flagship department store occupied a grand art deco building just off Bond Street and, although it was a little out of the way of the tourists pounding bustling Oxford Street and Regent Street, it was a destination in its own right. Discreet, classy and luxurious; just the name Rafferty’s conjured up another era, an era of afternoon tea, cocktails and red, red lipstick.
Tourists flocked here, desperate to buy something, anything, so they could walk away with one of the distinctive turquoise and gold bags; socialites, It Girls and celebrities prowled the halls filled with designer items. Anyone who was anybody—and those who aspired to be—drank cocktails at the bar. Rafferty’s was a well-loved institution, accessible glamour for anybody with money to spend.
As a child Clara had visited the store every Christmas to see the spectacular window displays, admire the lights, to confide her wish-list to Father Christmas. It had been one of the highlights of her year—and yet she had never brought Summer. She had never even made the seventy-five-minute-long journey into London with her daughter. London was too big, too noisy, too unpredictable.
But as she stood on the edge of the marble steps, remembering the breathless excitement of those perfect days out, Clara’s throat tightened. Choosing the perfect gift, admiring the other shoppers, having afternoon tea in the elegant restaurant, those memories meant Christmas to her. How could she not have passed those memories on to her daughter?
To keep Summer safe? Or to keep Clara herself safe?
Maybe, just maybe, she was a little overprotective.
‘Are you going to stand there all day or are you actually coming in?’
Clara swallowed. It must be nice to be Raff Rafferty. Adored heir to all this. So sure of yourself, so confident that you could treat life as one big joke.
And yet there were contradictions there. She might disapprove of the lies he was feeding his grandfather—although after the cold, hostile meeting this morning she understood them. But what was he fighting for? The right to live on his trust fund? The right not to do a day’s work?
Clara tried to remember what exactly Polly had told her about him. Not much, which was odd in itself; they were twins after all. She said he was spoilt, that she had to work three times as hard and still didn’t receive equal recognition. That he was ‘messing around abroad somewhere’. Clara had assumed that he was travelling, partying, having fun. After twenty-four hours in his company she wasn’t so sure.
He was arrogant and annoying and treated life as one big joke but he didn’t seem lazy, didn’t seem careless of his family’s ties and expectations. He had come running the second he’d thought Polly was in trouble and according to the nurse had spent three days and nights at his grandfather’s bedside.
Yep, he was definitely a puzzle but, she reminded herself, he was none of her business. And none of this was real, no matter how surprisingly easy it was to forget that.
‘I thought you went away to escape Rafferty’s,’ she said, walking up the famous curved steps to meet him.
‘To escape running Rafferty’s,’ he corrected her, escorting her through the famous gilt and glass revolving doors with a light touch on her elbow.
As soon as he took his hand away the spot he had touched felt cold. Clara had to resist the temptation to rub it, to try and get the heat back.
They had entered a massive circular room topped with an ornate glass dome. It was the heart of Rafferty’s, an iconic image, immortalised in film, photos and books. Looking up, Clara saw the famous galleries ringing the dome, three storeys of them. Each storey took up the entire block and was filled with a myriad of desirable items: food, clothes, jewellery, books, accessories, pictures, lamps, rugs.
Down here on the beautifully tiled ground floor the world’s leading make-up and perfume brands plied their wares, stalls set out in a semi-circle around the foot of the dome. The middle was always reserved for themed displays and, at Christmas, the giant tree that dominated the room.
It was a wonderland. And the man standing next to her wanted to throw it all away.
‘It’s not that I’m not proud of Rafferty’s,’ he said, as if he could read her thoughts. ‘It was like having our very own giant playground. We could go anywhere, do anything. Polly would walk around talking to all the staff, finding out what they did and how everything worked. I’d usually be hidden away with a stash of sugary contraband in a stock cupboard somewhere.’
‘Sounds idyllic.’ She could see it too, a cheeky-faced blond urchin charming his way through the store.
‘It was,’ he sighed, a faraway look in his eye. ‘This was our real home. We held every birthday party here. I had my first kiss in this very room with Victoria Embleton-Jones. She was taller than me and a lot more sure of herself. I was in love for a whole week and then she dumped me for an older man with less sweaty hands and a car. I was devastated.’
‘My heart’s breaking. How old were you?’
‘Fourteen. It took me a whole month to get over her. I still get nervous shakes when I meet anyone called Victoria.’ His face was solemn but he couldn’t hide the gleam dancing in his eyes.
Clara resisted the urge to snort. ‘No wonder this place is so special to you, filled with such poignant memories.’ She looked around at the bustling, chattering, spending throngs. ‘I used to come here when I was a child.’ It felt oddly like a confession. ‘Afternoon tea was always a highlight of the holidays. I felt so sophisticated.’ She sighed at the memory of delicate porcelain teapots and plates filled with cakes. Clara put a hand to her suddenly hollow stomach; it had been a long morning. ‘Is that why we’re here?’ She tried not to sound too hopeful.
‘It’s not time for a tea break yet, Miss Castleton.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know, can’t get the staff these days. First we work and then we reward ourselves with as much cake as you can manage.’
‘Work?’ Heat washed over her; how had she misread the situation so badly? ‘If you need a PA I can certainly supply one.’
‘I have a perfectly good if rather terrifying PA. She disapproves of me almost as much as you do.’ Raff grinned at her flushed and confused denial. ‘No, it’s time we went shopping.’
‘Shopping? I do grocery shopping, as you know, presents as well, but I contract out personal shopping and interior designing...’ She was babbling again but couldn’t seem to stop.
‘Look around, Clara. You’re in the world’s most famous department store. I could click my fingers and summon a personal shopper for almost anything you could imagine. No, we are going to get you some clothes.’
She gaped at him. ‘I have clothes!’
Raff looked her over, sweeping her up and down assessingly. Clara had to fight every individual muscle to make it stay still; the urge to cover herself protectively, shield herself from those keen eyes, was almost overwhelming.
‘You have suits,’ he said finally. ‘Sharp, businesslike suits. Which is great for the office but no use when you’re with me. You have jeans and T-shirts and you have a few pretty dresses like the one you are wearing. That’s all fine but none of that will do for black-tie dos, for cocktail parties or any of the other dull but apparently necessary events Polly wastes her free time at.’
‘Cocktail parties?’ The nearest
