London Bound (A Heart of the City romance Book 3) Read online

  ‘Just stop driving like a lunatic,’ I said, spinning on my heel, happy to have the last word.

  ‘Well, I’ll stop driving like one if you stop acting like one.’

  I froze, slowly turning to face him. ‘Excuse me?’

  Jack laughed. ‘You heard me.’

  ‘What are you, five?’

  Jack’s response was broken by the distant knocking that had the both of us turning to see …

  Oh God.

  Nana Joy, tapping on the glass in annoyance, sitting in the window like something out of an Alfred Hitchcock movie.

  ‘Are you being summoned?’ he asked, so smug I could scream.

  I wanted to die. Now I was the one who felt like a five-year-old. No doubt she had heard me screaming at Jack; oh God, had I dropped the F-bomb? This day was just going from bad to worse.

  How I hated Jack Baker, hated him with such burning passion that even if I was returning to my stunningly decorated prison, at least I was getting away from him. Getting away from both Nana and Jack would be ideal, but that wasn’t going to happen for me today.

  ‘Night, Kate.’

  I glared at him, his stupid smirk marking his face.

  ‘Oh, piss off, Jack, why don’t you go be a big hero and do some laps in Daddy’s car.’

  Jack laughed, so much so that I couldn’t help but turn back to him.

  ‘Daddy’s car?’ He shook his head. ‘You know nothing about me.’

  ‘And I don’t want to,’ I said indignantly, moving to push through the front door.

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ he called out.

  I couldn’t believe the gall of this man. There was only one possible answer to his question: I stepped inside and slammed the door behind me.

  Chapter Two

  ‘You could hear everything?’

  Vera paused at the sink. ‘Everything.’

  I crunched on a biscuit, cringing at the thought. Now that the adrenaline had worn off I was regretting some of my churlish behaviour.

  ‘Well, I hope you’re happy,’ came a voice from the doorway. Nana Joy shuffled into the kitchen with her walking stick, an air of superiority in her posture. Even when she was disgusted she carried herself with great dignity. ‘God only knows what the neighbours must have thought,’ she said, coming to stand near the kitchen table.

  ‘I didn’t think you much cared about the neighbours, Nana,’ I quipped. I didn’t have the patience for round two of the ‘You stupid girl’ routine, I had gotten enough of that the second I had come through the front door.

  ‘And what have I told you about you walking the streets? If you were murdered, how on earth would I explain that to your mother?’

  ‘Murdered. Jesus,’ I said, rolling my eyes.

  ‘Don’t you roll your eyes at me, Katherine Elizabeth, the world is very different these days; there are sex fiends lurking in the bushes just waiting for a young woman such as yourself to walk down the street.’

  I tried not to laugh because I knew it would be the death of me. ‘I don’t recall many bushes on Gloucester Road, Nana.’

  Vera turned fully away, concentrating on scrubbing an old pot, but I could see the slight vibration of her shoulders as she muffled her laughing.

  ‘Well, I don’t want you leaving this house without a chaperone,’ Nana Joy declared.

  I straightened in my seat. ‘A chaperone? It’s not 1895.’

  The men out there were going to be more Jack Baker than Jack the Ripper. I was seriously starting to wonder if Nana had a subscription to the Criminal Investigation channel or a copy of London’s Grizzliest Murders on her nightstand. Maybe this was why my mother left home as soon as she was of age.

  ‘I don’t care, Katherine, as long as you live under my roof, you will do as I say. Vera, another pot of tea, please, I need to still my nerves,’ she said, moving slowly back to the kitchen door and down the hall.

  ‘I’m a prisoner,’ I said, mainly to myself, but I could tell Vera’s eyes were on me as she dried her hands on the tea towel.

  ‘She just worries, is all.’

  ‘Oh yeah, I could see how worried she was when I was nearly the victim of a hit-and-run; all she cares about is herself.’

  ‘She’ll ease up on the curfew as time goes by; there are going to be times when you’ll need to go out.’

  This did not reassure me in the slightest.

