I answer. I turn my head and study my nose in the mirror. Sighing, I close my eyes, feeling even more depressed. It doesn't matter how many times I look at it, or from which angle, front, side, up, down, it still looks horrible.

'Isn't that what the jar's for?' asks the know-all voice. Underneath my dressing table is a tall glass jar, half filled with coins and a few notes. It was a large decorative sweetshop jar I picked up for pennies a few years ago in a little antique store in Battersea. It was so cute I just couldn't resist, and I imagined filling it with all sorts of treats. Now it's my savings jar. I even have a specific thing in mind. I've always wanted to improve the way I look. I thought it would give me more confidence. I know it's superficial but, well, we all have things we would like to change about ourselves. It wouldn't take much, maybe a few more curves, and a lot less nose. I could also do something with my hair, perhaps make it look more like Lexie's. Her hair always has so much body and shine. It bounces around her face when she runs or laughs. Mine clings to my forehead or slaps me lankly in the face. And she's a brunette. I'm blonde, well, more...dirty fair than blonde, but I have highlights. I thought about extensions. They look so sexy, and I love Brigitte Bardot. She's my girl crush. Yeah, that would be good. Gorgeous bod, beautiful long blonde hair, and a cute nose.

Lexie bangs on the door. 'What the hell are you doing in there?'

'Yeah, okay, I'm ready.' As I'll ever be, I say under my breath.

We step out into the hall and I look at my phone. It's still only five thirty. What am I doing, going running, which I hate as much as I hate any physical activity, apart from you-know-what, at stupid-o'clock in the morning? As we walk down the hall, correction, as I walk down the hall, and Lexie bounces, my neighbour, Lily Twining opens her front door. I'm fairly sure she's lived in her flat since it was built, just after the war in the 1940s. It was hard to tell how old she is, but she's a sweet old lady and we've got to know each other quite well since I moved in. This morning her white hair is pinned up in a bun and her tiny wrinkled face seems flushed. She always wears a dressing gown; each day she wears a different colour unless it's hot summer, when she wears a flannelette petticoat and a necklace of bright green plastic beads. I'm not sure if she owns anything else. Sometimes she sits in the hall in a plastic garden chair fiddling with her mobile phone. She studies it very intently, trying to work out how to make the same call she makes every day. Each day as I head out for work, she's either sitting in her garden chair or waiting by the door, waiting to ask me if I can help her call her grandson. He bought her the mobile phone and programmed his number into it so that she could get hold of him if ever she needed someone. His is the only number in her contacts list. I thought it was a kind gesture for him to think of his grandmother. I had yet to meet him and only seen him once or twice from my window when he walked her to his car for an outing. He's the only one who visits her or takes her anywhere.

'Primrose?' Lily stops me as always. 'What a pretty name. Have I told you that?' She holds her phone tightly to her, her thick reading glasses on her nose.

'Not today,' I say, smiling gently.

'Can you help me call my grandson?'

'It's very early, Lily. Do you think he'll be up yet?'

'Oh, yes. He's an early riser like me. He said I can call whenever I like. I just wanted to ask him about my cat.'

'Your cat?' I frown, trying to remember whether I'd ever seen a cat in her flat. Lexie's waiting for me at the end of the hall, and I can hear her sighing with impatience.

'Yes, Dottie, my cat. I can't find her. I've looked everywhere and I'm very worried about her.'

I nod. 'Okay, Lily.' I take the phone from her and find the number. 'You just press the green call button when you want to speak to him,' I say, giving her the phone and pointing out the button.

'Oh, Primrose,' she says taking my hand into her small frail one. 'I saw that young man leaving your flat this morning. You know, the big scruffy one. Are you and he together?' Lexie bursts out laughing from the other end of the hall as I feel myself going red. I didn't want to have to explain to Lily how much Michael's boyfriend, David, would just love that.

'No, Lily, we're just friends.' I smile to myself. Michael isn't an ugly man. He's just bit rough around the edges. He looks more like a drummer in a rock band than a primary teacher.

'Well he's sweet. If you don't want him, I'll take him,' she says with a wink. I hear Lexie snorting with laughter. That's the one thing about Lexie I wouldn't want. She sounds like a braying donkey when she laughs, and it's hard for me to keep a straight face. How do you explain a gay man to a lovely old lady who can't remember how to find the only number she has on her mobile?

'I'll let him know, Lily,' I say, as I run to catch Lexie.

Lexie shakes her head. 'Wow, she's got some chutzpah. If things don't work for Michael with David I think we found him an alternative.'

'You can laugh all you want, but that's going to be you one day.'

She laughs again as we go down the stairs and out the front door of my building. 'I hope so,' she says with a toss of her head. 'She has good taste. Michael's a good-looking guy. A little shabby chic, but I don't mind that.'

'D'you want to be flirting with guys when you are a grandma?'

'Why not? Never stop doing what you love,' Lexie shouts over her shoulder as she takes off in a full sprint. She zooms down the footpath, leaving me for dead. The sky has started to lighten with a faint hint of pink. The air is cool and crisp, and it helps wake me up. I start running. I take small steps, and I'm wondering whether they can actually be called running. My thin pony tail swings from side to side as the pleasantly cool air begins to feel sharp and uncomfortable in my lungs. I cough. I'm so unfit. I just didn't realise how much.

I spot Lexie in the distance, her pink and black legs moving up and down like pistons.

'Wait!' I shout, my breath coming in short bursts. 'Lexie. Wait.' I knew agreeing to go on a run with her was a mistake, and I knew without any shadow of a doubt before I left the flat, I would hate it. Lexie is now running way ahead of me, and she is getting further and further away.

I think about high school and PE, when our class went cross-country running. I loathed it, dreaded it, and did everything I could to get out of it. I and a couple of my friends would hide behind the same group of trees every time and light a cigarette which we shared, taking equal drags. Now I wish I hadn't been so stupid. I do need to go running more, or at least do more exercise. I can't even keep up with Lexie from the start. Is she that good or am I that bad? She'll probably still be pulling men when she's ninety. Right now, I feel as if I need an oxygen tank. I'm not sure I can go much further. I wonder if I should hide somewhere and join in behind Lexie as she comes around again, like we did in high school.

'No, Primrose', the voice says. 'Don't make the same mistake you made as a stupid teenager. You can do this, just kick it into high gear and shoot past Lexie. Give her the surprise of her life'. I grit my teeth and focus. My arms and legs feel like lead, my lungs are almost bursting.

Lexie has disappeared out of sight. Even she has to take a break some time, doesn't she? I picture my newly sculpted body that I'll have through constant running and exercising. Keep visualizing, I tell myself. See yourself the way you want to be. Picture the admiring glances of all the guys in the pub. Suddenly, the sound of my feet on the pavement sounds in my ears like drumbeats. My legs start to shake with each stride. I see a bus stop bench in the distance. That's my target. If I see a bus stop bench in the distance. If I can make it there I can take a break. I stumble, my arms swing round like helicopter blades. Drivers toot their horns at me, and one guy leans out of his window and shouts, 'Careful, love. You'll take off.' I put my head down, trying to avoid the stares of people walking by. There are people making their way to work now. I'm no longer invisible. I bend forward from the waist feeling nauseas. I'm almost to the bench; I feel like I could almost touch it, but if I take one more step my knees will explode. I sit, no fall, down on a patch of grass next to the bench.

'Oh, yuck,' I yelp as the dew on the grass soaks into the back of my leggings. Not only that, but there's a big, revolting dollop of dog poo right by my left leg. Could things get any worse. 'You didn't make it to the bench', sneers the voice in my mind. 'Oh, just fuck off, will you,' I answer.

I start to feel better, and the sick feeling begins to subside. I get up and walk unsteadily to the bench, waiting for Lexie to make her way back around the circuit.

As I wait for her, I see a mature couple walking their dog down the street. They're holding hands and look like there's no one else in the world but the two of them. I sigh. That's all I want; to find that guy who's just right for me. He would think I was the most beautiful girl who ever lived, he would bring me flowers, be strong, handsome, athletic, and taller than me. He would have dark hair and blue eyes and would make me laugh and feel safe. He would stand up for me when I'm feeling down. I watch the couple as they go by, then their dog fouls the grass where I'd just been sitting. Nice. My sweet dreams evaporate in a puff of smoke.

'What are you doing?'

I raise my head and meet Lexie's eyes. Her face and arms are covered in a fine sheen of sweat. I glance around, feeling stunned. The sun is fully up now.

'I must have dozed off.' My neck creeks as I roll my head around. It hurts.

'Really?' Lexie has a hand perched on her hip and she has one eyebrow raised. She looks less than impressed.

'Only robots like you do things so early. We normal people like to sleep during usual sleep hours and wake at a reasonable time in the morning. I could have been mugged sitting here.'

'I doubt they'd want to get anywhere near you with all that drool round your mouth?'

I quickly wipe my face with the back of my hand. Lexie laughs, and I can't help but crack a smile. I drag myself off the bench and get my wobbly excuse for legs working again. Thankfully, we head back to my flat.

As we walk up to my floor, I see Lily standing at the top of the stairs. When she spots us she waves, then beckons us towards her. Before we reach my floor, a well-dressed man joins her on the landing.

'Primrose, this is my grandson, James.' As I reach the landing, Lily grabs me by the wrist and offers my hand to her grandson. He takes it in his own large hand and shakes it warmly. A smile spreads across his gentle features, bright eyes observing me with interest. His skin is smooth, except for a scar over his right eye that slightly distorts his eyebrow. He's attractive in a boyish way, and the scar doesn't spoil his looks, in fact the opposite.

'Nice to meet you, Primrose,' he says in a light-hearted voice. He puts his hand out to Lexie, who shakes it quickly, then pulls away. He stares pointedly at her, not hiding the fact he thinks she's hot. 'Are you the one that has been helping my grandmother?' Lexie shakes her head and animatedly points both her forefingers at me. 'She's the Good Samaritan,' she says.

I smile, a little embarrassed. 'I just do what any neighbour would do,' I say, trying to sound modest.

Lily interrupts. 'Oh, no, Primrose, is always so helpful, James. She helped me call you this morning.'

'Oh really. So, it's you I have to thank for the five-thirty wake up call,' he says, a wide grin on his face.

'Yeah, sorry about that. Lily wanted to call you about her cat? She said she couldn't find it.'

'Don't blame it all on me.' Lily jumps into the friendly banter. 'Dottie's always going off and hiding.' She looks up at James. 'You know how much I worry about her.'

I look at James with a frown, and he almost imperceptibly shakes his head. 'So, you're the one who had a handsome man leaving her flat in the early hours.'

I can feel my cheeks turning red. 'Did you hear about that?'

'I always hear about it. In fact, I know virtually every move you make, thanks to Gran.' He grins at my embarrassment. 'Sorry, but...you did call me at silly o'clock. I think you owe me.'

James coats his words with charm and my mind lights up. Is he flirting with me?

'Yeah, well, I can't say no to Lily. Sorry about that.' In my nervousness I start to gabble. I don't want him to think I have men in and out of my flat every hour of the day. 'Michael's my gay neighbour. We're not...together...or anything. He was my early morning call.' James chuckles, and Lily says, 'What's she talking about, James?' Lexie just grins at me from the side-lines.

'Primrose is single,' Lily says, breaking the silence. 'She used to have a boyfriend, but I didn't like the look of him.' She screws her face up with distaste, and I want the ground to open and swallow me. 'Too arrogant for his own good. I could tell he wasn't a nice man by the smell of his aftershave. I would have given him the boot ages ago, but Primrose held on to him until she realised she didn't need him.'

'Gran!' James cries. I cup my head in my hands doing my best to avoid his gaze, then decide to laugh it off is the best way out of a difficult moment.

'She's right.' Lexie adds, with almost too much enjoyment. 'You are single.' I elbow Lexie, making a mental note to pay her back when I get the chance.

'It's good to put a face to the girl my gran is always telling me about,' says James.

I blow out a breath, relieved the subject's changed. 'All good things I hope.' I was stunned that Lily would tell anyone about me, and even more surprised she obviously took notes about my love interests. 'Anyway, it's nothing much. As I said, it's only what any neighbour would do.'

'Well I appreciate your looking out for her.'

Suddenly my inner voice makes an appearance. 'You should ask him out', it says. 'Go on. I dare you'.

The very thought of asking James out in front of Lily and Lexie makes my heart pump even harder. That's his job, I think. And anyway, I'm not sure he fancies me. If he's interested, he'll ask me.

'He's been flirting with you the whole time. What have you got to lose?'

How about my dignity.

I'm suddenly aware that James is talking about his veterinary practice. He's telling us about how he saved the life of a pot-bellied pig, and I grab my way out of an awkward situation before I make it even more excruciating by asking him out on a date.

'I have to get ready for work, but it was lovely to meet you at last.' I say, feeling a rush of relief as I make my get-away.

'Chicken', the voice says. 'Sorry about the early, early call,' I add smiling, as I shake his hand one more time.

Is it too much to expect a guy to ask a girl?

'It's okay,' James replied, a cheeky twinkle in his eye. 'I wouldn't mind if you called more often.'

I panic. I have no idea what to say. He is clearly flirting with me and I'm plainly out of my comfort zone.

'Oh, er, thanks. Maybe I will,' I say trying to sound flirty but failing dismally. I move around him to get to my front door, still shaking his hand, until I think to let go. 'I'll see you later, Lily.' I smile at the old lady and glance at Lexie who is clearly enjoying the show. I make my best attempt at walking away with a sexy sway. I start with a flip, snapping my head round and turning on the heel of my trainer. My stringy ponytail flies around my head and I get whacked in the eye with a greasy mop. It was a far cry from the sensual motion scenes from a film. I walk to my door hoping he didn't see the last part, and the fact that my eye is watering profusely. I peek over my shoulder as I shove my key into the lock. He's still watching me. I blush and turn away coyly. The door pops open and Lexie and I go inside. I close the door behind me and lean against it. Lexie instantly starts on me.

'What the fuck was that about? I've never seen anything like it. Was that your version of erotic, 'cos it was bloody embarrassing? I'm not saying he doesn't like you. He clearly does, although God knows why. You look bloody awful.'

'Shut up, Lexie,' I say crossly as I fight to take my damn trainers off. 'It's your fault, anyway. If you hadn't forced me to go running, which I'm clearly not cut out for, I might have met him under different circumstances, y'know, when I look vaguely human.' I glance up at her. 'He was watching me as I walked away.'

'Yeah, he was. Probably couldn't believe his eyes,' Lexie said. 'And mostly because you've got a big wet patch on the bum of your leggings.'

'What?' I twist around to look at the seat of my leggings. There it was, a wet, green and brown oval on my bottom. 'I knew running would ruin my life. How embarrassing. He probably thinks I wet myself.'

Lexie nods. 'Yep. Can I use your shower? I'll only be a few minutes.'

'Please don't take all day. I need to be on time this morning.'

