don’t think so,’ she said, smoothing her hair back from her face.
‘It could be hours.’ His expression took on a pitiful look. ‘I don’t even have a jacket.’
‘Tough,’ she said. ‘It’ll do you good to put up with a bit of discomfort for a change.’ She made a move towards the stairs, wondering how far he might go with the grovelling, enjoying the upper hand. She’d let him suffer a bit longer and then offer to let him wait in her flat.
His grovelling had apparently reached its limit. Silence as she descended the top step and then a sudden flurry of bangs on the door started up again. She turned back to him incredulously.
He shrugged, his upraised knuckles poised at chest level.
‘You know, I’m really not convinced Poppy isn’t in there,’ he said. ‘Maybe if I knock long enough, she might show.’
He put enormous emphasis on the words ‘long enough’, making it crystal clear he was prepared to knock all day if necessary.
Anger bubbled hotly through her as she stared at him, seeing the challenge in his eyes and knowing that if she wanted to get any work done today at all she would have to give on this. It was all she could do to force herself to act rationally, when what she wanted to do was snarl at him like a fishwife. She would give on this because it was in her best interest, thereby retaining the upper hand rather than dragging herself down to his level, but he needn’t think this was over. Not for one moment.
‘Come on, then,’ she said, turning back towards the wrought-iron staircase.
She glanced around to see him looking after her. The few paces extra distance would have given her an eye-wateringly fantastic full body view of him if she hadn’t bitten her lip in her determination to keep her eyes fixed from the neck up.
‘What?’
‘I give in. You win. I’ve got more important things to do than stand here arguing with you. You can use my phone if you want to try and get hold of Poppy.’ The words stuck in her craw because she really didn’t need a half-naked ex-soldier blagging his way into her flat when she had a mountain of silk knickers with velvet ribbons and frills to sew on the back. ‘I haven’t got her work number, but you must know it, right? Or I think I’ve got Izzy’s number somewhere. Maybe we can get her to drop by if she still has a key. You can wait in my flat if you like,’ she added grudgingly.
She led the way down the wrought-iron stairs before he could say anything triumphant. If he did that she might be tempted to call the police.
ALEX FOLLOWED HER down the narrow stairwell and into her flat, and, if he’d thought a few bras hanging over the bathtub in Poppy’s flat was a girly step too far, this was a whole new ballgame.
There was an enormous clothes rail directly opposite, stuffed to breaking point with clothes. And not just any clothes. Everything seemed to be made of silk, satin, lace and velvet. Subtle pinks and creams hung alongside vampy deep reds, peacock blues and purples. There were spools of silk and velvet ribbon in every colour imaginable. In one corner of the room was a headless mannequin wearing a black silky bra with tassels along the cups and matching knickers. He stared at it for an incredulous moment. Rolls of fabric were stacked against the wall and hung over the back of the sofa in the corner and the room was dominated by an enormous trestle table with two different kinds of sewing machine on it.
‘Is it just you living here?’ he asked as she crossed the cramped room to the kitchen area at the other end. He was used to Poppy’s roomy flat. This was a shoebox in comparison.
She nodded.
‘It’s a one-bed studio. There isn’t much space but it’s in such a perfect location for my shop. The time I’m saving by living so close kind of makes the lack of space worth it.’ She nodded towards the sofa. ‘Have a seat. I’ll make some tea.’
‘And what exactly is it that you do?’ he said, picking his way through the clutter to the overstuffed sofa. It was covered in a brightly coloured patchwork throw and he had to move a huge pile of silk and lace remnants before there was room to sit down.
She was clattering about in the tiny kitchen area in the corner. There was a doorway at the side of the room with a length of some filmy cream fabric hanging across it as a curtain. He narrowed his eyes, trying to get his bearings. Her bedroom must be down there on the right if it really was situated underneath his, as she claimed. He shook his head lightly because he had absolutely zero interest in how she spent her nights.
This was a means to an end, nothing more, a marginal step up from waiting it out in the hallway upstairs. He had no desire whatsoever to find out more about the infuriating woman from downstairs. He sank onto the sofa, shifted to one side uncomfortably and tugged out a pale pink feather boa from underneath him. For Pete’s sake.
‘I design and make my own line of boutique lingerie,’ she said.
It was impossible to miss the faint trace of pride in her voice.
‘Knickers, camisoles, nightgowns, slips, bustiers, basques. You name it.’ She counted them off on her fingers. ‘Vintage inspired, Hollywood glamour, that kind of thing. I like to make the most of the female figure.’
His mind reeled a little. She might as well have been speaking in some foreign language and he’d felt enough of a fish out of water already in the past couple of weeks, thank you very much. After living at close quarters with soldiers for the best part of the last few years, much of that time in the roughest of conditions, moving in with a group of girls was like living with a gaggle of aliens. Everything was scented. Everything. There was girly underwear hanging over the radiators. The fridge was full of hummus, low-fat yogurt and other hideous foodstuffs that filled him with distaste, the topics of conversation mystified him and the bathroom was full of perfumed toiletries. He’d grabbed the opportunity when Poppy’s friend Izzy had moved rooms a few weeks ago to draft in male back-up in the form of his old schoolfriend Isaac, but in reality it had made little difference because Isaac was hardly ever there. Alex was out of his depth as it was, and now he was catapulted into a room full of lingerie.
‘I’ve been selling from market stalls for ages now, building up a customer base,’ Lara was saying. ‘And I have a blog—“Boudoir Fashionista”.’ She made a frame in the air with her hands as if imagining the title on a shop sign.
‘A blog?’ he repeated. The conversation was becoming more surreal by the minute. He leaned his head back against the sofa. His headache seemed to be intensifying.
‘Mmm …’ She continued to clatter about in the kitchen, not turning round. ‘I showcase my lingerie, blog about fashion and beauty. I’ve been wanting to expand the business for a while, try my hand at retail, but it’s such a gamble in terms of cost, you have no idea. And then I started looking into pop-up shops.’
He didn’t answer. Her voice was sweet, melodic even, pleasant to listen to. He closed his heavy eyes to ease the thumping headache, a side effect of his crazy off-kilter sleep pattern that seemed to be becoming a regular thing.
‘It’s just a short-term thing, so less risk. There are places that advertise opportunities. You take on empty premises, sometimes even just for a day. I couldn’t believe it when I found the