  ‘There has to be more to life than milk-and-bread runs to the shop, Vera. I need to explore, be inspired, soak up the rich culture of my heritage. Have a pint at the local, pash an English boy in muted disco light: you know, the normal things we aspire to.’

  ‘What, like the English boy next door?’ Vera said teased.

  I laughed. ‘Oh don’t. I can’t bear to think about it,’ I said, burying my head into my hands and desperately wishing I’d never met Jack Baker and his perfect bloody smile.

  I stared, unblinking, at the flicking cursor on the page, the very blank page, which was even more depressing than the rain outside. It was a damning indictement of my lacklustre entrée into the blogging world. Don’t get me wrong, the setup was amazing – flashy but classy, factual and interesting. Covering my three biggest loves – fashion, beauty, travel – my blog had been an absolute obsession of mine at home. Once upon a time I had been rather prolific with my daily musings about my destined travel. Blog entries of the latest, life-altering make-up haul I bought on sale, or the recent eBay package I had won, a pre-loved Burberry scarf that had cleaned out my bank account, forcing me to take on extra shifts so I could pay my phone bill; you know, the usual. The past three weeks, however, my muse had fled and I struggled to update my site; I had zero inspiration and my mood was utterly black. It hadn’t happened instantly; I had afforded myself the luxury of exploring my surrounds and, as far as digs went, I couldn’t exactly complain. I wasn’t shoved into a basement, or a windowless attic with no heating. I occupied the whole second floor, which consisted of an apartment-sized room with bed, lounge and terrace. More than enough for Kate Brown Blogging HQ, should inspiration choose to strike again … ever. I was even more cranky when I was prevented from stepping out onto my terrace to enjoy the scarce sunshine. And after today’s disastrous discovery, Nana Joy was going to be more diligent about me being a prisoner than ever before, including brief sojourns on the balcony.

  Even before the Jack Baker incident, Nana had been vocal on the dangers that lurked beyond our front door. ‘The neighbourhood isn’t what it used to be, Katherine.’ Her beady blue eyes focused across the road as she spoke about the increasingly multicultural neighbourhood, her borderline racism adding to the charming little package that was Joy Ellingham.

  Mary and Tomas Peersahib were the cheery lower-level occupants of the terrace next door. They had an adorable little boy, Spencer, who would merrily thunder up and down the street on his bike, with his grandmother Esther in tow. Sitting in the back garden, my eyes would often stray to the long, colourful line of their clothesline that peeked over the top level of our courtyard, and the delicious spicy smells from their kitchen always made my stomach rumble. On the level above the infuriating Jack Baker lived a Belgian couple, and a German family occupied one of the split-levels. Aside from Jack, I enjoyed the interactions I had with the neighbours on the street; Lord knows I felt sorry for them having to live next to Joy. When I explained what had brought me to London and where I was living, their raised brows and nods of sympathy were enough to tell me that Nana Joy’s reputation preceded her, and I couldn’t help but feel embarrassed, wondering how on earth she had come to be so hateful. My mum was nothing like her: she was open, warm, friendly. It was no wonder she immigrated to Australia in her twenties; she had picked the furthest place she could think of.

  Dismayed, I closed my laptop with a sigh, just as I had done every day for the past three weeks. I had such grand plans: blog about my London adventures; grow my subscriber list; become one of the internet ‘It’ girls and be offered a regular column in Vogue. I’d
even changed the theme on my blog.

  ‘Kate on the Thames’: black-and-white tones with pops of red. The very first picture I had taken was of me standing in a red telephone box answering a call with mock surprise, which I posted with a short piece about my (now futile) plans in Ol’ Blighty. But since then I’d written nothing, and in the fast-moving world of the interwebs I knew that a lack of new content meant certain death. I had to get my shit together, I had to find a way to balance being an attentive punching bag for Nana, and being able to get out and about. But any time I thought about leaving Nana’s fortress, a certain man’s smile would flash in my mind.

  Seriously, Kate?

  I flung myself back on my mattress, dragging the cushion from my side and muffling my scream into it.

  What am I doing with my life?

  Chapter Three

  Sunday afternoon I finally had my chance.