I go into my bedroom and pull out one of my new work outfits from my tiny closet; navy blue pencil skirt, and a top of the line blouse from Burberry. I found it in a sale last week and had been looking forward to wearing it. As I continue to search my wardrobe, I can't help but curse my luck. What if he was the guy I was meant to marry, and just because I sat on some damp grass which makes it look like I wet myself, he thinks I'm a complete idiot. I crossly shove the wall of hanging clothes to one side of my closet and look for something else to wear. I love the skirt and blouse and don't want to wear them on such a bad day because I won't want to wear them ever again. They'll have connotations.

I start to argue with myself.

'Do you fancy James?' Yes. He's good-looking and seems to have a kind personality. And he's a vet, which means he has a brain.

'If he really liked you, a damp patch on your leggings wouldn't put him off.' Well, it's fate. Fate gives up on me.

'Why?'

I don't know. Ask her!

My arguing with myself is interrupted by a knock on the front door. I'm guessing it's probably Michael coming to see if I am still alive after my run with Lexie. It's not Michael. It's James.

'James.'

'Sorry to intrude. I know you have to go to work, so I'll be brief.' He fumbles with his keys and looks quite nervous. 'I wanted to know if maybe instead of you calling me on my grandmother's phone,' he pauses and takes a breath, 'I could call you on yours and we could have dinner sometime?' He looks at me with what I can only describe as a hopeful expression. I'm stunned. Just when you think fate is against you, you get a knock at the door. Almost too shocked to speak, I reach over to the table near the front door. It's where I keep my bag, and also where I laid the cricket bat earlier this morning. I pick up the bat to move it out of the way. James jumps back into the hall outside and crosses his arms in front of him like a shield.

'Whoa! Whoa! I can take a no.' I realize I'm holding the cricket bat like a club, and probably looked like I was about to attack him.

'Oh, no, no,' I cry, horrified. 'I'm just getting my mobile to give you my number.' I throw the cricket bat onto the sofa and search in my bag for my phone. I hold it up to show him.

'Phew.' He dramatically pretends to wipe sweat from his brow. 'You gave me a fright there.'

I laugh. 'Sorry. I don't usually greet my visitors with a cricket bat.' I think about earlier that morning and smile to myself. In fact, I seem to be making a habit of it.

He smiles an easy smile and nods. 'That's good to hear.' We swap numbers and say our goodbyes. As I shut the door I do countless fist pumps.

'Yes, yes, yes.'

Lexie walks in to the living room after her shower, hair wrapped up in a towel. She's wearing my jeans and tee shirt.

'What's going on?'

I look at her with a big grin, clutching my phone to my chest. 'Fate doesn't hate me, Lexie. She wanted me to run. Fate knows best.' I answer. 'And I trust her completely.'

#

# Work hard to spend harder...

Walking into the offices of Makepiece & Shine Advertising, my heart thuds to the soles of my feet. My colleagues are glum, and I discover our new boss is coming in today. It's all anyone wants to talk about. My old boss, Mr. Makepiece sold the company to someone who apparently said he would make it grow and become internationally renowned. Mr. Makepiece dissolved the partnership with Mr. Shine years before but had kept the name for old time's sake. When my colleagues and I heard about the sale, we were optimistic that the new owner would pick up the reins and run with them, but once the deal was done a very different story had spread around our small office. The new boss was looking for ways to cut costs, and people are very costly. At the time I'd preferred to believe the previous story, I just didn't want to believe that the man I respected and had worked with for five years was about to sell me and my colleagues down the river. Gradually, as the rumours escalated, I realized my job could be on the line.

When I'd started my career in advertising, I'd imagined that I would be designing international ads for big brands. This was how it was sold to me, and I'd turned down an offer from another agency to take the job with Makepiece and Shine. The reality was I spent most of my time designing billboards for antique shops and local pubs. In the five years I've worked here, I've had one major brief, and that was overseen by a more senior colleague. This was not what I'd imagined, and sometimes I think I was better thought of as an intern, but my job pays the mortgage and keeps the wi-fi working. Some people don't even have that. I try to count my blessings.

It's just past lunchtime and to be honest, I'm looking forward to going home. I'm shattered after my early start and lost interest in whether James rings me or not. Then I hear it buzz on my desk. When I pick it up I find a text from Hannah, asking if I was up for some babysitting, which doesn't help matters. I know she's only asked me because I'm single again and I'm the only one who probably won't have plans. I slide my phone back on to my desk, lean on my elbows, and start clock watching. Not the best time to do it as my new boss chooses that particular moment to walk into the office. I sit up and begin to shuffle papers on my desk in a bid to look efficient. He announces his arrival with a loud greeting as he strolls in through the glass doors. He looks nothing like the big business shark my colleagues had suggested. In fact, the opposite. He's short, with a dumpy build and a round face. His hair's dark grey and sits around his head like a halo. In the middle of the halo he's totally bald. We'd expected a go-getter in a flashy Armani suit. He wears beige chinos, trainers, and an orange polo shirt. To be honest, he looked more like a man who was looking forward to a game of golf rather than taking the helm of a modern company, and he looks nothing like Mr. Makepiece who always wore a natty waistcoat and a bow tie to match.

'Let's get to know everyone,' he says in a Mr. Tumble voice as he claps his hands together. 'Everyone...stand up.' I look around at the others in the office as we reluctantly stand behind our desks like children at school. Some look less than happy, others are giggling behind their hands. 'When I point to you, say your name and what you do here.' He pointed at each person in the room, waiting for them to say their name and position.

When it's my turn I announce, 'I'm Primrose Hill, and I manage the design department for signs and print campaigns.' To be honest the design department is just me and a handful of artists we would hire from time to time. Once he's satisfied he's included everyone, he points at himself.

'I'm Graham Lewis and I am the new owner.' I think it was an attempt at humour, but unfortunately it falls rather flat. We all look at each other, not knowing if someone should say something to welcome him. Then a kind, and rather smart soul starts a round of applause. Obviously, we all join in, but I feel even less confident about keeping my job.

Through the rest of the day our new boss spends his time meandering in and out of the rooms of the office. He stops people in their tracks and asks them random questions. He perches on desks, looking over people's shoulders as they work. He literally watched us all afternoon. It began to feel like we were working in a sweat shop, and if we made one mistake we'd get the axe, there and then. Was he looking for reasons to fire someone and cut the workforce? Could the chinos and polo shirt be a front, concealing a ruthless man with a swinging scythe?

I spot Mr. Lewis hanging around the break room. My desk is near the entrance which I like because I can watch people walking by. Even though I'm very much part of the office, I'm on the edge and means I'm usually left to my own devices. The day is drawing to a close; I'm due to finish in an hour and still there's no word from James. I'd also managed successfully to avoid Mr. Lewis (renamed by me as Mr. Creepy) leaning over my shoulder to watch me work, and no doubt waiting for me to mess up. If he was looking to fire someone it wasn't going to be me, so I keep my attention off my love life and totally concentrate on my work. Dates with the grandsons of neighbours don't pay the mortgage.

Suddenly, a phone rings, shaking me out of my thoughts, and I automatically snatch up my mobile from my desk, but it has a blank screen. The phone on my desk rings, shrill and demanding to be answered, so I hurriedly grab the receiver.

'Makepiece and Shine Advertising. This is Primrose. How can help you?'

A male voice answers. 'Hello, Primrose. This is Aiden Taylor. You did some work for me about a year ago.' I notice Mr. Creepy making his way towards me. I hope that if he realises I'm on the phone to a client he'll leave me alone to get on with it.

'Yes, Mr. Taylor, what can I do for you?' I answer. I try to sound as professional as possible. Mr. Creepy is getting dangerously close.

'I need a change in my current advertising campaign. My restaurant has undergone a major refurbishment and I would like the campaign to reflect it.'

'Of course, Mr. Taylor. What did you have in mind?'

'It's a bit embarrassing, Primrose, but I hope you'll understand. I've just broken up with my girlfriend. She's a model and we used her image right through the campaign. I don't know if you remember. Her face was all over the ads.' Suddenly, I remembered; the campaign, and Aiden Taylor. I'd met him twice I think. He was lovely, very handsome, and great to work with, but I also remembered I hated that project. Not because of Taylor, but his girlfriend, Sofia. Sofia was always sending back whatever we pitched to her until everything was about her. Her face, her straplines. She was fine with everything as long as it was all about her. It was like we were trying to sell Sofia and enhance her modelling career, not entice people to eat at Aiden's restaurant.

'I see how that could be a problem, but I'm sure we can help you.' I say, feeling myself smile a little. The demographics and target marketing of a product or venue I had always found rather confusing. The creative side and talking to real people was much more my style.

'I think it would be better if I come in to your office and have a talk about this,' he said, sounding a little unsure.

'That would be perfect, Mr. Taylor.' I check the diary. 'Would next Tuesday suit you?'

'That's fine,' he answers. 'Is two o'clock okay?'

I check my diary again, wishing I was so booked up I didn't have to pretend I was busy, and thinking that he and I have something in common since we'd both broken up with partners. 'Two is good.'

'Should I ask for Primrose Hill?' I was surprised he remembered me after all this time. It was a good sign. He must have liked something about my work.

As I end the call, Mr. Creepy slams his hand down on the end of my desk, rattling the tiny figurine of a girl in a power suit Hannah gave me to wish me luck on my first day at the agency.

'How you doin', Laurel?' he asks. I lean back as far as I can get without falling off my chair. He hovers so close I can feel his hot breath on my skin.

'I'm well, thank you, Mr. Lewis. I was just speaking with a returning client who wants a new campaign for his restaurant.'

'Sounds promising. What precisely do they want?'

'A redesign on the current advertising for his restaurant,' I answer as it occurs to me he has just called me Laurel. Did he, or didn't he? Maybe I'm tired and I'm hearing things. My name is on a gold plaque on my desk. You can't miss it.

He begins to talk about the importance of keeping our clients happy.

'You know, Laurel, it is just as important to keep the clients we have, as it is to get new ones. To grow this company, we need a solid client base. We must put in the extra mile, even if it means staying late in the evenings. I'm thinking of having a regular late night for staff for brain-storming sessions. You'll be expected to attend.' Then he goes into a diatribe about how the design department is the backbone of the company, which I know he has already said to the graphics guys about the graphics department. I start to switch off as he drones on about how he was one of the brightest stars in business school, and how Makepiece and Shine has been run into the ground by the last owners, which is so not true.

While he's talking I have a discussion with myself about whether I should correct him the next time he calls me Laurel. This guy has such a big ego I'm not sure whether correcting him is such a good idea. I stare at him while he continues bigging himself up. 'I did this, Laurel, and I did that Laurel,' clearly having a great time as he brags about his achievements. Goodness knows where he got the name from. There's no one here called Laurel.

The people in the desks around me notice he's using the wrong name. Well, I can't correct him now, can I? He'll look an even bigger idiot than he clearly is. I wonder why he's calling me Laurel. The only Laurel I know is Laurel and Hardy. Oh, God, maybe he thinks I look like Stan Laurel and he can't get it out of his head. I feel my shoulders slump. Great, just great. Not only am I as skinny as a rake with a nose like Concorde, I look like wimpy Stan Laurel.

I look across at the others and pull a face. Mr. Creepy doesn't notice because he's still banging on. I see Beth across the way from me, peeking from behind her computer, and Rick whispers to Karen who has her hand over her mouth, stifling a laugh.

'So, Laurel, do you think you can pick up my dry cleaning and some coffee from that nice little coffee shop down the road. I'm not liking the coffee machine here. The stuff coming out of it tastes like dishwater.' I stare up at him, tempted to ask when he last drank dishwater, but I resist. He wants me to run his errands, yet he has just said the design department is the backbone of the company.

'Er, well, that's not really part of my job,' I start to say, but he interrupts me.

'Come on, Laurel. I know you can handle this, don't even worry about it,' he says condescendingly. I swallow hard as he smirks at me. I start to protest, but the smirk has morphed into a laser stare that says, 'All those who defy me shall perish.'

I nod. 'Okay, Mr. Lewis.' Feeling totally defeated, I ask him for his dry- cleaning ticket and blanch when he says, 'The secretary, whatever her name is. Ask her.'

I drape some of Mr. Creepy's dry cleaning over one arm and hook the rest over my fingers. He didn't say he was having the contents of his wardrobe cleaned. In my other hand I have his coffee, my bag is slung over my shoulder, and my car keys are hooked over one finger. My mobile rings. For crying out loud, why now? I manage to free two fingers to reach into my bag, pinching the mobile between my index and middle fingers. I slowly raise the phone out. James' name is on the screen. I try my best to get at it with my thumb but there is too much in my hand. I know if I don't get to it, it'll go to Voicemail and I really don't want him to have to leave a message. This is so not going to plan. I do the only thing I can. I lift the mobile to my face, cross my eyes so I can see the little answer button on the screen, then press it against my nose, swiping left with my whole head. It works. Mm, perhaps my humongous nose has its uses after all. I hold the phone to my ear still only using two fingers.

'Hello,' I say, trying to make my voice sound sexy whilst doing my best to contain my excitement.

'Hi, Primrose.' James' voice sounds a little weird over the phone, a little too smooth, and I don't remember it as the voice from the guy I met in the hall outside my flat. 'I hope I didn't call you too soon. I know we guys are supposed to wait and maybe not be too eager, but I can't get you out of my mind.'

'No, James, it's fine.' I reply, trying to sound cool and in control while still doing a balancing act in the middle of the street.

'A meeting I was due to attend tomorrow evening has been cancelled. I wondered if you'd like to have dinner with me?'

I scream on the inside. 'What day is that?' I ask nonchalantly, knowing that I'm as free as a bird.

'It's Thursday. I know it's a weekday, and if you'd rather leave it until the weekend it's fine.' I can hear him breathing deeply on the other end of the line. He actually sounds quite nervous. It's quite sweet that he's apprehensive. I instantly forgive the too smooth voice.

'I'm free tomorrow night. I'd love to go out.' I answer, deciding to dispense with the cool act.

'Great,' he says, sounding relieved. 'Can I pick you up at eight? I think I can remember where you live.'

Back at the office I can't help smiling, even though I'm still miffed at Mr. Creepy thinking I'm his slave. The phone call from James turned a bad day into a brilliant one, and now I'm in a very good mood. I breeze into Mr. Creepy's office, lay his dry cleaning on the leather sofa he'll probably use as a casting couch, and put his coffee on his desk. He doesn't even thank me for the extra effort, but nothing can spoil the mood I'm in. I'm happy.

Driving home, a smile still on my face, I realise how wonderful life is. Yes, I was down before, but I'm over the Marcus thing now. I'm not planning to marry James, I like my life as it is, but it's just nice to know I still have what it takes; that I'm still in the game and ready to play. James might be Mr. Right, or he might be Mr. Wrong, I've had plenty of those, but it'll be fun finding out.

