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A tale of love and betrayal - the complete second draft of my British romance novel |
Chapter 1 Sara Finbow glanced around the empty living room of her squalid flat, and a tear trickled down her cheek. She’d wasted ten years of her life sandwiched between these matchbox-thin walls. Even after all the furniture had been removed, the place still looked cramped. No amount of air freshener could ever mask the stench of stale fat wafting up from the chip shop below. She wandered over to the tiny window. The icicles clinging to the eaves couldn’t compare with the cold inside her heart. Outside, strangers wrapped in scarves and winter coats thronged the pavement while horns blared from the black taxis and red busses on the gridlocked road. In the opening lines of the romantic comedy Notting Hill, William Thacker described this inner-city area as a ‘village in the middle of the city’. But to Sara, this collection of overpriced hovels had never felt like a real community. She turned back to face the barren room. She had experienced so much happiness here — her university graduation, her first teaching post, her first boyfriend, her first kiss, her first … Up until eight months ago, Sara believed her life was perfect. Sadly, real life didn’t deliver happy endings like a romantic comedy. The perfection she’d imagined was nothing but an illusion, and all illusions must eventually fade. She had loved working in a primary school and dearly missed the little kids who made her days so special, but she couldn’t do this on her own. The Victorian mantlepiece and rusty gas fire beneath drew her gaze. Now that the house clearers had removed the hearthrug, a purple stain on the carpet reminded her of her final argument with Tom which ended when she threw wine in his face. She’d never get her security deposit back, but that was the least of what she lost here. Like so many young and ambitious people before her, she’d come to London with great expectations. Now, her dreams had been shattered. Although she was only twenty-nine, her life had already ended. With a sigh, she settled her handbag strap across her shoulder. After packing, dealing with the house clearance company, and finalising things with the landlord, she was exhausted. She glanced longingly towards the bathroom. Her tangled hair itched, and she didn’t smell as fresh as a daisy, but she’d have to get a move on if she wanted to catch the two-thirty from King’s Cross. Besides, it wasn’t as if she expected to run into anybody important in economy class. Except for the essential items in her handbag — her sketchpad and a novel to while away the journey — the suitcase beside the front door contained everything she planned to carry back to Yorkshire. She wanted no mementoes, nothing to stir painful memories of that git. But there was one souvenir of their ten-year relationship she couldn’t leave behind. Tom’s final parting gift. Hesitating at the door, she placed a hand protectively over her swollen middle. ‘Well, Bump. Say goodbye to London.’ *** Rupert Fitzherbert scratched his beard and gazed around King’s Cross Station, admiring the monumental semi-circular roof stretching overhead. The railway station had undergone a major refurbishment since his last visit. Thankfully, the monstrous seventies carbuncle had disappeared from the front of the building, and the station’s magnificent Victorian architecture had been sympathetically restored to its former glory. An attractive lady emerged from the crowd. Dressed in a power suit and gripping a briefcase, she likely held a senior position in a city firm. She looked him up and down with a coy smile. He supposed she saw a tall man in a cashmere coat and Savile Row suit who looked every inch the ex-Army officer he was. He hated to shatter the illusion of robust health, but he couldn’t stand there forever when he had a train to catch. He took a wobbly step, favouring his good leg and leaning on his silver-tipped walking stick. The chilly air aggravated his injury as he hobbled across the entrance vestibule. His route took him past the woman, and as he neared, her eyes widened and she darted away. He should be used to that reaction, but his heart still sank. Ahead, hearts and flowers celebrating Valentine’s Day surrounded a news kiosk. He smiled at a poster featuring two ladies in wedding dresses holding hands. How many lesbian and gay lovers would go down on one knee tomorrow on Valentine’s Day just because the law was changing? While passing, he spied this week’s Hob Nob magazine in the rack and cringed at the headline. HAS RUPERT SET THE DATE? An old photo taken before he was wounded pictured Abigail and him standing on the dancefloor at a charity ball. She looked stunning in a blue velvet dress. He barely recognised himself, so young and clean-shaven. Afghanistan had aged him terribly. But at least his new beard and worry lines would provide him with anonymity on the