russet than brown, his eyes undecided between green and grey and freckles liberally splattered his slightly crooked nose. And yet the parts added up to a whole that went a long way beyond plain attractive.
But then Alex was charmed—while Flora’s fairy godmother must have been down with the flu on the day her gifts were handed out. Flora waited not too patiently, ready to finish her tale of woe, while Alex ordered their drinks. A humiliation shared was a humiliation halved, right?
Finally the waiter turned away and she could launch back in. ‘Bad day I could cope with but it’s been a bad week. I think I’m actually cursed. Monday was the office manager’s birthday and she brought in doughnuts. I bit into mine and splat. Raspberry jam right down the front of my blouse. Of course it was my nicest white silk,’ she added bitterly.
‘Poor Flora.’ His mouth tilted with amusement and she glared at him. He was still in his work suit and yet looked completely fresh. Yep, unfairly charmed in ways that were completely wasted on a male. Flora’s seasonally green wool dress was stain free today but she still had that slightly sticky, crumpled, straight-from-work feel and was pretty sure it showed...
‘And then yesterday I left work with my skirt tucked into my knickers. No, don’t laugh.’ She reached across the table and prodded him, his chest firm under her fingers. ‘I didn’t realise for at least five minutes and...’ this was the worst part; her voice sank in shame ‘...I wasn’t even wearing nice knickers. Thank goodness for fifteen-denier tights.’
Alex visibly struggled to keep a straight face. ‘Maybe nobody noticed. It’s winter, surely you had a coat on?’
‘I was wearing a jacket. A short jacket. And judging by the sniggering the whole of Holborn noticed. But even that was better...’ Flora stopped short and buried her face in her hands, shame washing over her as she mentally relived the horror of just an hour ago.
‘Better than?’ Alex leaned back as the waiter returned carrying a silver circular tray, smiling his thanks as the man put a pint in front of him and a large glass of wine in front of Flora. She picked up the glass, gratefully taking a much-needed gulp, the cold tartness a welcome relief.
‘Better than tonight. I didn’t mean to...’ The old phrase tripped off her tongue. Flora’s mother always said that they would be her last words, carved onto her grave.
Here lies Flora Prosperine Buckingham.
She didn’t mean to.
‘I was just so relieved to see a seat I all out ran for it only I threw myself in a little too vigorously, misjudged and I ended up... I ended up sitting on a strange man’s knee.’
She glared at Alex as he choked on his pint. ‘It’s not funny! The whole carriage just stared at me and the man said...’ She stumbled over the words, her cheeks heating at the memory. ‘He said, “Make yourself comfortable, pet. I like a girl with plenty to grab hold of.”’
She took another gulp, ignoring the guffaws of laughter opposite. The words had stung more than she cared to admit. So she was tall with hips and a bosom that her mother called generous and her kinder friends described as curvy? In the nineteen fifties she would have been bang on trend but right now in the twenty-first century she just felt that bit too tall, that bit too wide, that bit too conspicuous.
Of course, sitting on a strange man’s lap in a crowded Tube carriage hadn’t helped her blend in. There had probably been people from her office in that very carriage on that very train, witnesses to her humiliation. Thank goodness her contract ended next week, although the thought of even one week of whispers and sniggers was bad enough; if only she could get a convenient dose of flu and call in sick. A week of rest, recuperation and isolation was exactly what she needed.
Though sick days meant no pay. Flora sighed. It was no fun temping.
Alex finally stopped laughing. ‘That was very friendly of you. So you’ve made a new friend?’
‘No!’ She shuddered, still feeling an itch in the exact spots where the large hands had clasped her. ‘The worst thing was I just had to sit there and pretend nothing had happened. No, not on his lap, idiot! On the seat next to him. I’m surprised I didn’t spontaneously combust with mortification.’
How she would ever get back onto that Tube, onto that line, even onto the entire underground network again she had no idea. Maybe she could walk to work? It would only take a couple of hours—each way.
‘Will you go back there after Christmas?’ It was as if he had read her mind. Alex was far too good at that.
Flora shook her head. ‘No, I was covering unexpected sick leave and she should be back after the holidays. Luckily January is always a good time for temps. All those people who decide to carpe diem on New Year’s Eve or do something outrageous at the Christmas party.’
‘Come on, Flora, is that your grand plan? Another year temping? Isn’t it time you carpe diem yourself? Look, it’s been two years since you were made redundant. I know it stung but shouldn’t you be back in the saddle by now?’
Flora put her glass firmly on the table, blinking back the sudden and very unwanted tears. ‘It’s not that easy to find design work and at least this way I’m paying the bills. And no...’ she put up her hand as he opened his mouth ‘... I am not moving in with you and I am not moving back home. I don’t need charity. I can do this on my own.’
Besides, it wasn’t as if she wasn’t trying. Since she had been made redundant from her job at a large but struggling pub chain she had sent out her portfolio to dozens of designers, retail head offices and agencies. She had also looked for freelance work, all too aware how hard it was to land an in-house position.
Most hadn’t even bothered to reply.
Alex regarded her levelly. ‘I’m not planning on offering you charity. I’m actually planning to offer you a job.’
Again. Flora swallowed, a lump roughly the size of the Titanic lodging itself in her throat. Just great. It wasn’t that she envied Alex his incredible success; she didn’t spend too much time comparing the in-demand, hotshot team of architects he headed up with her own continuing search for work. She tried not to dwell on the contrast between his gorgeous Primrose Hill Georgian terrace, bought and renovated to his exact design, and her rented room a little further out in the far ends of North London.
But she wished he wouldn’t try and help her. She didn’t need his pity. She needed him to believe in her.
‘Look,’ she said, trying to stop her voice from wobbling. ‘I do appreciate you offering me work, just like I appreciate Mum needing a runner or Dad an assistant every time I’m between contracts. But if I learned anything from the three years I was with Village Inns it’s that mingling the personal and the professional only leads to disaster.’
It could have been a coincidence that she was made redundant shortly after breaking up with the owner’s son and heir apparent but she doubted it.
And yes, right now life was a struggle. And it was more than tempting to give in and accept the helping hands her family and best friend kept holding out to her. But if she did then she would just confirm their belief that she couldn’t manage on her own.
At least a series of humiliating, weird or dull temp jobs kept her focused on getting out and getting on.
‘I’m