Back at my apartment building I head upstairs to my flat, actually running up the stairs, something I wasn't able to do this morning. As I get onto my floor, I hear a whimpering noise that gets louder the closer I get to my door. I begin to think that Lily's cat, Dotty isn't an apparition after all. Maybe it's locked in somewhere. Standing by my front door, the whimpering sounds like words, a sort of chant. I pause and listen. The voice, because I've realized that's what it is, sounds in distress. Then I realize the sound is coming from the other side of the hall, a little further down...from Lily's flat. I quickly open my door and throw my stuff inside, then close and lock it. I make my way down the hall and listen at Lily's door. It's her voice I can hear, and she's in trouble.

'Lily. Are you okay?' I call from through the door.

'Help me.' Her voice sounds frail and weak. I try the handle but the door's locked.

Michael comes out of his flat further down the hall. 'Something wrong, Primrose?'

It's Lily. I think she's hurt.' I step back and let Michael listen.

'David, call an ambulance.' David, Michael's boyfriend joins us outside Lily's flat. Michael tries the handle and pushes against the door.

'You'll have to break it down,' I say to Michael. 'I'd do it myself, but you're way bigger than me.'

'And what if she's lying behind the door. I might kill her, in fact, if I fall on her I'll definitely kill her.'

'Oh, God. I hadn't thought of that.' I look through the letter box. 'I can see her. She's on the floor. Oh, Michael, what are we going to do? What if she dies?'

'She won't die. David's called an ambulance and told them it's urgent. Don't get upset, Primrose. She'll be fine.'

'I'm going to try,' I tell him. I have to try to get to her. She's needs someone to comfort her.' My mind is racing. For the first time in my life someone is counting on me. I don't want to let Lily down.

'But, Primrose...'

Too late. I take a few steps back, run at the door and crash into it shoulder first. The door and I are shaken up by the impact, but nothing more. It stays right where it is. I smile at Michael, feeling less confident this time. I take a few more steps back and run even harder. This time I hear a crack. My shoulder hurts like hell, but at least I'm reassured the doors are completely solid.

'No more, Primrose,' says Michael, pulling on my good arm. 'Please.'

'One more go, that's all. If it doesn't work, well, at least I tried. I back all the way up to the wall and run as fast as I can. The immovable force of Lily's door resists me, and I collapse on the ground. It is unmoved. My shoulder, however, feels like it's been moved round to the middle of my back.

As Michael helps me up I can hear sirens outside the building. It seems within seconds the paramedics are on our floor and running towards us. Michael has his arm around me, rubbing my shoulder as David fills the paramedics in on Lily's dilemma, and the fact she's lying in the hall. It takes them all of five seconds to open the door.

As they rush inside, Michael, David, and I follow closely behind. Lily has fallen and banged her head. There's blood on her temple. One of the paramedics, a huge guy with a full beard, gently kneels next to her, a hand laid softly on her back.

'Lily,' he says loudly. 'Can you hear me, love?'

Lily's muffled voice answers. 'Yes. I can hear you.'

We all breathe a sigh of relief. The other paramedic brings in a stretcher as the big guy examines her to make sure there are no broken bones. I glimpse a kitchen chair in the hall and frown.

'What's that chair doing there?' Lily's sitting up now, with help from the paramedic. 'Were you climbing, Lily?'

She looks sheepish. 'I was trying to put a new battery in my wall clock. I asked James, but he forgot to do it the last time he was here. I thought I could reach it if I stood on a chair. I'm so sorry.'

I pat her hand. 'Just get better, Lily. That's all that matters.'

Outside Lily's flat, the big guy paramedic takes a look at my shoulder and pronounces me fit and well, apart from some bruising.

'What were you thinking?' says Michael, shaking his head. Then he smiles. 'D'you know what, Primrose. I'd have you on my team, any day of the week. You're a great girl.'

I grin up at him, feeling a bit sheepish. 'Thanks, Michael. I know I can be a bit impulsive sometimes.'

'Nothing wrong with that,' he says, and kisses the top of my head just as I notice a woman at the top of the stairs with a dark brown bob and wearing a pair of lavender-coloured scrubs. She rushes past me and straight towards the paramedics. The big guy turns to her with a metallic clipboard.

'Are you the emergency contact?' the paramedic asked her. 'It says James Trent on here,' he says, reading the name off the clipboard. 'That can't be you,' he says, smiling.

'Oh, yes, James is my fiancé. I'm Olivia Holloway.' Fiancé? That's strange. James never mentioned he had a fiancée. I couldn't believe my ears. Have I been taken in yet again? What kind of dope am I? I close my eyes and take a deep, steadying breath. Maybe I didn't hear her right. I decide to find out.

'Sorry to interrupt, but are you James' fiancée?' My heart begins to pound as I wait for her to answer.

She smiles showing beautifully even white teeth. 'Yes, we've been engaged for about five months.' She looks at me curiously as a deep well of anger opens in my stomach.

I move away as she talks to the paramedics. So, the very good-looking, very charming James Trent has a fiancée he must have conveniently forgotten about when he asked me out on a date. I listen as Olivia talks to the paramedics and then very caringly to Lily, who is now sitting in one of her armchairs. The stretcher has been sent back to the ambulance with a promise from Lily that she won't climb on any more chairs. Olivia kneels in front of Lily and speaks to her very gently.

'Lily, do you remember me?' Lily stares at her, looking confused. 'We met last Christmas. I'm James' fiancée.'

'Olivia,' Lily says, her face breaking into a smile. 'What happened to you? I didn't know you and James were still together.'

'Oh, yes, Lily, we're very much together,' she says, smiling. 'I work a lot of nights, so I can't come over with James to see you in the morning, but he keeps me updated on how you are.' Her words are so kind it makes it impossible for me to dislike her. The more I watch her with Lily and see how much she cares for the old lady, the angrier I am at James, the wolf in sheep's clothing who plays the part of Lily's saviour so well. He has it down to a fine art. I wonder how many other girls have fallen for it. I would so love to tell Olivia about him, but I don't want to be the one to burst her bubble.

I pull my keys from my pocket and head for my front door. Before I can slip my key into lock, I feel a gentle hand on my arm. It's Olivia.

'You must be Primrose.'

I nod, feeling awful. 'Yes, that's right.'

'Thank you for coming to Lily's rescue. I hear you had an argument with the front door.' She smiles. 'James told me all about you.'

'Oh, right. Did he?' Oh, heck. She wants to punch me on the nose. Oh, well, might be a good thing.

'Yes. Lily loves you. She tells James about you all the time. She's lucky to have such a caring person living across the hall. We know if anything else were to happen you'd be there for her.' She didn't want to punch me on the nose, she wanted to thank me. The poor girl, has no idea that the man she's going to marry has asked me out on a date that very afternoon.

'Well, I love Lily, too. She's a great neighbour.' Olivia hands me a scrap of paper with a mobile number on it.

'This is my number. If anything happens to Lily, please call me. I work at the hospital. I'm a junior doctor, so if I don't answer right away leave a message. James and I will do something nice for you to thank you, take you to dinner or something.'

I look at her and smile what is probably a very watery smile. First James asks me on a date, then his fiancée. In one day I'm asked to dinner by both of them.

She gives me a hug, wrapping her arms around me warmly. I kind of hang there limply, unsure of what to do, so I raise my arms and hug her back. She's a lovely person, kind and caring, has to be to do the job she does. James is a dickhead, and I feel really bad that he's put me in such an awkward position. She's his girlfriend, and she trusts him. And why wouldn't she? He asked her to marry him once, and clearly, she doesn't know what he's like. I watch her as she returns to Lily's flat.

I flump down onto my sofa and bury my pounding head under a cushion. To say I feel terrible is an understatement. I'm "the other woman". I'm the one I always hate in films, the one you hope gets punched into oblivion by the sweet girl everyone likes.

A knock on the door shakes me out of my self-pity. I wait a bit, wondering if I can get away without answering it. I don't really want to speak to anyone, but I relent. It's Michael.

'Bloody hell. You look worse than Lily. Lexie told me about this morning. It sounds like you suffered a bit. Are you in pain?' he asked, lightly touching my shoulder. I gasp. 'Oh. That bad. Sorry Prim.'

I go back to the sofa and snuggle into the corner, feeling sorry for myself. Michael sits in the old chair opposite.

'You know what you need.' I look at Michael with a grin. 'Oh. What's that?' Michael always has the same answer for when things are looking tough. A good drinking session. It wasn't the best solution in the world, but he maintains it takes your mind off your troubles for a while.

Michael and David bring over a few beers, and call Lexie and Hannah to hang out with us. They say no at first, but after hearing what happened they rush over to commiserate with me. They bring four bottles of wine and an Indian takeaway for all of us. That's what true friends are. They may drag you out of your bed at stupid o'clock in the morning, and they may not be able to solve your problems, but they're always willing to help you forget them for an hour or two.

After a few drinks, we have a lively debate about whether we should call James and tell him a thing or two. Michael even joked about having some of the guys he knew putting the frighteners on him. We had a good laugh about that, and I forget my thumping head and bruised shoulder. Michael's a gentle giant. Hannah joked that the worst they would do is threaten James with a pink fluffy handbag.

We tell our favourite stories from our university days. Lexie knows all my tales by heart, she's heard them so often. After the next few drinks, Hannah falls asleep. She's become such a lightweight since our Uni' days. Lexie goes home in a taxi, after falling over on the grass outside and calling out, 'Power to the people', and being told to shut up by someone in one of the other flats. I think her 'clean' diet has gone out of the window. Then David was violently sick, and Michael had to drag him back to their flat. Not far to drag, but David was green.

# Doing the right thing....

The alarm goes off and I can't believe it's morning already. I frantically slap at it, but it doesn't seem to be on my night table. I try to get up, but the room won't keep still. Then I come to a little, and notice I'm laying with my head at the foot end of the bed and my feet on the pillow. I crawl across the bed, grab the blessed alarm, and shut it off. Dragging myself to the shower I contemplate calling in sick, but I know that a day out of work would be all Mr. Creepy would need to get rid of me. Mind you, I think, as the water hits my face like needles, he's expecting Laurel. He doesn't even know who I am.

At the office every minute drags like an hour. In every meeting, Mr. Creepy drones on and on, and all I want to do is close my eyes and shut out the world. A lot of the time I'm thinking about Olivia. She should know what kind of person she is going to marry, but am I the one to tell her? It'll ruin her relationship, and she might think I've got an ulterior motive. I ask myself whether I would want to know if I was engaged to a cheat. The fact is, technically he hasn't cheated on her yet, at least not with me. And, he still has time to change his mind, or just not turn up, which I must confess I've done myself. Not a good thing to do but, well, I was young. That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it. I turn all this stuff over in my head. Worrying about it all is definitely making my hangover worse.

Around four in the afternoon I get a text from James.

'So, looking forward to our date tonight. We're going to have a lot of fun. Can't wait to see you.' Yeah, right. I bet you can't. Probably hoping for a no strings roll in the sack. Well, he's not getting into my sack. Reading the message again makes my stomach churn. My first impulse is to ignore it, but then I remember he's picking me up at my flat. If I don't reply, he'll just turn up. I don't want to see him. I text, 'I'm excited, too. Is Olivia going to be there?' Unsurprisingly, he doesn't reply.

After a truly awful day at work I go home and fall onto my bed, ready to sleep this whole thing away. The room is still swaying. I must have really tied one on last night. I can't even remember how much I had to drink.

Before I can doze off I think about the last couple of days. I can't complain that my life is boring. Since I've been single it feels like I'm on a roller-coaster, but I've learnt something. I met a jerk who was more than ready to cheat on his fiancée, a lovely girl who would have been terribly hurt had I gone on a date with him. And I would have felt so guilty. I got lucky, really lucky.

James isn't the one for me, in fact I don't think he's "the one" for anyone. I can only hope Olivia finds out about him before it's too late. And if I can find a way to let her know what he's really like, I will. We girls need to stick together and warn those in the sisterhood off cretins like James. Fate has a strange way of making things happen.

# Sometimes You Just Have To Vent...

The last couple of days have been 'normal' again, and things have begun to slide back into a routine. I've ditched the running and bought an exercise DVD which I can do whenever I want, morning, evening, come rain or shine. I even babysat for Hannah. Her little bundle of joy is gorgeous, and made me feel slightly broody, for all of half an hour.

My boss is still convinced my name's Laurel, and I now wish I'd had the courage to correct him at the outset. My colleagues have started to call me Laurel too, as a joke, and I'm beginning to think the name is somehow going to attach itself to me. When the time's right, I'll tell him. The problem is, he's so loud and full of himself, it's almost impossible to get a word in edgeways. He's often the last one to show up in the morning and the first to leave in the evening. So much for modernising the company and making it grow. The more I see his lack of work ethic the more I'm convinced he doesn't give a damn about the company or his staff. Worst of all he's still treating me like an assistant. I'm constantly running errands for him. Why he's picked on me I have no idea.

He's late again today, so I'm taking the chance to do my own work. The meeting with Aiden Taylor has been on my mind. I want to make a good impression so it's vital I'm ready with some ideas before then.

Looking over the old campaign I can see what a mess it is. It consists of pictures of his ex-girlfriend pouting into the camera, with the tagline, "Say Sofia sent you". Of course, Sofia had chosen all the photos, and picked the tagline. There was even one of her doing that leg thing that celebs do on the red carpet, you know, the one with the dress split to the thigh, (or higher in Sofia's case) and a leg provocatively sticking out. I think they call it leg-bombing. Or something. Anyway, the more I look at it the more I can see it needs to be scrapped. Aiden Taylor's a nice guy. I can't imagine this campaign did his restaurant any good whatsoever.

I decide to take a look at the restaurant's web site. I was happy to see the images weren't just of Sofia lying on a beach in a string bikini, (yes, she managed to get one of those in the campaign too) but also had details of the menu, which looked really good. In fact, it made my mouth water. Okay, I'm pretty sure none it ever passed Sofia's lips, (I only need to look at a photo of a doughnut and five extra pounds of flab appears on my thighs), but with some real thought and a passion for the amazing food, I know we can do much better.

I continue to scroll through the pictures and then click on to the "About Us" page.

"Aiden Taylor learned to cook while on a tour of Afghanistan, serving in the armed forces. His restaurant, 'Le Champignon' is his passion. Aiden believes without passion, life is meaningless. He loves to spoil the people in his life, and his restaurant clients return again and again, quickly becoming friends because of his love of serving unique and delicious food. 'Life should be full of pleasure,' he says, 'And good food made with the best ingredients makes life very pleasurable.'"

All of this is pure gold. There is even a picture of him standing in front of the restaurant sign. He's younger than I remember. And very nice looking. Wonder who dumped who.

My computer rings with the email emoticon. A word bubble pops up from the bottom of the screen. I click on it. "marcusiswonderful28 has sent a new email". It's from my ex., Marcus. I frown. We didn't part on the best of terms. The last communication I got from him was when he broke up with me, not one of the nicest texts I've ever had. I allow the arrow to hover over it. Why is he emailing me? Something tells me to delete it.

Then the voice kicks in. 'It might be an emergency'. But if it was a real emergency, he'd call, surely? 'If you delete and trash, you'll forever wonder what the email said'. The voice is right. Curiosity is in my DNA. I move the cursor over the dustbin. One click, and it'll be gone, and I won't have to think about the dickhead again.