train. Only the most observant bystander would recognise him as he looked now. Of course, it was all for show. Inside the magazine was a puff piece sponsored by Abigail’s wealthy father. Lord Murgatroyd was much keener than his daughter to drag Rupert to the altar. Abigail’s first love was her horse, and she’d never spared much time for Rupert. Over the past nine months, that had become ever more evident. When he called on her this morning to break off their engagement, she didn’t blink an eye. Over the years, their relationship had deteriorated into a simple arrangement of convenience. Abigail needed to assure her father she would one day produce heirs with titles, and Rupert wanted to get his grandfather off his back. Lately, the pressure to name the date had increased, and he could no longer live a lie. Today, he’d told Abigail she must find another peer of the realm to wed. Rupert moved as quickly as he could with his limp. He didn’t want to be around when the tabloids caught wind of today’s real development. He had planned to fly home, but the blizzard up north forced the closure of Robin Hood Airport. A rental car would have offered more privacy, but he didn’t want to risk driving through deep snow. Consequently, this train was his only option to escape London before the media storm hit. Approaching Platform Four, he mused that his personal life would soon be a hot topic. How could he explain his actions? More to the point, how would he break the news to his grandfather? On the platform, elderly people outnumbered tourists and commuters. Grey-haired octogenarians pushed walking frames or clutched sticks. Perhaps Saga had organised an excursion. He hobbled past the first-class carriages in frustration. He’d never travelled economy before, what his friends called plebeian transport. Most of the seats of every train this afternoon were pre-booked. At least Rupert’s personal secretary had managed to reserve a seat so Rupert wouldn’t be forced to stand all the way to Doncaster. Locating his carriage, he smiled to discover the train’s floor was level with the platform. His knee already ached, so he didn’t relish negotiating steps. When he stepped inside, his smile vanished. Economy class was even more cramped than he’d imagined, and — despite the no-smoking signs — there was an unpleasant cigarette smoke odour. Checking the seat numbers, he found his allocated place. An elderly gentleman occupied the neighbouring window seat. A pink hearing aid filled the cavity of his right ear. With his bushy eyebrows and moustache, he somewhat resembled a walrus. Rupert gripped the table, shuffled his bad leg into the tight gap between the table and seat, and carefully lowered himself. When his buttocks settled on the hideous upholstery of questionable cleanliness, he groaned in relief. ‘Hello.’ His neighbour smiled. ‘I’m Reg.’ Rupert nodded but didn’t offer his own name; he wouldn’t want Reg to connect him with the magazine article. He fumbled with his walking stick, wondering where to stow it. ‘Let me help.’ Reg took Rupert’s walking stick and slotted it between his seat and the window. ‘Thank you.’ ‘Is this your first NOS conference?’ ‘I beg your pardon?’ For someone hard of hearing, the man was talkative. ‘The National Osteoporosis Society conference in Doncaster.’ Reg gestured to the walking stick. ‘I assume you’re attending.’ ‘Oh, I see.’ He tapped his leg. ‘It’s not osteoporosis.’ ‘Accident at work?’ Rupert loosened his regimental tie. He didn’t like talking about his wound. ‘You might say that.’ Reg’s gaze fixed on the tie, and his bushy eyebrows narrowed. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry.’ He scratched his bulbous nose. ‘My grandson served in Afghan. In the Royal Hussars.’ ‘Brave lads.’ ‘Like you, son.’ Reg winked. ‘I hope you got a shiny medal to impress the girls.’ He grimaced. They did indeed pin a bronze cross on his chest, but that hadn’t erased Jerry’s terrified expression from his memories. His dead friend deserved recognition for his heroic sacrifice more than Rupert. More passengers squeezed into the carriage, many forced to stand in the aisle. Muted conversations filled the air, most voicing complaints about the lack of seats. A shrill voice rose above the others. ‘There has to be a freaking seat somewhere.’ A dishevelled young woman ploughed through the throng dragging a battered suitcase. The rest of the world faded from Rupert’s awareness. Brunette hair trailed across her sweaty brow, and her plump cheeks glowed red. However, it was her sparkling eyes that demanded his undivided attention. Brown and with tiny flecks of gold, they were unique. She caught his gaze and halted. ‘Well?’ Rupert blinked. ‘Sorry, are you addressing me?’ Her eyes flicked from his seat to the front of her voluminous coat. When he failed to react, she rolled her eyes and tugged down her zip to expose a swollen abdomen. The poor woman looked ready to pop. No wonder she so desperately sought somewhere to sit. ