Lost (Arielle Lockley Series Book 2) (2 page)

‘And I’ll look like a princess, won’t I, Aunty Arielle? Everyone will look at meeeeeeee, because I’ll be so beautiful.’ Annabelle twirls around, her wavy blonde hair madly flying around her head. ‘I’ll look better than you, stinky Aunty Arielle!’

She bursts into a peal of laughter at this and collapses on the floor – oh to be six years old – and I raise my eyebrows at Piers. Annabelle really needs someone to administer a healthy injection of reality into her life because Giles, her dad, and Zlata, the nanny, are raising a little monster, if you ask me. A little monster who thinks she is invincible, and is by all accounts.

When Annabelle deliberately smashed her mum’s urn and several expensive vases the other month, just because she decided that her hand painting would look better where they were and Zlata couldn’t move them quick enough, the only repercussion was that Giles bought her a Shetland pony. A fucking Shetland pony!

She’s named him Boris Johnson after the Conservative London Mayor candidate, and whilst I
do
see the similarity, I
don’t
agree with his parenting tactic. Also, what six-year-old knows what a politician is,
and then names their pony after one?

That aside, I’m not convinced that anyone’s earthly remains should be shared between a plastic container and a vacuum cleaner because of a wayward child who then gets rewarded for their bratty behaviour, even if they idolise politicians over Peppa Pig and look like butter wouldn’t melt in their mouth.

I get that Annabelle has lost her mother – something I’m dreading as an adult, and I can’t begin to comprehend what it must be like to grow up sans mum – but there’s treating Annabelle in a sensitive way, and then there’s sanctioning blue murder. Which Giles does. Thinking about it, I’m not sure having her as my bridesmaid was the greatest idea.

I have visions of Annabelle tearing down the aisle, ripping her dress off and shouting obscenities at our guests, but I came to the depressing conclusion when we started planning the wedding party that I don’t really have any close friends to ask. What message would it give out if I didn’t have at least
one
bridesmaid on the day? Felicity is probably my closest female friend, but I think at the age of 76 she wouldn’t appreciate me bestowing that “privilege” upon her, especially considering what’s she going through at the moment. Sometimes I wish we could just run off and elope, but Piers would hate that.

‘Very amusing, Bells,’ Piers responds, which is a lot more polite than my answer would have been if it was just Annabelle and I in the room. ‘But if that’s how you’re going to behave, Taffy will be a bridesmaid and you’ll spend the day with Granny Ida.’

My hero
. Predictably though, the bottom lip starts to wobble.

Annabelle doesn’t realise that her cousin won’t even be at the wedding as she’s Giles’ late wife’s niece – no blood relation to Piers – but it’s a genius way of reining her in. The two are fiercely competitive in a way that is terrifying when you remind yourself that they are only six and seven years old respectively.

‘Now, now, Bells. Uncle Piers is joking.’

Giles hurriedly steps over to pick her up off the floor where she’s been rolling around in an expensive-looking lace party frock for the past five minutes. It’s now sporting dirt marks on the delicate cream fabric.

‘But I will send you to bed,
and
you won’t get to ride BoJo tomorrow.’

Hallelujah! Giles is actually parenting her for once though, of course, he’ll have clean forgotten this threat by the time morning rolls round or when she comes back downstairs later tonight.

Britain came good for once and it’s white with snow out there. It’s also ridiculously chilly with a bitter easterly wind blowing, not helped because Giles is ridiculously tight and won’t have the thermostat above eighteen degrees Celsius. I have a t-shirt, a jumper
and
a thick cardigan on to try and stay warm. The last thing I want to do is forgo a lie-in to drive twelve miles to watch Annabelle trot around on BoJo for a grand total of ten minutes before she gets bored and decides she wants to head home.

I cringe as Annabelle jabs her dad with a red crayon she’s had secreted who-knows-where, drawing a line down the back of his shirt as he picks her up, then plonks her on the sofa.

Despite my not-so-subtle hints that I would happily go through his clothes like I did with Piers when we first started going out, Giles has never taken me up on my kind offer to stop him from looking like colour vomit.

Today he’s wearing bright yellow and brown checked trousers with a white shirt that has seen better days, crayon-mark aside, and a bottle green jumper. Annabelle calls it his Rupert Bear outfit, which always used to make me wonder if Annabelle was colour blind, but it was finally explained that Piers and Giles’ beloved Granny Mary, sadly now deceased, knitted them a Rupert Bear toy when they were children – she used green wool for the jumper as she needed the red for something else.

Annabelle is now the proud owner of that very battered bear, much to Piers’ chagrin, and still has no clue what the real Rupert Bear looks like. I offered to buy her a proper one, but they reacted like I had offered to sell her to the circus. The Bramley family can be very odd at times, but I suppose I will become one of them and gain odd qualities of theirs, embrace them even.

‘But that will make BoJo sad. Why should he be punished?’ Annabelle craftily suggests, poised to launch a crayon attack on the sofa.

Piers grabs it before she can; he’s going to make an excellent dad.

‘And you told Rhonda we’d be there,’ she continues, kicking her feet up and down on the sofa.

Giles goes pink.

‘Should we put Rhonda down as your plus one then?’ I cheekily ask.

Pink turns to red.

‘Well, she’s just... well, I mean, she’s a damn fine lady,’ Giles stumbles out.

‘Calm down, old man.’ Piers laughs. ‘You are allowed to find love again, you know.’

Even though Giles is the older brother, his confidence with women is appalling. He’s not as fanciable as Piers, though I would think that, but he’s tall and handsome like his brother, albeit in a softer way. Giles has dimpled cheeks whilst Piers has sharp cheekbones like a model; they both have slightly broken-looking noses from playing rugby. They are undeniably brothers.

As Piers and Giles chat on about the tongue-tying Rhonda, and Annabelle starts playing with her new
Ever After High
doll, I heave a sigh of relief that Piers decided that Giles should be his best man instead of Nigel. Nigel was less than congratulatory to my face at our engagement news. Of course, in front of Piers he was all smiles and slaps on the back...

‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come over and say hi?’ I asked desperately.

We were in Ronnie Scott’s with just Nigel, and the last thing I wanted was to be left alone with that man. The usually deep and beautiful jazz sounded sour with Nigel around, but Piers had insisted we invite him along. I’d avoided him since Piers proposed, but I couldn’t delay it any longer.

‘I’ll be two minutes. Keep Nigel company and enjoy the music.’ He slapped Nigel on the back, and headed across to the bar where he’d spotted one of his clients.

I wasn’t sure about keeping Nigel company but I was happy to enjoy the music. We were sitting in the gold section, right at the front, and we had a perfect view. The girl on stage was electrifying, despite her appearance. She was certainly no jazz diva of old with a sleek appearance and sophisticated confidence. Her clothes may have looked the part, but her wild curly red hair, a whole pencil’s worth of eyeliner around her dazzling blue eyes, and tattoos galore on display did not. She looked like she’d be more at home as the lead singer of a rock band with her tiny frame, even if her voice was born for jazz. Where was she keeping those powerful lungs? She was smaller than me.

As the horn section built faster and faster, and the cheers got louder and louder, the girl finally sashayed forward and threw open her arms, raising her head to the ceiling. The band stopped, on cue, and she glanced back down to us, her awed audience. In her sultry voice, she finished the song with a ridiculous amount of confidence for someone playing her very first show. Piers and his client at the bar were both almost slack-jawed at this performance. Nigel, of course, looked like we’d just made him listen to a tone-deaf three-year-old murder a Christmas carol.
Wanker
.

‘How’s Nina then?’ I asked as the applause died down and the girl strolled off the stage to down what looked like a triple whisky. There wasn’t even a splutter from her; it went down the hatch smoothly.

‘Valentina,’ he sneered. I wasn’t surprised that Nina had been replaced already. ‘But, let’s talk about you.’

There was something about that girl that seemed familiar, or maybe it was her outfit that I recognised. That was it. It wasn’t her clothes, per se, but her style. She looked like she’d raided Felicity’s wardrobe.

I was completely envious of what looked to be an authentic Christian Dior Corolle full skirt-suit. Her peach silk tussore coat, bordered with scalloped cream lace, was divine, even if she’d rolled up the sleeves to show off her tattoos.

‘Arielle?’ Nigel barked at me.

I reluctantly turned my attention back to him, after seeing the girl down another generous shot of amber liquid.

‘What?’ I remarked insolently. Screw Nigel with his barking orders.

‘I said, let’s talk about you.’

I shot a look back across to the bar but Piers was deep in conversation with his client, a short, bald guy in an expensive suit. So much for two minutes. As I turned back to Nigel, I looked once more for the girl but she’d gone.

‘What do you want to talk about, Nigel?’ I asked with a roll of my eyes, noticing
his
piggy eyes resting on my boobs.

‘I’ve been thinking about you.’

He licked his lips like I was a steak, and I quickly pulled my silk kimono top tighter, which only caused him to sneer more.

‘Where is this going?’ I snapped.

‘I’ve been wondering what you’re like in bed. You must fuck like a fifty thousand dollar whore to have been kept around for this long. You’ll never last though. The gentlemen of the Bramley family are famous for having wives who they divorce or who croak it before the fifth wedding anniversary, saving them the hassle. Death or divorce, which would you prefer?’

It was a great struggle to refrain from slapping him around his stupid, smug, fat face and then dumping the remnants of the ice bucket over his head.

‘You’re a prick, Nigel,’ I hissed as I stood up, pushing my heavy plush red chair into his foot. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me.’

I headed towards the loos before he could answer me, though I could feel his beady eyes watching me, taking in my bum in my leather trousers and how long my legs looked in my sky-high, sparkly silver Gina heels.

Collapsing down on the closed loo seat when I was safely out of his sight, I took a steadying breath.

Nigel has always made me feel inferior, right back from the very beginning, but that was the first time he had been openly nasty to my face and openly explicit. Still, it showed me what he’d always thought of me, that back when I was Piers’ “kept” woman I was no more than a whore to him. Looks like he stills sees me that way, as a piece of paid meat he can ogle over.

I’ll show him though. I’m going to have the best shop that London has ever seen, and I’m more than just a kept woman. I’m going to become a businesswoman to be reckoned with and then Nigel will choke on his words... if I ever find my premises, that is.

‘Right...’

I don’t know what else I can say. I’d heard the tales, knew that finding a place to rent in London can be pretty terrible, but it turns out finding a commercial property is a real ball-ache.

Before Christmas I struggled. In my first two weeks of searching I looked at, what felt like, hundreds of websites, only to find out that if you hit “email the estate agent” no one ever gets back to you.

So, I started calling the estate agents as soon as I spotted suitable properties, ignoring specifics like “2,000 sq ft” – I have no clue as to how that translates into actual space – only to be told that the properties had already been snapped up. Apparently you should also keep an eye out for the date the property was listed. If it’s more than two weeks ago, it’s either gone, or it’s a real dive. (But if it’s gone, why keep it up on their website?)

As it’s now the New Year I’ve been thinking positively, and not just because I have a catch-up meeting with Felicity this month. Despite my positive thoughts, I was amazed that the estate agent told me the property I’d rung up about
is still available
. Even better, I can view it
today
. What I hadn’t expected to see though was this.

‘It’s a deli,’ I finally say as I peer through the greasy glass and take in what’s in front of me. I’m pretty sure that the photos on the website showed a shop, an actual shop. I dread to think how much it’s going to cost to rip everything out and re-fit it as a boutique. ‘And–’

Actually I’m not going to say that. I now know that 140 square feet is tiny, and there’s no wonder it is still available. I step back from the window and push my hair away from my face. Stupid wind. So much for blow-drying it.

‘Shall we go in?’

So he’s not going to even answer the deli question. And this is – I sneak a look at the particulars – £22,000 a year. Bloody hell. Who would pay twenty-two grand for this shoebox? I have no idea how big Arielle’s is back in Bournemouth, or how much Felicity pays for it, but I bet she’d have change to spare from £22,000. She’d probably have change to spare even including the cost of utilities, insurance, and all the other money-guzzlers I’m discovering exist if you’d like to run your own business. Having a shop, especially a shop in London, doesn’t come cheap. So much for this recession leading to bargain retail space.

I force myself to smile at Steve, the man who is making me very glad that Piers bought our house long before I came on the scene and that I managed to avoid being shown shit-holes by men like this. We’re
never
moving.

‘Lead the way,’ I say tightly.

I find it really hard to trust a man who wears a poly-blend suit. It’s not shiny enough to have once belonged to his dad – Steve looks about fourteen – but it suggests to me that since Steve isn’t a power dresser, he isn’t a power player. I also suspect there’s a reason this deli, which was pretending to be a shop, is still available.

I’m hit with that reason as soon as I follow Steve through the battered-looking door and I nearly throw up on the spot.

‘Now it’s a little–’

I don’t hear the end of the sentence because, at the sight of a large, mean, grey rat staring at me evilly from the counter, I am out of the deli faster than Usain Bolt on a starting line. I’m gulping clean, non-greasy air, hopefully with no rat chewing my black Gianvito Rossi biker boots.

‘Why is this place up for rent?’ I ask Steve who has followed me out, trying to steady my breath. ‘What happened to the people who ran the deli?’

‘They had a health and safety issue,’ Steve replies smoothly, without missing a beat. ‘But it’s nothing to worry about since you’ll be gutting the place. We can talk to the owner about the dilapidations.’

He’s talking to me like I’ve just been cooing about the deli and have expressed my unwavering interest in it. Also, what are dilapidations? I probably should have taken Dad and Piers up on their offer to give me a crash course in business, but I wanted to do this by myself.

‘It’s a clothes shop you’ll be putting in here, right?’ Steve continues, squinting at me.

It’s one of those deceiving British days where the sky is bright blue and teases that spring is coming, but really it’s a bitter cold winter’s day. I shove my hands in the pockets of my tan wrap coat, cursing myself for forgetting my gloves. 

‘No,’ I flatly say, ‘I won’t be putting anything in there. Ever.’

Even if it wasn’t a condemned fleapit, there looked to be enough room for a tiny serving area and a place for customers to stand whilst they waited for their order. I could probably have a till, a rack of clothes, and a tiny fitting room in the back corner with some clever hanging of a rail and curtain, but nothing more. It would be the worst shop ever.

I glance around. OK, it’s a Tuesday but it’s eleven a.m. and I’ve not seen one person on this street since we arrived. The sleepy-looking vinyl shop next door to the deli has seen better days, and the photo-printing shop at the other side looks the same. No wonder it is still available. This street is dead.

‘But if you–’

‘NO.’

‘Oh.’ Steve looks a little dejected. ‘Well, why not?’ I raise my eyebrows. ‘Fair enough.’ He sighs, but then perks up almost immediately. ‘Have you heard of Westfield?’

I nod.
Of course
I’ve heard of Westfield. I’ll probably be their best customer when it opens at the end of the year.
Finally
London is getting a decent shopping centre, one with high street
and
designer shops. It’s going to be brilliant.

‘Well, it’s on Ariel Way in Shepherd’s Bush. Could be a sign, huh?’

He doesn’t give me a chance to answer, and fails to notice my grimace. It’s “Arry-el”, not Ariel. It really isn’t that difficult.

‘And, as you’d expect,’ he continues, ‘all the units had gone, but we got one through this morning. The paperwork fell through, but I could let you have first dibs. 1,000 square feet, prime location. Could be more what you’re after?’

I force myself to pause and consider this before I open my mouth and scream that I’ll take it.

‘How much is it?’ See, that’s me being sensible and not appearing desperate.  

‘£220,000 a year ground rent, and then all the utilities, plus you’d have to prove that you have adequate insurance.’

How much?

‘Or, we have one in Camden that’s just come in. Do you know the Lock at all?’

I do not. Camden makes me think of punks, and therefore it’s not my sort of place. Limited, I know, and I am working on expanding my London horizon, but old habits die hard. I nod anyway.

‘I know you wanted to be near Oxford Street, but there’s a lot of footfall there.’

I should consider this. Let’s face it, this is the first time I’ve managed to see a ruddy shop in the three months that I have been looking. I shouldn’t turn an opportunity down. Camden has to be better than this deli, even if it
is
a stone’s throw away from bustling Oxford Street. Oxford Street may be bustling, but this street is not.

‘How much?’ I ask.

‘With your rent, charges and rates, you’re talking sixteen grand a year.’

I meant footfall, but that price seems more like it, and it has to be worth a look. Besides, what else do I have to do today?

‘Let’s go,’ I say.