I can't do it. Damn, I'm so pathetic. No wonder Mr. Creepy calls me Laurel. I have to admit there's a part of me that doesn't feel right just binning a message from someone I was once close to. I click on the email. It's blank. Why has he sent me a blank email? Maybe it's a mistake. I go to delete it, but then notice there's an attachment. The image of a little paper clip grins at me from the bottom of the page. It might as well be saying, 'Open me, open me', and beckoning me in with a bony finger. Do I really want to see this?

I click the attachment. In a flash a picture appears on the screen. It's a selfie of Marcus. He's wearing a thick coat, and his blond hair is tucked under a woolly bobble hat. It's snowing wherever he is. And he isn't alone. Next to him is a girl, much shorter than he is, petite I suppose, and very pretty. I quickly delete it hoping he hasn't placed a "received" button on it. The last thing I want is for Marcus to think I actually care. In the movies, this would be just about the right time to scream an expletive at the computer screen, but I'm not in a movie, I'm in the office and it's full of people. I stay as composed as I can, slide out from behind my desk and go for a walk. The lady's loo is a favourite place for girls to vent their emotions, but when I get there, there's a queue. Isn't there always?

Halfway down the corridor is a broom cupboard, and when I try the handle it's been left unlocked. I look left and right. There's no one around. Everyone who isn't queuing for the loo is at their desk, and Mr. Creepy isn't in yet. I slip inside the cupboard, closing the door behind me and sit on an upturned bucket. The room is dark and stinks of chemicals and dirty water. I don't care. Now I can vent.

'YOU! FUCKING! BASTARD!' For a few minutes I let it all out. This is no way the best place to do it, but sometimes a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. I even throw in some choice words about James.

I'd just got started on how much my rent was and how hard I work, and I didn't know why the hell Mr. Creepy calls me Laurel, when the door flies open. I freeze as my colleague, Yvonne stands framed in the doorway. She steps in and closes the door behind her, pulling another bucket from under the shelving. She puts the bucket next tom mine, sits down and puts her arm around me.

'Now, Primrose. Or should I call you Laurel?' she laughs at her own joke, then continues while I stare at her wondering why she's being so nice to me. Yvonne's tricky; one of those women you're never sure about. For example, for Secret Santa last year she bought me a pair of Spanx pants, and a huge bar of chocolate that was big enough to feed a family of four for a week, the kind of present you think might have a hidden meaning. 'Something wrong sweetie?' she asks softly.

'Can everyone hear me?' I ask.

'Don't worry about that,' she says. 'As your senior, I need to know if there's something untoward going on in your life.'

I frown at her. My senior. When was she made my senior? It's the first I've heard about it, and she's the last person I want to spill my private life to. 'Oh, it's nothing,' I laugh. 'Just having a little vent.'

I start to get up, but Yvonne grabs my hand. 'Want to talk about it?' I look at her, wondering if I should get it off my chest. She's a woman, after all. She's probably been in a similar position.

Apart from working in the same office I don't know her that well, apart from being told by the others that she has tickets on herself and considers herself to be superior to everyone else in the office. One of the guys said she had her head so far up her own arse, she can see daylight. I laughed with the others, but I don't like to judge people that way. I'm a believer in making up my own mind about people. She has always seemed nice enough, but we've never talked beyond the normal office small talk. Her face is full of concern, and she seems to genuinely want to help.

So, I take the plunge, and I spend the next ten minutes in a smelly broom cupboard pouring my heart out to Yvonne. I told her all about my break up with Marcus, the online dating that didn't materialise, and James and Olivia. Beth listens to every word.

'You know what you should do?' Beth says, when I have no more words to tumble out. 'On your next date, you should send Marcus a picture. Make sure it's somewhere really swish, The Ritz in Regent Street, or tea for two in Claridges. Somewhere like that.' She has a glint in her eye. I'm so angry with Marcus it seems like the perfect plan. 'That's fine, Yvonne.' I sigh. 'But dates are a bit thin on the ground.'

'I think fate has brought you to me? Yvonne says, grinning.

'What do you mean?'

'I have a friend, Will. He's so lovely, he would be great for you. He's just what you're looking for. And I know he would absolutely love you. He's tall, sweet, athletic, and runs his own business.' I wasn't sure about being set up on a blind date. I know from bitter experience that one person's idea of being lovely is usually very different to mine. I glance at her. Yvonne's a bit younger than me, but looks older, a bit of a fuddy-duddy in the fashion department. Should I trust her judgement? What's the worst that can happen?

'I can phone him right now,' she says, in a persuasive voice. 'He's been single for a while, but it's totally through choice. He wanted to concentrate on his business, but once he sees you I know he'll change his mind.'

'What does he do,' I ask her.

'Oh, something high-tech,' she says with a wave of her hand, as we both step out of the broom cupboard. I agree to the date.

# Love, look at the two of us...

I pull into the cinema carpark for my date with the mysterious, "Will". Yvonne has made him sound like nothing short of Chris Hemsworth, and I'm looking forward to meeting him. I've dressed very carefully, no low-cut tops or short skirt, but a gorgeous ruffled dress. It's knee-length and very pretty. I hope it gives the right impression; I'm single, yes, but not desperate.

I turn off the ignition and wait, and the longer I wait, the more nervous I get. I sigh, and fidget with my keys. Then the negative thoughts set in; what if I give the wrong impression or say something stupid. My nerves are on end. First dates always have a way of doing that. I worry about impressing the guy or if I will say or do something stupid. I have a habit of doing it when I get nervous, and I gabble for England. There is of course the hope that he could be perfect. From Yvonne's description of him, he sounds gorgeous; tall, athletic, with an easy smile and a great sense of humour. I laugh to myself. He might even sweep me off my feet and whisk me away to my happy ever after.

I step out my pale blue Ford Focus into the chilly air. I haven't worn a coat. They're such a nuisance when you're going somewhere; they either hang off the back of a chair getting in everyone's way, or you spend hours queuing at the cloakroom to leave and retrieve. It's cold though, and I shiver, my flimsy dress no protection against the chilly evening. The carpark is illuminated by the gaudy glow of the cinema's large neon sign, the bright letters flashing against the dark sky. Yvonne told me to meet Will here, but I'm hoping we'll go on for dinner later. I'm not really a "cinema on the first date" kind of girl. Grabbing my bag from the passenger seat, I run a hand over my blonde hair, hoping it doesn't go all stringy in the damp breeze.

A group of people are gathered around the ticket window. Couples make their way through a series of glass doors guarded by an elderly man with a flash light who checks each ticket. A group of teenagers are hanging out in the carpark, making lots of noise and swigging out of bottles of cider.

Tiny sparks of niggling doubts begin to infiltrate my thoughts as I walk between the lines of cars. The voice I hate rears its head again. 'What are you doing Primrose? You've agreed to go on a date with a guy you have never seen. You hate blind dates. And although Yvonne said he was a really nice guy, how well do you really know Yvonne?'

Well, Yvonne was helpful to me in a moment of need, but she didn't have any pictures of Will when I asked. Of course, that doesn't mean anything. I know lots of people that I don't have pictures of and worrying about how someone will look is a bit shallow. 'Yeah, but, it helps though, doesn't it, if they're nice to look at. Isn't that how we know we're attracted to someone across a crowded room? We see them first!'

As I reach the cinema steps, my phone lights up. I open the text message. It's from Hannah. I was careful to tell her where I was going before I left. I don't know Will. He might be a serial killer. The truth is she's more interested in getting the nitty-gritty on my date than keeping me safe. I know she sometimes wishes she was single again. She's still in love with the hunt. I think she's forgotten what it's like to go through the meeting new people thing, seeing if you like them, seeing if they like you, and finding out how immature men in their late twenties can be. We used to moan about it on our girl's nights out. Funny how things always seem better looking back.

'Is he HOT!?' Hannah asks. I quickly text back that I am still waiting for him to show up. While I write the text, my phone buzzes again. It's another text message. This time it's not from Hannah trying to live her single memories through my dating mistakes. My finger hovers over the flashing green icon. What if it's Will cancelling. Maybe he's sitting in his car and watching me now and doesn't like what he sees. And why is he free on a Friday night? The voice puts me in my place. 'Well, you are.' The text is simply from Lexie asking to come over and pick up her clothes from the other day. Needless to say, I won't get mine back. I never do.

The longer I wait the more self-conscious I become. I give myself another once over in the cinema's glass doors. The blue in my dress makes my eyes pop, and goes great with my bag and shoes, but guys, (well, most guys) don't care about how your outfit looks. In my experience they're more interested in what's going on underneath.

I'm about to text Will when a husky voice calls from across the car park. I glance up from my phone. A tall guy is walking in my direction. He has broad shoulders and fashionably tousled brown hair. He waves, and I gave a meek wave back, trying to hide my delight at the sight of him, and trying not to blurt out, 'Oh, yes, Hannah, he's hot!'

Yvonne was right. He's gorgeous. He walks towards me with long confident strides. I girlishly pull my hair over one shoulder, although it doesn't stay there because it's not long enough, but it's the thought that counts. Tilting my head down, I cast my eyes up at him. This is me at my flirtatious best, and at that moment I wish Marcus could see the guy I'm with tonight. He knocks him out of the ballpark.

I put my foot out to go down the steps, only to find myself flying into the carpark and sprawling on the gravel, shoved out of the way by a woman who runs down the steps as though I'm not there. She plows right into me, toppling me over like a tenpin. I block my fall with my right hand, thankfully saving me a total face plant.

'Luke!' my nemesis cries, flinging herself against Mr. Gorgeous and wrapping her legs round his waist like an out of control octopus. "Luke", kisses Miss Pushy on the forehead and envelops her in his arms. I drag myself to my feet praying that no one saw what had happened. They stroll past me, Miss Pushy tucked under Mr. Gorgeous' arm. Then she looks back, a smirk plastered across her face.

'Oh. Sorry.'

I watch them vanish into the cinema.

I brush myself down thinking that the fall probably hasn't done my bruised shoulder much good. I rotate it backwards and forwards to test it out as my phone buzzes with another message. It's Will.

'Soz I'm a bit late. Pulling up now. Hope you're ready for a night to remember. See ya.'

Soz? See ya? What? My nervousness doubles. I look up from the text to see a very nice car pull up to the steps of the cinema. It's a sporty job, with an engine to match, and it's drawing plenty of attention from the cider-drinking teens. They're positively drooling.

The glare of the flashing cinema sign on the car windows makes it impossible for me to see inside. The car stops in front of the steps, just a short way from where I stand. My face flushes with anticipation, my heart like a piston as the passenger door swings open. I do my best not to look directly at the car. I need to appear...nonchalant. I pretend to look at my phone, as if I'm unconcerned that I've been waiting for him for nearly twenty minutes.

Out of the car bounds a heavy-set man in a dingy winter jacket, zipped all the way up to his neck. He has a round, unshaven face with old shaving nicks I can see from where I am. His hair is thick, dark, and greasy, and as he lifts his hand to greet me, I can see the grime under his fingernails.

'Hey, Primrose! It's me. Will.' he shouts. 'You are Primrose, aren't ya?' I nod as he gives a full armed wave like an excited kid. Disappointment hits me like a sledgehammer and I look in the other direction, pretending I can't hear him.

Then he shouts at the top of his voice. 'Primrose Hill!' He starts jogging over to the steps and I hurriedly place my phone to my ear and speak very loudly.

'What? Oh, dear. I will be right there, Granny! Don't panic. I just hope Will, my date for this evening, understands.' I turn back to see Will's eager face staring down at me in all its ungroomed glory. He's hovering right over me, inches from my face. I stumble backwards from both the surprise at his nearness to me, and the overwhelming pungent smell, a cloying mix of body odour, dirty clothes, and cheese Doritos. I put my hands up to my face. I can't believe this is the gorgeous guy Yvonne told me about. I mean, when was the last time he had a shower? My head's all over the place. I have to get out of this and fast. Hopefully, he heard me on the phone, pretending I had a family emergency. I lower my hands from my face and breath minimally through my mouth.

'Will,' I say softly. 'I don't want to be rude,' I start to say, but then my conscience interferes in the conversation. Yvonne said he was very sweet. Sweet people don't run out on dates. The thought of his childlike excitement being crushed by my imaginary grandmother made me feel guilty. And what's the harm in seeing a film with him?

I glance up at him. He's staring at me expectantly, while all the time I'm thinking of ways to cut the date short. His excitement begins to visibly deflate. He probably already knew what I was going to say. How many dates have run out on him in the past? The last thought was the one that found my soft spot. I don't want to be another person who doesn't mind hurting his feelings.

'I don't mean to be rude,' I start again, 'but can I pick the movie?' His face lights up again. 'I really want to see, "Me Before You."' My thinly veiled lie seems to work. Excitement returns to his face in all of its former brilliance.

'Oh, I get you,' he says giving a yellow, crooked toothed smile. I hold my breath as another blast of his last meal assaults me. He grabs my arm roughly and pulls me up the steps. I try my best to breath only through my mouth. Then wonder if it's possible to breathe through one nostril, the opposite side of where he sits.

We stand in the queue and finally he releases me from his grip. He rams his hands into the pockets of his jacket and grins at me. I decide to start the conversation. It seems it's not his forte.

'So, Yvonne tells me you have your own business,' I say. 'What do you do?'

He makes a face, then frowns. 'Oh. I get you.' he exclaims at long last. 'Yeah, I sell trading cards online.'

'What kind of cards?' I ask hopefully. I'd heard that some sports cards could be worth a lot of money.

'Well mostly I do L.A.R. Ping stat cards. I don't have a big following yet, but I can see me getting really big money from it.' he says, nodding animatedly at the prospect. It sounded like he was talking gibberish. I've never heard of any of this stuff. He falls silent again. He looks so uncomfortable, I try to seem interested.

'What are "larping" stat cards?' I ask, not really wanting the answer. My fears are realized. Will bursts into an excited frenzy of chatter.

'L.A.R. Ping is live action role playing. It's a lot of fun.' He flings his hands all over the place describing his work as the other cinema-goers stare at us in astonishment. 'What you do is, get a team together, go to the park, dress up in a medieval or fantasy costumes and roleplay.' My eyes widen. He's one of the weirdos in the park fighting with plastic swords. Then he really gets into his stride; the more he talks, the more animated he becomes. As he describes the sound effects, he spits, saliva flying from his mouth and landing in my hair. My instinct tells me to go home and instantly have a shower. Thankfully he stops short of playing dead and rolling on the ground.

He quietens down and I begin to think about Yvonne. Why did she think this guy was perfect for me? He's nothing like me.

At the ticket office window, a teenage girl with rainbow hair lolls in a swivel chair looking bored.

'How many?' she says flatly.

'One for me,' says Will, pulling a purse with metal clips out of his pocket. He leans in close to me and I hold my breath. 'You don't mind paying for yourself, do you? Things are pretty tight for me right now.'

'It's fine,' I say calmly. The teenage girl looks at me with bored eyes. I had a feeling she was thinking the same thing I was. I found my credit card and paid for my ticket, glad I hadn't left it at home.