  It wasn’t anything that I had concocted with Vera exactly; she was too much of a goody two-shoes to openly discuss plans of deceit. But her carefully phrased yet seemingly innocent words weren’t lost on me as she took great care in putting Nana’s coat on, slotting in her walking stick and helping her into her wheelchair, the preferred method of transportation for their daily outings: preferred by Vera, that is; it was one way to strap her in and take control.

  ‘Now, we will probably be gone most of the afternoon, Kate, we’re going to go visit Joy’s friend Cybil.’

  ‘Oh, okay, that will be nice,’ I said, lurking on the staircase as they got organised in the foyer.

  ‘Yes, well, Cybil’s not long been out of hospital so she could probably do with some cheering up.’ Nana sighed, as if the very thought of it was an imposition.

  I cocked my brow. Nana Joy was making a house call to ‘cheer up’ her friend?

  Poor bloody Cybil.

  ‘Yes, we have a few goodies packed for the afternoon, and we should be back by four.’ This time when Vera spoke, her eyes locked with mine and her eyes widened as she stood behind Nana, mouthing the word ‘four’ once more.

  I recognised the opportunity she had presented me with, quickly calculating in my head.

  Five hours of freedom!

  I tried to keep my face neutral, even bored, as I nodded. ‘Well, have fun!’ I said.

  ‘Don’t go touching the gas stove, Katherine.’ Nana gave me a pointed look.

  ‘Oh no, with water and crackers in the cupboard, I should be just fine.’ I smiled sweetly.

  Nana simply looked at me. ‘Sarcasm is very unattractive on you, Katherine.’

  Normally I would have been annoyed by her parting words, but nothing could wipe the smile from my face as I waved them off. I stood for one full minute until I felt the black cloud of darkness lift from the house then I turned and bounded up the stairs, squealing all the way.

  It was a race against the clock, every minute was of the essence. Peeling off my T-shirt and trackies, I pulled apart my drawers and wardrobe, flinging clothes over my shoulder to land on the bed behind, agonising over what to wear on my first trip out. This was my chance to explore my corner of the world, take some photos for my blog and sample the local delights. I could feel the blood pumping through my veins at all that the afternoon would bring.

  If there was one thing I was passionate about, it was clothes, fashion, make-up – okay, that was three things, but they were my three things. They’re what made me feel alive, and feminine, and confident. I wasn’t merely boring Kate Brown from Oz or the disappointing granddaughter Katherine Elizabeth. Nope. I could be anyone I wanted to be.

  I arranged the perfect outfit on the bed. A black-and-white textured tweed bow jacket with three-quarter pants and ankle boots. And my hot red, pebbled leather handbag with a cross-body strap, all the better to move quickly with. It was always my preference to wear bold pops of colour. Studying my reflection in the mirror, I was somewhat underwhelmed with my long, straight blonde hair and medium brown eyes. Still, height was on my side; I was the tallest in my family at five-eight, so that was something.

  Resisting the urge to slide down the banister, I rushed down the stairs and to the door, ripping it open so fast my hair whooshed back over my shoulders and I stepped out to—

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’

  A sky heavy with clouds and the beginning of rain which could be put down to a simple summer shower, but unlikely. I doubled back into the house for the brolly that I should have thought to pack. But seeing as leaving the house wasn’t exactly a common affair for any of us, there was nothing more than a hat, scarf and coat on the rack behind the door.

  ‘Oh, come on, Joy!’ I sighed. Sure every British home contained at least three umbrellas? I couldn’t recall if Vera had taken anything on her way out. I had been too excited about my imminent escape. The rain was more of a consistent drizzle now and I argued with myself about what to do. Walking in the rain may seem a romantic notion, but in the movies they never seem to be left with frizzy hair and panda eyes. Then what would I end up blogging about tonight? Waterproofing your leather accessories? Riveting.

