glancing down at her wide-leg trousers and loose top. ‘Natural fibres, I suppose—and I am indoors most of the time.’ She paused then tilted her head. ‘How is the iced coffee?’
‘Divine!’ Poppy replied with a warm smile, fanning herself with a brochure and shrugging up her shoulders in delight. ‘I had no idea there was an Italian bistro just around the corner. You are so resourceful!’
‘Not really. My parents and I used to come to this part of London a lot when I was at college. I’m just pleased that the bistro is still here and the coffee is as good as ever.’
Poppy saluted her with the cup. ‘Nectar. Seeing as you are a total life-saver, I do have one final treat for you.’ She took one last long slurp then started sorting through the stacks of folders on her desk. ‘The hotel has come back to me with a few ideas for the catwalk part of the show. I know you want elegant and sophisticated, and the hotel ballroom is just perfect, but we do need to confirm how much space we need before they start renovation work on the rest of the hotel. Can you stay a little longer?’
Mimi could only chuckle at that question.
She would happily stay here for the rest of the week if Poppy would put up with her.
‘Of course. But here’s an idea—why don’t I pop out for refills on the coffee? I’ll be right back …’
If there had been an Academy award for ‘leading man in your own drama’, then Hal Langdon would have been determined to head the list of nominees.
Hal swung himself out of the London black cab with the help of the hand rail, his one crutch and a special sideways slide-and-stand motion which had taken him weeks to perfect in the numerous ambulance trips between his chalet in the French Alps and the local hospital.
Pain shot through his left leg as soon as he shifted his weight from the crutch onto the ankle wrapped in an inflatable boot. The thrill of finally being free of the heavy plaster-cast which had protected what was left of his smashed ankle and broken leg had soon faded when he’d realised just how far he still had to go before he could walk on his own.
But that was what he was going to do.
One slow, faltering, painful step at a time.
He was going to prove to the world that he could walk again—and perhaps convince himself at the same time.
It was all about going forward and pretending to the outside world that his old life was not a total sham, while his new life was as yet a complete mystery.
The doctors had made it clear: no more climbing, no more high-risk sports, no more doing the job which had taken him all over the world filming the more exciting experiences an adrenaline junkie could find on this planet.
And in his heart and gut he knew that they were right. Not just because his body was no longer capable of taking that amount of relentless punishment month after month, year after year, but because of something more important.
The day that he had lost his climbing partner was the day that his old life had ended.
Tom Harris had saved his life more than once since their first crazy adventures at university. Tom had been his best friend, the older brother he’d never had.
And now Tom was dead, killed in a fall that Hal relived in Technicolor detail every night in his dreams, and was reminded of every single time he looked at his leg or felt the ridge on his head where he had fractured his skull. It had been five months, but the memory of those terrible few minutes on the mountain was still as fresh as yesterday. Just as vivid; just as painful; just as traumatic.
And some part of Hal had died that day too.
This made his decision to come back to London and work on the charity Tom had founded both logical and ridiculous at the same time. Every time Tom’s name was mentioned it was like an ice-axe going into his gut again.
But what else could he do? He was the one who had suggested to Tom that the events company he’d created with his sister should organise a fundraising event for the work with disabled climbers that Tom had become passionate about during the last year of his life.
It was little wonder that Poppy had telephoned him to ask when he was planning to arrive to help her with the arrangements, claiming that she was snowed under with other work she desperately needed to spend time on. His sister certainly knew which buttons to press to bring on even more guilt. It had been his decision to leave Poppy to run the company on her own while he had enjoyed the life of action and excitement he had always yearned for during the years they had spent building up the company together.
But it was more than that, and she knew it.
He was expected to be at the fundraiser, both as Tom’s friend and as the co-founder of Langdon Events—even if that meant that he would have to endure the constant reminders of the man Tom had been.
He would survive the next week in the same way that he had survived the last five months: one day at a time. Each day was filled with the confused feelings of anger and resentment at the way Tom had died blended with his own overwhelming feeling of failure and the endless self-recriminations.
He had to start taking action and getting back into some sort of work—otherwise he would be guilty of failing Tom all over again.
Head back, chin up, chest forward, Hal glanced at the huge plate-glass doors that marked the entrance to the elegant stone building where Langdon Events rented a second-floor office. He gave a low chuckle and shook his head in disgust.
There were three flights of steep stone steps between the pavement and the entrance. He knew that there was a ramp at the back of the building, but he had not spent his life leading from the front to use the disabled entrance now, even if his sister Poppy did call him stubborn. He was determined to negotiate the steps leading up to the front entrance just like he had before.
Hal Langdon looked up at the glass doors, clenched his fingers tight around the rubber grip of his crutch and braced his jaw even tighter.
Just as Hal was about to take that first step with his good right leg, he was distracted by a flash of movement from inside the building; a few seconds later the glass doors slid open. A pretty girl skipped down the steps onto the pavement, and in seconds was on the other side of the road.
Her attention was so fixed on her target that she had not even glanced once in his direction. He watched in amusement as she weaved her way through the bustling crowds and clusters of tourists who flocked to this part of Covent Garden.
She was clearly a girl on a mission.
He could not resist a smirk at the way she ducked and dived from side to side, onto the road then back onto the pavement, shoulder-bag tight across her chest, elbows tucked into her sides. Her face was totally focused on the goal—so focused that she probably did not realise that she was biting her lower lip in concentration and that her reddish-brown hair was flying up around her pale face.
Black trousers and a coffee-coloured blouse could not disguise a great figure—and also a tantalising glimpse of a shapely ankle above shoes with the kind of heels Poppy would kill for. Someone somewhere must be in desperate need of coffee to send this poor girl out on a mission in that outfit in what passed for a warm day in London.
He was almost disappointed when she turned the corner and was immediately swallowed up out of view. Good