'You're much more attractive in person,' blurts out Will as we file into the cinema with everyone else. I look at him with surprise. This is must be the "lovely" side Yvonne spoke about. It wasn't much but it was something.

'Thank you,' I instinctively reply. 'Yvonne didn't have any pictures of you.' I flash him a genuine smile. Then the penny drops. We're halfway to our seats before it dawns on me. A couple shoves past us, and we move out of the flow of the crowd and stand against the wall.

'What do you mean, more attractive in person?' Will pulls out his phone and swipes through a few pictures until he comes to one of me. My jaw drops. I'm looking at a photo of myself sitting at my desk. Judging by the direction of the photo, it was clearly taken from Yvonne's desk. I was eating a croissant and wearing the outfit from yesterday, before Yvonne had the lightbulb idea to set me up with Will. She wasn't trying to help me, she was pushing Will on to me. 'When did Yvonne tell you about the date?' I ask, not really needing the answer.

'Early yesterday morning.'

I nod. 'How do you know Yvonne?'

He smiles and puts his head to one side. 'She's my sister.'

I storm into the theatre and plonk myself down in the first free seat. I paid for my own ticket, so I'm determined to see the film. Will follows close behind, sticking to me like a magnet to a paper clip. Folding my arms over my chest, I don't bother to hide that I'm fuming. Will clearly doesn't care that I'm offended about the fact that Yvonne has sent pictures of me to someone I've never met, even if it is her damned brother.

The theatre lights dim, and the previews start. I haven't so much as looked in his direction since he showed me his phone. I feel so violated. How could anyone think that it's okay to do something like that? Yvonne took my picture without my permission and sent it to Will, again without my permission. All I want to do right now is give her a piece of my mind. And she'll get it when I get to work on Monday. If she had asked me, I would have given her a picture, a good picture, not a gross one where I have a mouth full of almond croissant. There are boundaries and she has crossed them. My colleagues were very disparaging about her. I should have listened. Why don't I bloody listen? I take a deep breath. If nothing else goes wrong tonight, maybe I can just watch the movie, and save this disaster from being the worst date of my life.

The movie is a good distraction. It's a romance. And quite sad. There are moments when I need to sniff, and other moments when I could cry, but I don't. Showing any kind of emotion might make Will think I'm a soft touch, and that's definitely something I don't want. If only I hadn't listened to my conscience.

Suddenly, I feel him reaching for my hand in the dark. My arms are still firmly locked across my chest. The thought of holding his grimy hand makes me shudder, but it's not his fault his sister's a thoughtless be-atch. He seems so innocent, and he can't be blamed for that. I don't unfold my arms, I'm far too mad for that, and I don't want to send Will the wrong message. Maybe I should tell him what happened, so he doesn't get his hopes up. I decide to tell him after the film. The last thing I need is for him to cause a big scene in the theatre, and if his behaviour in the queue is anything to go by, he's more than capable. Satisfied with my decision I settle down to watch the remainder of the film.

The film is halfway through, and I have a very uncomfortable feeling of being watched. In fact, more like eyes boring into me. Out the corner of my eye, in the dim glow coming from the screen, I can tell Will has turned on his seat and is facing me. He's staring me down like an animal on the hunt. The more I try not to notice it, the more intense it becomes. He's leaning over awkwardly in his seat, until he's rubbing his shoulder right into my arm. I wait for him to excuse himself for touching my arm accidently, but it's not forthcoming, and he stares at me like this was the first time he'd ever seen a woman. I tell myself to ignore him, and he'll get the message and watch the film. Another mistake.

'Primrose,' he whispers hoarsely. I pretend I didn't hear him. 'Primrose,' he whispers again, only louder.

'Primrose Hill,' he rasps. It's clear at this point he isn't going to stop trying to get my attention. I need to do something, anything to send the message I'm not interested without causing a fuss. I put a finger to my lips, the international sign language for stop talking over the film like an idiot.

'Primrose Hill!' Clearly, he's forgotten how to whisper. A woman in front of us turns around quickly in her seat and shoots us a cross, 'Shut the fuck up' look. A few others let us know they're not impressed, by loudly shushing us. Finally, I cave in. Everyone looking at us, even if it is in the dark, is embarrassing to say the least.

I whip my head round to face him. 'Whaa...,' I start to say. Will launches at me like an Exocet missile before I can get the first word out. His lips are pursed like a suction cup. I panic and jump back but I'm not fast enough. He plants a kiss on the side of my mouth. I lean far into the opposite arm rest, wincing as it digs into my back. I can't get away from him. His wet lips are pressed sloppily against my face. As I turn away, his lips drag across my cheek. It's like someone's dragging a slug over my face. His head buries into my hair before I can shove him back.

I immediately jump up from my seat, almost falling over. I grab my bag and run out of the theatre. I have no idea if he is behind me. I don't really care. I run down the corridor and make a beeline for the lady's room. I can still feel his sink-plunger lips on my skin and it turns my stomach. I throw my bag on the counter top and it skids into the mirror. Hurrying over to the sink, I turn the tap on but there's nothing there.

'How do I work this this thing?' I cry, desperately turning the tap right and left. As I incompetently fumble around the sink, water shoots out of the tap and sprays my chiffon dress, rendering it see-through.

Ignoring the fact that my dress is sticking to my body and my knickers are on full display, I scrub my cheeks and hair, and even my lips with handfuls of warm water. My makeup is disintegrating under the copious water and the front of my dress is drenched, but I'm past caring. Right now, all I want to do is wash Will's saliva off my face, and the memory of him lunging at me like a crazed orangutan out of my mind. While I scrub the saliva out of my hair there's a knock on the door. I pull my head out of the sink. I'm dripping wet, and an enormous puddle encircles my feet as water runs onto the floor from the counter like a waterfall. As I fear I hear Wills voice from the other side.

'Primrose, are you in there?' His voice sounds expectant and cheerful, as if totally unperturbed by my running out on him. Now I'm stuck, not knowing what to do. I find some paper towels and dab at my hair and dress, then stand under the hot-air dryer, turning up the nozzle so it dries my face. The warmth is so comforting until I hear Will call me again. 'Primrose. I thought the movie was awful too. Maybe we can get out of here. You have your own place, don't you?' he says, in what I suppose he thinks is a suggestive voice.

My mouth drops open. Is this guy for real? I grab my bag and look around the bathroom looking for another door or anything that will get me out of there without having to face him. All I can see is a line of pink floral cubicles...and a window.

Go out the window, I tell myself. You would have managed it no problem when you were in high school. In fact, you would have been the first one out of there. I look down at my heels. How the hell do I climb out of a window in these? Plus, I don't know what's on the other side. Will knocks again. This time he opens the door a little and calls into the bathroom.

'Primrose,' he says in a singsong voice. 'Do I have to come in after you? We're wasting time. You must be done by now. Let's go to your flat and have some fun.' That's it, decision made.

My favourite high heels make a clacking sound over the tiled floor as I walk towards the window. It's absolutely filthy and covered in cobwebs, but luckily, it's close enough to the floor so that I don't have to climb on to anything. I push on the latch, but it doesn't budge, it's so gummed up with rust and grime.

'It's okay Primrose. You're worth waiting for I'll be right out here,' Will calls through the crack in the door. I push on the latch again, but no movement. Then I noticed a strip of metal down the right side of the window. I push on it and it slides the glass open, releasing a high-pitched metallic squeak as it slides to the left. I cringe. He must have heard that.

'You okay, Primrose?' he asks. 'Want me to come in and heeelp yooou?'

'Just give me a minute,' I answer as I slip the strap of my bag across my body and put one foot onto the window sill. I put my hands either side of the window and pull up my other foot, then sit on the edge, allowing my feet to dangle in the air the other side. Dangle in the air are the operative words. I'm not as close to the ground as I thought I'd be, but there was nothing for it but to keep going.

I twist myself around until I'm lying on my belly with my lower half hanging out the window over the alley below. My dress has ridden up to my waist, and my blue floral knickers are on show. I'm just thankful the alley's empty. I wobble my body from side to side, inching my way out of the window. I dig my heels into the brick wall to give me a better hold. They were definitely not made for this.

I'm hanging out the window, holding on to the window's edge as tightly as I can. The underside of it crumbles under my finger nails. I lower myself as far as my arms will allow, and I still can't feel the ground. I look under my armpit, trying to see how much further it is to the ground. My shoulder begins to hurt, and my arms feel like they're about to drop off. I'm heavier than I thought. The distance between me and the ground is more than a short drop, in fact, I'm not sure it's doable unless I'm willing to risk two broken legs.

'Why didn't I know it was so high up?' I cry out in my frustration. I try to pull myself up. I've never really been able to do pull ups. All I manage to do is break one of the heels off my shoe. I scrunch up my face and do a silent scream in case Will hears me. I kick my shoes free and wince as they hit the ground.

I look down again. I'll have to jump. There's no other way. I can't go up, and I'm too embarrassed to call for help. And anyway, there's no one around except for Will, and once he sees what I've been trying to do, he'll probably drop me out of the window himself. I know I'll probably break my neck if I let go, but logically, my head is higher than my feet, so it probably looks further down than it actually is. I'm five feet six inches tall, so that's five feet six inches less to fall. Okay, I'll go on the count of three. Everyone does things on the count of three. One! Two! Three!

I don't let go. My arms have nearly had it, and I can't help wondering how much more of my weight the window sill can take. It could be that it won't be my decision to fall in a heap onto the cobbles below. My muscles start to tremble. I need to get a backbone and jump. Maybe I'll count to five this time. One! Two! I hear the bathroom door open, but I can't see anything. I instantly let go. I'd rather take my chances with broken bones than face Will, and his questions about why I'm hanging out of the lady's room window.

I hit the ground with a thud. The asphalt is unforgiving. My legs collapse under me and I crash onto my bottom, twisting my ankle in the process. I press my lips together and scrunch up my eyes. It's agony and my ankle looks very strange. Picking up my shoes, and retrieving my broken heel from a drain hole, I hobble to my car as fast as I can. I throw my shoes and heel into the passenger seat and get in behind the wheel. Now I can breathe. I put my hand down to my backside and gently press my left buttock, the one that took the majority of the fall. It's numb.

Before I pull out of the carpark I get my phone out of my bag to check it's not broken. I decide to send a text to Hannah.

'No, he is not hot!' Then I head home to microwave a couple of turkey and mashed potato Lean Cuisines and can't believe I'm actually looking forward to them. Why Hannah misses the single life, I don't know. In one week I've been propositioned by a guy who's already engaged, nearly broken my shoulder trying to rescue Lily, and escaped from a weirdo by jumping out of a window. Hannah might think the single life is fun, but sometimes it's a real pain in the backside. I throw my phone back into my bag.

On the way home, it buzzes with unanswered calls until the battery finally dies. Bliss, pure bliss.

#

# Madam Fate pokes her pretty nose in again...

So, there's a detour. Roadworks as usual. Damn it, they're everywhere. My ankle really hurts and I'm thirsty. The diversion has taken me way off my usual route from town, so I pull into the first friendly looking place I can find. It's a nice bar-restaurant, with fairy lights strung outside and conifers cut into spirals standing guard at the door. It's the kind of place I thought I'd be enjoying myself in tonight on my date. Then I realise there's a problem. Shoes. I have one with a heel and one without. Reaching over to the passenger seat I retrieve both shoes and the heel. Which looks worse? I try to fix the heel back on my shoe, but it needs more skill than I have. And glue. I look down at my feet. Ankle swollen and purple. Hmm, toenails don't look too bad. Nice bright orange. Purple and orange. Oh, well, hopefully no one will notice. Barefoot it is. I'll say it's a homage to Sandie Shaw, y'know the songbird from the 60s. Eurovision Song Contest? Oh, whatever!

I grab my bag and lock the doors. The restaurant is well-lit and the colour scheme very in-vogue. The paved walkway is lined with lights, like mini-spotlights. It's enchanting. This is an upscale place...and looks familiar, yet I know I've never been here before. Well, that doesn't matter. I'm going to walk into the bar with confidence. I'm an independent woman. The days when a woman can't go for a drink on her own are well and truly over.

I feel in my bag for my phone. You can't be too careful. I shake my head, I'm beginning to sound like my mother. My phone died in the car, so I'll have to go without. In her day they didn't have phones in their bags. Get over it. I've jumped out of a window tonight like the Milk Tray man, and I'd do it again too, if I had to.

I wander into the lobby. Through the glass partition I see lots of couples at tables for two. There's that number again. And it was packed to the rafters with people enjoying a drink at the bar.

A maître d' shows me to the bar. I find a seat where I can see the whole dining room. It's beautiful. The tables have crisp fresh white table linen and a vase with a single rose in the centre of each table. Classical music plays at just the right level, blending in with the dozens of conversations going on at once. The lights are comfortably dimmed. In the middle of the room hangs a chandelier with hundreds of tiny circles of glass that reflect the light, creating shafts of tiny glittering specks on the dark ceiling. It's like looking at the night sky.

My stomach groans loudly and I look around hoping no one heard it. I'm starving, but one thing is obvious—there's no way I can afford anything here—unless I go for something small, like a starter. I thought of the already wobbling amount in my bank account. I decide to ask one of the waiters for a menu.

The menu is to die for, really tempting. And then I see the prices and the temptation to stuff my face disappears in a puff of smoke. I decide to content myself with my free glass of water. Water drank, I attempt to slink away before they charge me a sitting fee. I slide off my stool, landing on the foot above which my ankle has swollen to twice the size it was before I went into the restaurant. I take a deep breath. Dignity, Primrose. This is all about retaining your dignity. I try to walk but let out a shriek at the awful pain. I inhale a deep breath of embarrassment. Everyone is staring at me. I try again. No, it hurts, just like last time.

Okay, I'll have to hop, which is fine while I'm by the bar but not so easy when I try to get to the door. I'm halfway across the dining room holding on to one of the marble pillars. If I do an extra-large hop I might make it across the room. I draw myself up thinking that if I can get to the door, I can slide out and hopefully I can put all this behind me. I just hope I don't know anyone who's dining there. I launch into a massive hop, but my good ankle gives out under my weight. I lurch towards an empty chair at one of the tables and sink into it gratefully. I take another deep breath and then glance up. A man and woman are looking at me with angry expressions on their faces. I seem to have joined their small gathering.

The woman frowns at me. 'What are you doing?' she says in a half angry, half sarcastic voice. Her partner simply stares at me with a patronizing look. 'You can't just sit wherever you want to,' she continues. 'My husband and I paid good money to come here.'

'My apologies,' I say, feeling more embarrassed than I've ever felt. 'I hurt my ankle earlier. I was trying to get to the door and I fell into this seat. Please excuse me.' There's a half-eaten plate of Spaghetti Vongole in front of me, and I'm aware someone is standing behind me.

'That...is our friend's seat.' the woman says. I look up to find a pair of eyes staring down at me, glaring with eyebrows raised. I brace myself on the table and lift myself up, just as a member of staff approaches.