  Every minute I delayed, my amazing mood dimmed, no more so than when I found myself headed back up the stairs. There had to be something here that could shelter me from the elements: a poncho? Mexican sombrero? I searched through the hall cupboards, under the bed, in drawers, until I came to the door at the end of the landing, the room that I had been forbidden to go into. I hadn’t asked any questions, I assumed that it was Grandad’s study, or maybe a place where Nana mixed her potions and kept her broomsticks. And like a toddler told not to touch a shiny red button, I found myself drawn to the door, stilling before the ornate wooden barrier and biting my lip. I really shouldn’t, but then again, everything on this floor was pretty much mine. Nana had been living on the ground level for nearly a decade as the stairs had become too much for her. I took a small degree of comfort from knowing she was unlikely to burst into my room. Surely she’d never know? The longer I held onto the handle, the less guilty I felt. I wasn’t snooping; I was just looking for an umbrella, that’s all.

  ‘In and out.’ I nodded with a sense of finality as I twisted the handle and pushed open the door revealing …

  ‘Oh. My. God.’

  Chapter Four

  I died the moment I opened the door to the forbidden room. Surely I was standing in heaven, in the presence of all that was sacred and holy?

  This wasn’t Grandad’s study, or a torture chamber, and certainly not an umbrella storage room. It was so much more exciting than those things, and so incredibly unexpected. And it had been sitting here all this time, mere feet away from my own door.

  Why hadn’t I ventured in sooner?

  Before me was a giant room lined with powder-blue moulded cabinetry that hosted a mass of shelves and drawers with gold handles, lit by an ornate chandelier. Floor-to-ceiling shelves were filled with vintage designer handbags on the right and, to the left, shoes of every colour. The space was divided by a gold filigree full-length mirror that reflected my wide eyes and gaping mouth. Without blinking, without breathing, I stepped forward, anchoring myself to the gorgeous island bench in the centre of the room, under the chandelier. The top of the island was made entirely of glass, protecting an array of impressive earrings, bracelets, accessories of the most spectacular fashion, from dust. I shook my head, moving to the back of the room, running my hands over the opulent fabrics that hung along the wall.

  Chanel, Burberry, Vuitton, Saint Laurent. Why wasn’t this room protected by laser security? Why wasn’t it temperature controlled with an eye retina scanner for access? My heart thundered in my chest. A lifetime’s worth of the most beautiful designer brands, whose value I couldn’t bear to think about, shut away on the second floor and forgotten. I felt like I had won a golden ticket into the chocolate factory. I wanted to spin around and sing, and I just might have if I hadn’t been so terrified of knocking into something. Double doors in the middle of the wall caught my attention; would it lead to more
clothes? My heart couldn’t take much more. I grabbed both handles, surprised when they turned easily. It wasn’t even locked! How could this woman be so wary about the dangers of the world and yet have such valuable treasures unguarded? Drawing in a deep, steadying breath, I pushed my way through.

  ‘Wow!’

  The doors led to a bedroom, large and chic with a beautiful dressing table lined with perfumes and powders, lipsticks and a gorgeous silver hand-held mirror and brush set.

  This must have been Joy’s room before she moved downstairs. The room was white and bright even though I hadn’t turned on the light. The carpet was thick and plush underfoot, and there wasn’t a thing out of place; it felt like a kind of time capsule, and for a moment I felt a sense of appreciation for my nana and her glamorous past life. So this was where I had inherited my love of beautiful things from. Mum and Dad were not in the least bit materialistic and had always frowned upon my appetite for the finer things in life; well, now it all made sense. I was the descendant of Joy Ellingham, and for the first time in my life I was excited about it.

  After combing every square inch of Nana’s collection, I found not one but five umbrellas. I had told myself to make good use of my time, seeing as it would be the one and only time I would come in here. But I had lost two full hours in the throes of euphoria, so my exploration time was now limited.

  ‘Shit.’

  I had to be back long before Vera and Joy to escape suspicion, which left barely two hours for my trip out. Besides, I had an idea, one I felt rather giddy about and one that I would sit down and draw up as soon as I was free from confinement.

  I headed down Gloucester Road and straight into the path of the Stanhope Arms hotel, which was bustling with men lingering out front, downing a swift pint with mates. I took down my bright yellow umbrella as I brushed past the group to an even more crowded space inside. I was ready to go back out the door when I was pounced on by a cheery waitress.