birthday, Mum,’ Mimi said. ‘What do you think I should wear today? Any ideas?’
Hal Langdon steadied himself on his left crutch and raked the fingers of his right hand back over his scalp, pushing his hair away from his forehead. Maybe one of Poppy’s stylist pals could give him a haircut after the show.
If they were not too exhausted by then.
He chuckled to himself at the thought of what he had just left behind in Poppy’s apartment. His little sister had assembled a top team to make sure there would be enough models available for all of the clothing in Mimi’s collection—namely her flatmates Lola and Fifi and their many friends who had agreed to give up a precious Saturday for a good cause.
This meant that his breakfast had been disturbed by an assortment of leggy fashion models bickering over yoghurt and cranberry juice while they planned their assault on the London shops in search of shoes, bags and luxury spa products—apparently all necessary preparation for a weekend of full-on pampering in advance of the big day.
Some men would have found being surrounded by gorgeous, leggy girls a sweet start to the day, but he had been through this process way too many times and the attraction had definitely worn off. There were only so many times you could tell a girl that her knees did not look fat in micro shorts—and the sound of excited females competing for attention while he was still in his boxers under a duvet on Poppy’s sofa had been exhausting. Especially when they had decided to tease him about the new grey hairs on his chest, forcing him to decline the offer of both eyebrow tweezers and a free waxing-session.
They would enjoy seeing him suffer far too much.
Back in France, he had forgotten a few essential details about his sister’s apartment—such as the fact that it was on the second floor and there was no lift. Oh, and that it only had two spare bedrooms and that both of them were fully occupied by girls who managed to make the rooms feel even smaller. Hence his very uncomfortable night on the sofa with his leg propped up on the scatter cushions while he’d fought the urge to be outside under wide skies, all the while knowing that was not an option.
Cramped living space and several flights of stairs he could just about cope with. But he had not been prepared for the constant reminders of his life working with Tom Harris which had assailed his senses throughout the flat.
Tom Harris and Hal Langdon had made a name for themselves filming in the most dangerous and adrenaline-inducing locations on earth. Their photographs of the high mountains and the people who lived to climb them had been published in magazines and newspapers all over the world, vivid, sometime stark but always exciting and dramatic. They had won awards and prizes on every continent. And they had loved every second of it.
They had been champions of the universe, indestructible and fearless, destined to succeed at everything they set their mind to do. And they had succeeded time and time again.
The evidence of that success was captured in those photographs, which were everywhere he looked in Poppy’s apartment.
She was so proud of her big brother and what he had achieved.
How could she know that now they only served as constant reminders that he had lost his best friend and probably his career at the same time? The doctors and specialists had made their prognosis quite clear—he had destroyed his ankle and broken his leg very badly. Even with ten surgical pins and two metal plates, the bones and supporting tendons and ligaments would never be the same again. His mountaineering days were over.
Every photograph and every image screamed out one message: failure. He had failed. Failed Tom, failed himself.
He had tossed and turned most of the night, and every time he had opened his eyes there was his best friend Tom grinning back at him from every wall, slim, rugged, happy and clever. A natural sportsman whose love of the high places and sense of humour had carried them through every hardship in supposedly inaccessible places photographers could not get to.
Their life had been a constant buzz of travel from one remote location to the next, until Tom had fallen in love with a supermodel who had brought him to his knees when she had returned his love. She’d even given up her career to show Tom what true happiness was like.
And then he had watched Tom die.
He was so angry with Tom. With himself. With the absurdity of life.
Lying on Poppy’s sofa in the cool light of a London dawn, the constant reminders of his failure and his guilt threatened to overwhelm his determination to see his friend’s legacy through to the end.
He had promised Poppy he would take care of the event and that was what he was going to do. Because if he didn’t …? There was a limit to the number of failures a man could take in his life.
His little sister had been devious enough to call him back to work on a project she knew full well he would not be able to refuse. It had occurred to him several times as he’d tossed and turned that perhaps this emergency trip to Florence was just a little too convenient. Poppy had always adored working in Italy when she’d been a model. He suspected she had always planned to spend a few fun days with her friend in total indulgent luxury, finalising the no-doubt amazing wedding they had planned together. Leaving him to hold the fort.
Clever; very clever. She had lured him back to work in the full knowledge that once he had committed to the project he would not allow it to fail.
It dared not fail.
A shiver ran down his neck and across his shoulders. Hal shuffled inside his leather jacket and shifted his crutch to a new position so that he could massage his right thigh muscle which had started to cramp.
He swallowed down the rush of intense resentment, pain and regret that had overwhelmed him so many times these last few months that they were starting to feel like familiar friends. The kind of friends it would be too easy to welcome inside so that they could all wallow and feel sorry for each other and drown in the anguish of painful memories.
Pain kept him alert, alive. Even if it had robbed him of his sleep.
He had spent most of the night putting together an action plan based on the notes Poppy had left him. By the time the girls had taken control of the bathroom that morning, he had made deals for equipment and props which would make this a show to remember.
Providing, of course, that the clothing was as stylish as Poppy had suggested. She did have excellent taste, but all he had seen so far were sketches and a few photographs. Could Mimi Ryan deliver on time? He had been impressed with her energy yesterday. Time to find out more about Studio Designs and exactly how much of a challenge he had just taken on.
If he could find the place!
He stared across at a small row of shops then double-checked the address Poppy had given him. This was the right street, only there was no sign of a warehouse or stylish boutique of any type.
Hobbling across the quiet London road, Hal quickly scanned the numbers above each of the shops. There had to be a mistake because Studio Designs should be at this address instead of a knitting shop called Etalia Yarns.
Well, that couldn’t be right.
Perhaps there was another street with the same name in another part of this area. London was a huge city; there was bound to be some duplication.
Or was it possible