'Madam, would you kindly leave their table and come with me?' he says softly. Can this get any worse? He doesn't seem angry, but I still feel like a child being dragged away from an embarrassing situation. He places a gentle hand under my elbow, and I notice he isn't a waiter. He wears a white collarless jacket, and an apron tied around his waist with a white hat tucked into it.

'It's okay, I'm leaving,' I say, embarrassed. I've know I've made a real exhibition of myself and I just want to disappear, in a flash of smoke if possible.

'I insist you take this and get off that ankle,' he whispers. He holds out a plastic pouch with a blue coloured gel inside; a cold compress. I take it from him and he holds out his hand to help me away from the table. I put my hand in his because frankly, I can't stand the pain for much longer. His hand is warm and strong, but my ankle is excruciating. He wraps his other arm around my waist, holding me off my offending ankle. I look at him and he turns his head and smiles. I hadn't noticed before, but his eyes are the colour of dark chocolate, his smile sympathetic, and if I'm not mistaken, a little amused.

'We have a place where you can rest for a while if you like, or I can take you back to your car, although personally I think you should wait a while. That ankle looks terrible.'

I hear the woman at the table sigh in exasperation. 'Thank goodness for that. Perhaps we can continue with our meal. We've paid the earth for it. A little peace would be nice.'

The guy whose seat I fell into sits down, and then leans forwards and pats her hand with a conciliatory smile and a wink. Her husband seems oblivious to the chemistry between them. If he's not having an affair with her, I'm a unicorn that farts fairy lights.

'I'll rest for a bit if it's okay with you.' I smile at him. 'Thanks for coming to my rescue.'

He half carries me over to a small table near the kitchen. He pulls out a chair for me, then gets another to rest my swollen ankle on. I lift my leg and place my foot on the Mongolian fur cushion that looks very expensive. I'm so glad to be hiding in the shadows away from the diners. Also, the staff were being very nice to me. Not only did I get two chairs and a Mongolian fur cushion, but one of them brought me a coffee and some chocolate mints. I feel slightly guilty. I didn't even buy anything. I suppose there's nothing wrong with letting people help you sometimes.

Mr. Chocolate Eyes comes back to see how I am.

'How's the ankle?'

I nod and smile. 'A little better,' which was a big fat lie. It was killing me.

'What's your name?' he asks.

'I'm Primrose,' I say sticking out my hand. He shakes it in a firm hand.

'That's an unusual name. It wouldn't be Primrose Hill, would it?' My eyes widen. How on earth does he know my name? 'I'm Aiden Taylor. I believe we have an appointment on Tuesday.'

I stare at him, thinking that it was unfortunate I experienced my less than finest hour in front of a client. 'Er, yes. I'm Primrose Hill.'

He grins at me. 'I thought so. We've met before under very different circumstances. Clearly, you're a girl who likes to make an entrance.

'Would you believe I was here doing research? I ask with a deliberate suspicious tone to my voice.

He raises his eyebrows. 'On a Friday night? And with a sprained ankle?' He pulls a face. 'Sounds like you also like to make things difficult for yourself.'

'That's the story I'm sticking with,' I say, grinning back. I look at him more closely. He's really a very good-looking guy, slightly older than I am, but with a real twinkle in his eye. I had forgotten how attractive he was, but then I wasn't the lead on his last campaign. My role was to do the work and not get any credit for it.

He jokily wags an admonishing finger towards me. 'I've got my eye on you,' he says. 'Just sit tight, and don't get into any more trouble. Rest that ankle.' He pulls a chef's hat out of the waistband of his apron, then strolls through the door just in front of me. I hear his voice fading in and out as the door swings backwards and forwards behind him.

My little table by the kitchen is a good spot. The waiters and waitresses move in and out of the kitchen, and it's interesting to watch them work, amazing me with how many dishes they can carry at once. I see the diners as they come and go. Thankfully they can't see me, hidden away in my own dimly lit corner. Usually I would have hated it, but tonight I have a swollen ankle, a bruised bottom that hurts more by the second because the numbness has begun to wear off, a long ladder in my fishnet stockings that I wore because I thought they were sexy and that I've just noticed look like I've been pulled through a hedge backwards, and...to top it all, had a rather embarrassing set to with a middle age couple...and guest, who thought I was muscling in on their threesome when I fell onto one of the chairs at their table. Anonymity is just fine by me.

So, I'm sitting watching the world go by and minding my own business when one of the waiters comes through the swing doors and places a plate of something gorgeous at my table.

'I didn't order anything.' I say with a smile, holding the plate out to him.

'Compliments of the chef, Miss,' he says with a grin.

The aroma of a spicy pasta sauce rises from the plate and curls like a ribbon under my nose. Little pillows of soft pasta filled with soft cheese and herbs lay invitingly on the plate waiting for me to devour them. I say devour with some accuracy, because my groaning stomach speaks to me, saying, 'Eat it, Primrose. For goodness sake, eat it,' and I'm not going to argue. I wolf it down, suddenly feeling a lot better, much stronger, and ready to make the intrepid journey to my car. I pull the soggy blue ice pack off my injured ankle. The swelling has gone down a little, and I test a little weight on it. Only a twinge of pain, and it's just bearable. I'm certain I can make it to my car, and the thought of being back in my little flat is encouraging me to make a move.

'You aren't leaving yet, are you?' a voice from the kitchen calls. Aiden Taylor stands in the swing doors, his eyebrows raised.

'I thought I would get out of your hair, Mr. Taylor,' I say, smiling. 'And thank you for the most amazing meal I've eaten in ages. I'll definitely come to Le Champignon again. It was superb.'

He hands the knife he was using to dice something green to the chef next to him, pulls off his apron and walks towards me. The closer he gets the taller he seems. I don't remember him being this tall.

'What about your research?' he asks.

'Well it's getting rather late,' I look down at my ankle, 'And I need to rest my ankle. I don't want to miss work next week.' I could have added, 'And I don't want to give Mr. Creepy any reason to fire me'. Also, I had left my, "as dead as a door knocker" phone in my car, so I had no idea what time it was.

'I would really like to talk to you about my campaign. It might make things easier on Tuesday.' Holding a bunch of orders in his hand, he turns and begins to shout through the swing doors, then turns back, 'Unless you really need to take off.'

He's put me on the spot, and he knows it because he's grinning at me with his eyebrows raised.

'Er, well, okay, of course, if you think it will make life easier. We could go over a few things now.' It occurred to me it would seem more impressive professionally to ask him some questions about his campaign, and it would mean I would steal a march on Yvonne who I thought was the likely candidate to be working with me. That's if I hadn't murdered her first, which was exactly what I felt like doing. Plus, Aiden had provided me with dinner that I hadn't paid for. I guessed it was the least I could do.

'Good.' He pulls my chair out a little further. 'I'll be back in a few minutes.' True to his word, within a couple of minutes he's back. He pulls a chair from a nearby table and sits across from me, leaving the other chair for me to put my ankle on. I straighten up and try to look as professional as I can, trying to remember the questions we include on our information pack.

'How do these questions help advertise my restaurant?' he asks, frowning.

His quizzical look makes him look even more attractive, and I have to remind myself that my accidental arrival here is now a business meeting. 'I understand Mr. Taylor. It often seems overkill to clients, but the more we know about you, the better we understand you and your business. And some of it is technical stuff my boss will expect to see.' He nods as if he understands. 'So why do you want to change your advertising campaign? It looks as though you're doing pretty well.'

'It's Friday night and we're always busy Fridays. The problem is the rest of the week. We close Mondays, but sometimes it's like a ghost town in here. I actually think I saw a ghost once.'

'Really?' I say fascinated by the change in direction of our conversation.

'It turned out I had died of boredom.' I laugh, and he smiles. 'This place is my passion. Boredom and failure isn't an option. I'm living my dream and it's important it does well.'

I'm impressed by Aiden Taylor. He is clearly a very talented guy but doesn't have a huge ego like some chefs. He has told me quietly and without hesitation how he feels about "his baby", and like any parent he just wants it to do well. I'm glad it's me working on his campaign. I just hope Mr. Creepy allows me to see it through.

'What's your best dish?' I ask him. 'We can use that to advertise Le Champignon.'

'That would be my stuffed raviolis,' he replies, beaming with pride.

'The ones I had? They were sensational. Did you learn how to make them in the armed forces?'

He bursts out laughing. 'No, I learned how to make them after a bet with a friend who said I couldn't,' he says.

'What was your time in the army like,' I ask, knowing I'm veering off subject which isn't very professional. Aiden rubs his chin.

'Well, to be honest it's a great life, but after six years I wanted to follow my dream, and although I learnt a great deal in the army it's not where I wanted to end up. I have a lot to thank the army for. It's where I fell in love with cooking, although when the chefs go off on one it's far more dangerous in the kitchen than it ever was in the desert.' I laugh again, thinking how easy he is to be with. I think this campaign is going to go very well. 'I thought being a soldier would impress the girls. It wasn't just because I wanted to serve my country.' He had a twinkle in his eye, and I knew he was joking with me.

'Is that how you met Sofia?' I ask. 'She must have been very impressed with your wanting to do something for others.' I bit my lip wishing I hadn't strayed into personal territory.

'God, no she would never do anything like that. She isn't the helping others type.' His voice changes, the tone much more sombre. He looks off into the distance and I'm regretting my nosiness. Time for me to apologise.

'I'm sorry, Mr. Taylor. It's none of my business. I went through a break up not too long ago, so I know you feel.' I place a hand on his to be comforting. The trouble with me is, that when I'm in a hole I keep digging, which I think is the opposite from what we're meant to do. I feel myself go hot, then cold, then hot again. Why did I do that? It's too personal to share with a client.

I notice that Aiden hasn't moved his hand. There's a pause before he gently pulls it away from mine to take a sip of wine.

'It's okay. It was for the best. Once I realized she was with me because she thought I had some value for her, the relationship fizzled out. I saw her for what she was, and I stopped her taking advantage of me. Things ended. It's fine.'

He really seemed okay and I was impressed. We talked some more about Le Champignon until the place was closed. He insisted I take some left overs and the ice pack home with me.

'Remember, Primrose,' he called after me as I hobbled across the car park. 'The left overs are for eating, and the ice pack you put on your leg. Whatever you do, please don't confuse them. I need you to help me with my campaign.'

I make my way out to my car as dignified as I can, and thankfully in far less pain. The evening began with the blind date from hell, but thanks to my sprained ankle I ended up having a great time. I plug my phone into the charger on the drive back to my flat. It's flooded by messages and missed calls; most of them from Will, a couple from Hannah. There's even a few from Yvonne. The only one I call back is Hannah. After what Yvonne did to get me on that terrible date with her brother, she can wait until Monday.

Because of my ankle I've cancelled my plans for the weekend. Hobbling around the pub, or watching my girlfriends fling themselves about on the dancefloor while I take care of the handbags isn't my idea of fun. It seems strange sitting on my own on a Saturday night. Hannah offered to come over and sit with me, but she gets so little opportunity to let her hair down these days, I tell her not to worry and to go out with the others. So, I rest my ankle and make sure I'm okay for work on Monday.

I order a pizza and raid my Christmas cupboard. This is a cupboard where I store Christmas treats, like chocolate Santas, after dinner mints, and those big tins of sweets you can buy on offer from the supermarket. If anyone's in need of a treat, I am.

I load the settee up with my goodies, a box of tissues in case the film's a weepy, the pouch of blue gel Aiden gave me and the Netflix playlist. I'm in my dressing-gown and pyjamas, and settle down for a fabulous night of viewing, but as I start to stream the films my mind keeps wandering and I can't concentrate. I keep going over what Aiden said about the restaurant and how it's his passion. Talking to him really helped me get inspiration for his campaign, and I'm determined I should be the one to work on it.

I glance up at my TV screen. I want to watch, "The Chocolate Shop on Christmas Street," a romance I'd been looking forward to for weeks, but I can't settle to it, and I know if I don't get all the ideas down that are buzzing around my head, I'll forget them. There's nothing for it.

I hobble across to the bed where I left my laptop and take it to the settee. I load my mouth with chocolate and get to work. For the first time in ages I'm feeling good about my job again. It's not a grand, big brand international campaign that some of my colleagues work on, but I know I can help Aiden make Le Champignon a destination restaurant. I work for hours then email my ideas to myself before I go to bed, contented and feeling happier than I have for a long time.

I make sure I'm at work early on Monday, and I'm shocked to see that Mr. Creepy has already arrived. Usually, he doesn't turn up until lunchtime. I was beginning to think he was a vampire. He's talking to Yvonne, who's sucking up to him like a big, sucky-up thing. She's doing her best to ignore me, and it takes all I have to stop my anger bubbling over and going for her. She played a rotten trick on me and now I know where I stand with her. We're enemies, not even frenemies, and I won't trust her again. In fact, I'll make sure I watch her very carefully indeed.

As I walk over to my desk, Mr. Creepy nods, and mumbles a very halfhearted, 'Good morning.'

'Nice to see you,' Yvonne says as I sit at my computer. Her tone is laced with sarcasm, and I'm guessing she's unhappy because I didn't return her call on Friday night. Since she tricked me into the worst date I've ever experienced, I think she should be begging my forgiveness, never mind being sarcastic. I work quietly at my desk, filling out paperwork and sending emails to the artist I thought should work on Aiden Taylor's campaign, when Mr. Creepy approaches me.

'Laurel. The paperwork about the new campaign for the Taylor account. Where is it?'

I look at him, confused that he hasn't already looked over it. 'I put it on your desk a few days ago, Mr. Lewis.'

He looks wrong-footed. 'Ah, well, young lady, I've been busy. Takes a lot of energy to run a company like this. I don't have time to look over the smaller campaigns. Anyway, what's happening with it?'

I choke down my annoyance. Clearly the campaign isn't big enough for him to be interested in it. 'Mr. Taylor wants us to redesign his campaign for Le Champignon, his restaurant.'

'You've worked on it before, I take it.'

I nod. 'Yes, about two years ago when he commissioned the original campaign.

'Do you have something in mind for it?'

I turn my computer screen towards him and bring up the work I did over the weekend. I feel very proud of what I achieved and display them on the screen feeling confident, and glad I made the effort. Mr. Creepy looks over my ideas and I explain to him who they're targeted at and how everything relates to Le Champignon and its placing within the restaurant market. Mr. Creepy nods looking interested. I reach the end of the presentation I designed and show him the tag line: 'Le Champignon, our passion on a plate, served for your enjoyment.' I look at him to see what he thinks. Surely, he must give me the campaign now.

He pats me patronizingly on the shoulder. 'Good work on getting us going, Laurel. You've given us a good place to start.'

I frown. 'What do you mean?' I ask, as he waves Yvonne over.

'You did a good job helping get things started. It's time for us to take what you've already done and improve it,' he says, barely looking at me.

'Hold on.' I interrupt him which I don't think he appreciates. 'My job is to create the designs for the print work. I worked hard on this because it's what I do best...and it's my role in the company. What are you going to do?' I can feel myself getting cross, not least because Yvonne's standing behind Mr. Creepy with a big smirk on her face. Now I know what she was talking to him about when I got to work this morning. She was schmoozing him no doubt.

Mr. Creepy shrugs. 'We'll take your outline and develop it, then present it when Taylor comes in for the meeting tomorrow.' He patronises me again, like he's talking down to a child. 'I'd like you to email me what you have, and Yvonne and I will have a look at it together.'

He's begging me to challenge him, I think. Perhaps this is a test to see how much my work means to me. But then, if I get it wrong, he'll fire me, and I'll be out on my ear. The thing is, I just can't bear the thought of Mr. Creepy and Yvonne taking my work and presenting it as if it's their own. Plus, Aiden will think I'm not up to the challenge, or worse, that I don't care.

I get up from my seat and face him. 'This is my project,' I say, standing my ground. I tap my finger on my desk for each word. His face looks bilious, as though he's about to explode. It wasn't a test then. Okay, if not a test, it means I must find the guts to fight for the right to do my job. Yvonne has taken a step back. Clearly, she's not fond of the direction our conversation is taking. It proves how shallow and cowardly she is.

To my astonishment, Mr. Creepy backtracks. 'Yes, of course it is,' he says, his eyebrows raised so high they're in danger of sliding off the top of his bald head. 'I just thought I would get Yvonne and myself on board to help you. We're a team. I don't think the work for this campaign should be piled on you.'

I narrow my eyes. He's trying to take my work and make it look as though I've over-reacted. Was I overreacting? It's his company. Does that mean all the projects are his? Well, they might be, but the work already done is mine and he's going to have to fight me for it. I'm aware that every member of staff in the office has their eyes on us. I've captured their attention, and not in a good way. Am I going to be the first victim of Mr. Creepy's bayonet? He has me cornered and I'm not liking it one bit.

'We work as a team here. You're a part of our team, aren't you, Laurel?'

This is a question with only one answer, particularly when everyone's waiting for it. 'Yes, Mr. Lewis,' I say, pushing down a very strong impulse to punch him...and then Yvonne. He turns to face the other staff, clearly satisfied that he won the conversation.

I decide to claw back some of my dignity. 'By the way, sir, 'I say with as much condescension as I can. 'My name is Primrose, not Laurel.' He stares at me, lost for words. 'You've been calling me Laurel for days and to be honest, I'd like to be called by my name. Primrose.'

'I...I...well,' he blusters. 'I'm sorry. I didn't know,' he says, turning to look at Yvonne who looks down and stares at her feet. He sounds like he means it when he says he's sorry. Yvonne looks gutted and turns away, biting her lip. He heads back to his office and I take a deep breath and try to cool down. As I watch his retreating back, I'm aware I have to send him my work. I can either send it, or he'll access it from my computer anyway. Should I let him just take it as a protest? Am I that brave?

The requests for me to run errands for Mr. Creepy continue for the rest of the day. He even sends me to get lunch for him and Yvonne as they sit in his office, dissecting my work. By the time they are done rearranging everything I've written, the campaign looks nothing like the inspired ideas I had at the weekend. My inspiration for the campaign came from Aiden himself, his passion and desire to make Le Champignon the best restaurant in the area. Now it looks like every other advertisement I've ever seen for a mundane food outlet. I hate it, and I'm pretty sure Aiden Taylor will hate it too.

I look over what "we" had come up with and inwardly grimace. After talking with Aiden, I really wanted his campaign to stand out, and for me to show my worth as a project manager. It's terrible, looks amateur, and I don't want my name on it, particularly as Aiden Taylor will probably think it's my work. That's if I'm allowed anywhere near the meeting I arranged with him.

By close of business any work I contributed to the campaign is ruined. Mr. Creepy and Yvonne look so proud of themselves, even though I know she simply agreed with everything he suggested. When he asks half the staff to go in to his office to survey his handiwork, I could vomit. To be honest, most of the reactions are mild at best, except for one arse-licker who tells him how great it is. I glance up as my colleagues leave the office one by one, shaking their heads in dismay. They know, as I do, with work like he has produced, the agency will fail, and Mr. Creepy won't have to fire us. We'll all be out of a job.

'I think we've done our fair share today,' says Mr. Creepy, puffing out his chest. 'Time for us all to go home.'

'Yes, Mr. Lewis,' Yvonne says in a soothing voice, like she's lulling a baby to sleep. 'You've worked so hard, sir.'

'Sounds like a good idea to me,' I say, thinking I can't wait to get back to the sanity of my own home.

'Okay,' says Mr. Creepy. 'Primrose, save the campaign and the pitch on this flash drive so we can show it in the conference room tomorrow.' He hands me the tiny black rectangle, collects his things, and leaves the office. Yvonne follows, but doesn't leave until she's turned to me and thrown me a look that could curdle eggs.

I slip the flash drive into the USB port on the computer, then sit in front of the screen. I glance at the panels at the bottom of the screen; one of them is Mr. Creepy's, and one is my original, the one I emailed him. I bring both pieces of work up onto the screen and minimize each one so they're side by side. My name is on both, and my eyes flick from one to the other. I can't help but feel sickened by seeing my name on the top of Mr. Creepy's report. The campaign bears no resemblance whatsoever to the original, the one I know Aiden Taylor would want.

A thought goes through my head. I can't do that, can I? The curser blinks at me as if to say, 'Get on with it, Primrose. If you're going to do it, do it.' I click 'Save As' and type in the file name, "Taylor Report for Le Champignon", then save my campaign. With another click, Mr. Creepy's report is deleted.

It occurs to me that his work is in the recycle bin, and retrievable, so I delete that too. The gravity of what I've done hits me and I feel slightly sick.

My inner voice kicks in, and honestly, it doesn't help. 'Primrose, what the hell have you done? Not only did you save your own work, but you deleted his'. I take a deep breath. Maybe what I did was wrong, but Aiden Taylor will get to see the better campaign, and hopefully he'll know it was my work. I've taken a huge risk, probably the biggest professional risk I've ever taken, but Mr. Creepy will try and get rid of me anyway—certainly will with Yvonne's help. I might as well go out with a bang.

I leave the office after everyone else has gone home. The flash drive is in the conference room, and everything is prepared for tomorrow, including a beautifully designed folder explaining the campaign for Le Champignon, the target audience, and some great ideas for Christmas at the restaurant. The conference table is set up like a table at the restaurant. In the company kitchen are pain au chocolat, some of the best coffee I could find, and a jug of Buck's Fizz. I want Aiden Taylor to be blown away, even if it means I'll be blown away too.

On the drive home, I contemplate not turning in for work tomorrow morning. Yvonne will no doubt be giving the presentation; she thinks she's excellent at pitching even if no one else in the office thinks so. Somehow, she's managed to get under Mr. Creepy's skin. I wonder how she's managed to do it. It reminds me of the scene in the Vicar of Dibley when Geraldine shouts down the aisle to the man of her dreams, 'It should have been me!' Well, that's exactly how I feel. It should have been me making that pitch to Aiden Taylor, and in a strange way I feel as though I've let him down.

I go home for a sleepless night. I spend half of it tossing and turning, the other half pacing the floor. I can't work out whether I'm scared or pleased. My mum has always said I'm impulsive. Well, I think I just proved her right, and it's more than likely that by tomorrow lunchtime, I'll be unemployed. There was no way I was going to get a good night's sleep knowing that in just a few hours I'll probably get the chop.

#

# You should always have a Plan B...

I look surprisingly decent the following morning bearing in mind I've gone around the clock with no sleep. I also decide that if this is to be my last day, I want to look drop-dead gorgeous, so I can flounce out on my Manolo Blahniks in a cloud of Lady Million. I take my time getting dressed, choosing a beautiful black shift dress with short sleeves, accessorized with a lapis lazuli necklace and earrings. I ditch the Manolos for a pair of mid-heeled Mary Janes that I know I can run in, in case I need to make a quick getaway. The look is professional but feminine, and I feel good. My makeup I apply with extra care, not the usual scramble to get something on in time for work like the usual slick of eyeliner, and lipstick applied in the car. A little concealer under my eyes hides the fact that I'd spent the previous night doing circuits of my living room. It was a bit like a first date; out to impress, but not over the top. My blonde hair, I tie into a fashionable ponytail with wispy bits. Standing back to survey my look in a full-length mirror, I smile. If this is to be my last day so be it. I'm proud of the campaign, and sometimes you just have to pin your colours to the flagpole.

On the drive in to work I play some soothing music to help calm me down. It doesn't help much but it's better than nothing. As I get to the sliding glass doors at the front of the building, I notice Yvonne going into one of the small side offices in the foyer. I frown, wondering what she's up to. The sliding doors open with a shushing sound and I walk through, making sure I peer into the office. Yvonne goes to shut the door, but she hasn't closed it properly, and she's not alone. Mr. Creepy's in there with her. And they're kissing. My heart thumps like a drum. No wonder he gave her my project. They're having a fling, and I know for a fact, they're both married. I loudly clear my throat and Yvonne disentangles her lips from Mr. Creepy's to turn her head. It dawns on her that she didn't close the door properly, and the expression on her face is one of complete horror.

I smile sweetly at her. 'Good morning, Yvonne. Beautiful day, isn't it?'

I'm not sure if what I've just seen has helped me or not. Mr. Creepy might be so worried I'll tell his wife that he keeps me on the payroll to keep me sweet, or...he might want to get rid of me right away in case I tell the others. I sigh and make my way to the office. Why did I have to be the one to see them? I think about my options if I'm sacked, and acknowledge glumly, I don't actually have any. Maybe Hannah would take me in until I get another job. I could be a full-time unpaid babysitter.

As I sit at my desk I look up to see if Mr. Creepy and Yvonne have followed me in, but there's no sign of them. I assume they're getting their battle plans ready. As he frequently doesn't turn up to the office until one in the afternoon, it's nothing unusual for him, and now I come to think about it, Yvonne's been rather tardy about her time-keeping too.

I begin to dream about them missing the meeting altogether. If neither of them turn up I will be totally in the clear. I wonder about moving the meeting up a couple of hours to noon. Better to get the inevitable over as soon as possible. The waiting is going to be hell. At least Aiden Taylor would see my presentation, and I could tell Mr. Creepy and Yvonne that he requested the changes. It's a small fib...okay, it's quite a big one, but it's better than my plan of telling them I don't know how my campaign got onto the flash drive.

I pick up my phone and call Aiden, but he doesn't answer, and it goes to Voicemail. I leave a message for him to call me back. Mr. Creepy and Yvonne still haven't returned to the office, and it's about eleven thirty when he finally returns my call. I feel relieved when I see the restaurant's phone number on my caller ID.

'Hello, Makepiece and Shine Advertising. Primrose speaking,' I say with renewed confidence.

'Oh, hi, Primrose. This is Aiden Taylor. You called earlier. Is everything okay?' he asks.

'Everything's fine, Aiden,' I answer speaking more softly now. 'It's just that I have an opening at noon today if you would like to come in to the office early and get our meeting started.'

I look around the office, hoping no one can hear me, particularly Beth who likes to know everything that's going on.

'Well, obviously, noon is my lunch rush,' he says, 'And we get quite a few diners on Tuesdays, but if I come now I could be back to the restaurant before the lunch crowd arrives. My chefs are more than capable of running the restaurant without me, but I still like to be here. The buck stops with me.'

'That sounds great,' I say, thinking I might have saved my skin. 'Come when you're ready.'

I look upwards and silently thank whoever it is looking after me today for their assistance. If I can show Aiden his campaign as I interpreted it, I may have a chance of getting him to sign it off. I know I'm good at what I do, but to get his approval would be fantastic.

My confidence is short lived when I see Mr. Creepy enter the office, closely followed by a sheepish looking Yvonne. My heart sinks, and just for a moment I feel like crying. I almost do, but I hold back. I'm a professional and breaking down in front of them is a no-no.

'Hello, Primrose,' says Mr. Creepy, putting a heavy emphasis on my name. 'Are you ready for the meeting today?'

'Yes, Mr. C...Mr. Lewis,' I answer, almost getting his name wrong. 'There's something I need to tell you.' My minds going twenty to the dozen. Maybe if I tell him what I've done now, it'll save red faces all round. But then.... 'The meetings been moved up to noon. Mr. Taylor is on his way here.'

He nods but doesn't seem to be able to meet my eyes. 'Great. Let's get to it, then.' He turns to Yvonne. 'Are you ready, Yvonne?'

She nods, looking miserable. 'Yes, sir.'

I feel a little like a French aristocrat, about to be guillotined, already sensing the blade coming down on my neck. I leave the office, now feeling claustrophobic, and as I turn to walk down the hall, I meet Beth's eyes. She raises her eyebrows and pulls a face. Then she gives me the thumbs up and a wry smile. She must have heard me when I changed the time of the meeting. I smile back and shrug, feeling less alone. I make my way towards the boardroom, stomach churning. As I reach the door, Aiden Taylor walks through the sliding glass doors.

'Hi, Primrose. Nice to see you again,' he says, looking me in the eyes with a lovely smile. 'How's the ankle?'

I return his smile, despite how I'm feeling. 'Hello, Mr. Taylor. It's good to see you. My ankle's a lot better thanks.'

I hear a movement behind me. It's Yvonne. As reluctant as I am to be pleasant to her, I know I must introduce her to Aiden. He is the client, after all, and she is making the pitch. It would be wrong of me not to.

'Mr. Taylor, this is Yvonne. She'll make the presentation today.'

Aiden looks disappointed. 'Oh. Not you, Primrose?'

'Er, no, not today.' I would love to say more.

I show Aiden to his seat. He looks down the long table and smiles when he sees the place settings, all in Le Champignon colours.

'This looks fabulous. Did you do this, Primrose?' I nod and smile. 'I think you missed your vocation,' he says. 'Not looking for a job as a maître d', are you?' It's on the tip of my tongue to say, 'Actually, I probably will be this afternoon'.

By the time everyone has settled in their seats and begun devouring the coffee and pain au chocolat, Mr. Creepy has arrived. He has changed into a navy-blue suit...a style that is much too young for him, more of a hipster cut, and he can hardly walk. His thighs are much too wide for the skinnier than skinny cut. Yes, I'm nervous about what's about to happen, but I so want to laugh. Even Aiden has raised his eyebrows in surprise.

On one end of a long table there is a projector and a laptop, setup and ready to go. While Yvonne is making the introductions and Mr. Creepy is making some very questionable jokes, I spot the flash drive lying on the table. My inner voice kicks in. 'You can grab it before anyone notices. And pretend it got lost in all the confusion. Mr. Creepy might fire you for losing it, but it won't be as bad as being accused of deleting the whole file with his campaign on it. You must act fast. If they see you, you've had it and that will be that. You have to go for it. This could be the last chance to save your job.'

I reach out and grab the flash drive off the table, shoving both of my hands in the pockets of my shift dress. When everyone has stopped chatting we take our seats; I'm sitting across from Aiden. Mr. Creepy stands up at the head of the table.

'Mr. Taylor...Aiden,' he begins, turning to look at Aiden with an ingratiating smile. 'We have some great ideas to bring your restaurant the attention and customers it deserves. My esteemed colleague, Yvonne will show what the brains at Makepiece and Shine have put together for you. We're a team at this agency, and we've put all of our best ideas into this presentation. I'm sure you'll be impressed.' I close my eyes. No, he won't, I think. I feel for the flash drive in my pocket.

Yvonne thanks him and takes his place at the front. She smiles at Aiden.

'I could tell you what we've put together for Le Champignon, but... I'm going to show you how we will entice A1s into your restaurant, Mr. Taylor; people who have money to spend and who don't mind spending it, particularly in high-end restaurants with chefs who have flair and culinary creativity.' I sit up. They were my lines. She leans over the laptop, and switches on the projector. She hasn't noticed the missing flash drive. Just be calm when she does, I think. Don't let your facial expression give it away.

When nothing appears on the screen except the advertising agency logo, Yvonne leans down and inspects the USB port. She straightens up and looks at Mr. Creepy, shrugging.

'There's no flash drive,' she says.

'Maybe it's fallen out of the port,' he answers. He glances at Aiden, the sycophantic smile back in place. 'So sorry, Mr. Taylor,' He says smoothly. 'Please bear with us.'

Everyone begins to search on the floor and under the table, until Aiden pipes up.

'Is it the one Primrose picked up?' he asks. All eyes turn to me and I swallow hard. Damn. I pull the flash drive out of my pocket.

'Oh, look. It's a flash drive. Silly me. I thought it was my phone earpiece,' I lie, my face turning puce. Okay, Jemima Bond, your plan A didn't work. What now? I haven't got as far as Plan B. I hand the flash drive to Mr. Creepy who plugs it into the computer. Yvonne helps him open the file, and as their hands accidently touch her face turns bright red and she glances at me.

I sink down in my seat. The last thing I want is for Mr. Creepy to fire me in front of Aiden Taylor. And not just him. Half the office staff are here, like an audience, or a baying crowd, like in Gladiators. I must act as surprised as everyone else.

The program starts running. The title card is the same on both projects, so everything as expected. Yvonne uses the remote to change the screen. When I hear the click, I see my life flash before me. It reveals the first presentation of the project I created. Yvonne's rictus grin dies on her face. She looks across to Mr. Creepy, who doesn't say a word, but throws me one of the most horrible looks I've ever seen. I can only imagine how unhappy he is that I saw him kissing Yvonne. He rises from his chair and stands next to her. She seems completely thrown. Then he starts pitching, presenting my ideas the way I'd wanted to, as if this was the presentation he meant to make the whole time.

I look across to Aiden. His smile grows bigger and bigger with each presentation card, nodding with great enthusiasm. He seems very excited by all the ideas that Mr. Creepy pitches. When the last card comes up, he reads the tag line like he believes every word of it. The projector powers down and someone turns up lights as Aiden claps and nods his appreciation.

'I love how it really captured my passion for food and customer service,' he says looking over at me. I smile a watery smile, knowing I'm about to feel Mr. Creepy's boot up my derriere.

'Okaaay,' says Mr. Creepy, rubbing his hands together. 'Let's head to my office and get the paperwork signed, shall we?' He kind of bows to Aiden and ushers him through the door. 'Yvonne, settle Mr. Taylor in my office will you, there's a dear, and break open that single malt I've been saving for an occasion such as this.' He smiles at Aiden, then comes back into the boardroom. He sits next to me, his thigh rubbing up against mine. He leans in so close I can smell his breath. He whispers in my ear.

'Aren't you glad we changed it now, darling?' he says. 'You can see how much he loved my ideas. That, my dear Primrose,' he squeezes my shoulder, 'is the benefit of experience.' He squeezes my shoulder again, allowing his hand to slip a little downwards, then pats my shoulder and leaves the boardroom. Right now, I would love to be sick. He touched me. How is that right? And did he really not notice that it wasn't his work he presented to Aiden? I can't believe it. Part of me was happy, because I knew Aiden loved my campaign, but the other part was extremely sad and frustrated. How am

I going to let him know that what Mr. Creepy and Yvonne presented to him was totally my idea?

I go back into the office and sit at my desk. I'm hardly there a second when Mr. Creepy calls me from his office.

'Primrose, we need a jug of water in here.'

I get up from my seat. I want to protest but I don't. I'm guessing I dodged a bullet today. I don't want to push my luck. Then Aiden appears at the door.

'Wait a minute,' he says. 'Didn't Primrose work on the campaign too?'

Mr. Creepy turns and looks at him, then glances back at me. I can see he's weighing up whether to lie. 'Er, well, er, yes, in a manner of speaking.'

'Then, shouldn't she be in here too. Primrose went the extra mile for my campaign. She understands what I'm looking for and has visited Le Champignon. I could be mistaken, but I can't say I've noticed either you or Yvonne in the restaurant, so surely Primrose knows it better than anyone else. Plus, I like working with her. She gets me.' He looks at me, winks a very sexy wink, and smiles.

I was over the moon. Aiden Taylor had come through. He stood up for me. He must have realised the work came from me because of the content in the presentation. No one would have known most of it, unless they had been to the restaurant and spoken to him, and I was the only one who did that, by accident I confess, but he clearly appreciated it. Yes, yes, yes!

By two in the afternoon, everything was signed. When he left the building, I walked him out to his car and handed him the campaign folder I'd prepared for him.

'Thank you, Primrose,' he said, his gorgeous brown eyes meeting mine. 'I'm looking forward to working with you.'

I smile, thinking that if ever I was going to melt, this was the time. 'Me too. I think you missed your lunch rush. Sorry about that.'

He laughs. 'Oh, it was worth it, believe me.'

He gets into his car and about to pull away when something occurs to me. I knock on his window and it glides down. 'Why did you call me?' I ask.

He frowns. 'What do you mean?'

'When you called the office about starting a new ad campaign? You could have called any of a dozen people before me. Why me?'

'Well, when I used your company before I was given cards from everyone in the office that I dealt with. Yours was the one I held on to. I guess it was fate or something. We were meant to work together, Primrose,' he said, before pulling away with a wave.

I couldn't believe how the day had worked out. When I thought of the sleepless night I'd had I laughed to myself, but in a way, it was worth it. I'm on the campaign, and it's all that matters.

# If music is the food of love...I'd rather have chocolate...

Back at the flat, I'm happy to have another night to myself. The weepy films I had earmarked to watch, don't match my mood right now, so I decide on a romantic comedy. Beth bought me a DVD for my birthday, 'Christmas at Mistletoe Abbey'. You never know, it might give me some ideas, even if the storylines are sometimes a bit left field.

I pick it up from the table and read the blurb on the back. 'On her arrival at the gloriously Christmassy Mistletoe Abbey, Sophie discovers a surprising guest has been invited, and it isn't Santa Claus. Selena, Sophie's best friend, is determined to shield a broken-hearted Sophie from the wrong kind of attention and delivers some news that she can hardly believe. A meeting between her and the gorgeous TV chef, Jack Adams, contrived by a social-climbing Laetitia doesn't go well, yet Sophie knows there's a magnetic attraction between them.'

I snort with laughter. 'Really?' I say to myself. 'Oh, please. Who gets invited away for the weekend and falls I love with the chef?' I shake my head and slip it into the DVD player. I'd better watch it because there's no doubt Hannah will question me about it, to see whether I've watched it. She always does that, and I don't want to hurt her feelings. I get myself comfortable on the settee with a huge tub of popcorn, and a box of tissues, just in case. It's been a long day and frankly I'm exhausted. My sleep debt must be huge.

I wake with a start. My mobile is ringing, and I curse it. I'd forgotten to switch it to silent, although I hadn't meant to fall asleep. I grab it and look at the screen. Number unknown. Oh, well.

'Hello.' My voice is fuggy from sleep.

'Primrose?'

Oh, my God, it's Aiden Taylor. 'Aiden!' My voice comes out in a kind of squeak. I pull the phone away from my mouth and clear my throat. 'Aiden.'

'I'm sorry to disturb you, Primrose. I hope I didn't interrupt anything.'

'Oh...oh, no, don't worry. Just catching up on some work.' I get up and look in the mirror. My mascara has clumped around my eyes and run down my cheeks and I've got popcorn stuck in my hair. 'Is everything okay?'

'Everything's fine. I just wondered if you would like to come over to the restaurant for a drink. There are some things I'd like to discuss with you.'

I look at the time on my phone. It's only seven thirty. 'Yes, yes of course. That would be great. Would eight thirty be okay? Just got to tie up some loose ends.' I pull a face at the mess in my hair.

'That'll be perfect,' he says. 'See you then.'

I glance into the rearview mirror, wondering how I managed to make myself look remotely human and on time in an hour. Part of me wanted to stay where I was, but Aiden invited me over, and there was no way I would turn him down. I thought about what he wanted to discuss. He loves the campaign and has agreed everything. I just hope he hasn't changed his mind about anything.

The maître d' greets me as I enter the restaurant.

'Good evening, how can I help you?'

'I'm here to see Aiden, er, Mr. Taylor.'

He smiles. 'Oh, yes, Ms. Hill. Come this way.' I'm impressed. Aiden must have told his maître d' to expect me. I feel a bit like royalty and it makes me giggle.

The maître d' shows me into a beautiful office, very up to date with modern art on the walls. 'He'll be with you in a moment,' he says. From the office I can see out into the restaurant. It's a magical place. It should be full to bursting every night. I hope I can help Aiden make sure that happens. And just as the maître d, said, Aiden is with me in a few seconds.

He smiles widely and offers me a drink from his personal cabinet. I think about what to have. I shouldn't mix business with pleasure, although I'm in great need of something deeply alcoholic. 'A soft drink will be fine, thank you.'

Aiden nods and reaches into a tiny fridge. I watch his hands as he takes the top off the bottle and pours the juice into a sparkling glass. Everything is so measured about him, the way he speaks, the ways he dresses, the way he moves his hands. It's almost hypnotic.

'Primrose. PRIMROSE.' I become embarrassingly aware he's speaking to me. 'Are you okay, Primrose?'

'Oh, I'm so sorry. I...I.' Just a little tired.'

He hands me the glass. 'Yes, it was quite a day, wasn't it?' I nod and smile. 'So, why do you work for that creep?'

My mouth drops open. 'Er, who do you mean?'

'I think you know who I mean. He treats you like a slave. Why is that?'

I shake my head. 'I don't know, Mr. Taylor.'

He frowns. 'Aiden, please.'

I shrug and take a sip of my drink. 'He seems to have taken against me for some reason, even called me by the wrong name for the first few days, although, I think he had some help with that.'

He nods. 'You're too good for them. That campaign's brilliant, and I know it was all your work.' I smile, not knowing what to say. I still work at Makepiece and Shine, and without my job, the flat goes.

'Would you work for me?'

I stare at him, stunned. 'Work for you? Um, I don't know...I.' I laugh. 'I'm sorry, Aiden, I'm slightly stunned. How could I work for you?'

'You could look after our public relations and campaigns. You're very good at what you do, and I only want the best.'

I look down at my glass, not knowing what to say. Aiden takes the glass from my hand.

'Y'know, Primrose, that must be the worst chat-up line you've ever heard. I'm so sorry, but I couldn't think of anything else.'

'Chat-up line? So, you don't want me to work for you?'

He laughs. 'Yes, of course I do, but ever since you came into the restaurant the other night, I can't stop thinking about you. When I said I held on to your card, that was the truth. I held on to it because you made such an impression on me. You were so sweet when we met before, I knew I wanted it to be you to work on my campaign this time, but when I met you again... You looked like you had stars in your eyes.' He looks down. 'Do you believe in love at first sight?'

'Second sight,' I say playfully.

He grins. 'Well, I suppose so.'

I'm blown away. That this gorgeous, lovely guy has been thinking about me has taken my breath away. I stare into his eyes and I'm lost in them.

'I do believe in love at first sight. As soon as I saw you again, well, I never dreamt you would feel like that about me, although Mr. Creepy might have something to say about it.'

Aiden throws his head back and laughs. 'Mr. Creepy. Yes, the perfect name.' He takes my hand. 'Can I hope, Primrose, that you and I...'

I lean forward and kiss him. His lips are soft and melting, and I feel like I've gone to heaven. I pull reluctantly away and nod. 'Yes, Aiden. You can hope, with all you heart.'

He puts a warm hand against my cheek and pulls me gently towards him. My body melds into his and I close my eyes.

Who on earth gets invited somewhere and falls in love with the chef?

# THE END

Thank you for reading!

Dear Friend and fellow Lover of Romantic Comedy,

I hope you enjoyed PRIMROSE HILL IS SUDDENLY SINGLE. As you can see below, PRIMROSE HILL IS SUDDENLY SINGLE is a novella in the Snuggle Up Romance Series. The next in the series, THE CHOCOLATE SHOP ON CHRISTMAS STREET is loved-up fun; a great way to spend the holiday.

As an author, I love feedback. Candidly, you're the reason I continue writing about the characters you love. So, tell me what you liked, what you loved, and even what you didn't love. It would be good to hear from you. You can write to me at andreahicks@gmail.com and visit me on the web at www.andreahicks-writer.com

Finally, if you're so inclined, a review would be much appreciated. Whatever your thoughts, I'd just enjoy your feedback.

Thank you for reading PRIMROSE HILL IS SUDDENLY SINGLE, and for spending so much time with me.

In gratitude,

Ándrèa xxx

About Ándrèa...

Ándrèa Hicks is the bestselling author of women's fiction and fantasy. Her novel, THE OTHER BOY was shortlisted for THE RICHARD AND JUDY SEARCH FOR A BESTSELLER and the following instalment of The Snuggle Up Romance Series, THE WEDDING SHOP ON CHRISTMAS STREET is the next in a sequence of novellas about love and life. Her warm and heartfelt writing takes us into the lives of four 21st Century women; each novella focusing on a different main character.

Sophie Trevelyan in CHRISTMAS AT MISTLETOE ABBEY

Rosie Tennyson in THE CHOCOLATE SHOP ON CHRISTMAS STREET

Sacha Tate in THE ONE YOU LEFT BEHIND

Primrose Hill in PRIMROSE HILL IS SUDDENLY SINGLE

Many thanks for choosing The Snuggle Up Romance Series

You'll find me on Twitter @AndreatheWriter,on Facebook and at www.andreahicks-writer.com

You can contact me on andreahickswriter@gmail.com

Books by Ándrèa Hicks

THE GIRL WITH THE RED SCARF

THE DANDELION CLOCK

THE RANDOM EFFECT

A GIRL CALLED RANDOM

CHRISTMAS AT MISTLETOE ABBEY

THE CHOCOLATE SHOP ON CHRISTMAS STREET

PRIMROSE HILL IS SUDDENLY SINGLE

THE ONE YOU LEFT BEHIND

...and the next full-length novel by Ándrèa Hicks...

THE OTHER BOY

Shortlisted for the Richard and Judy Search for a Bestseller
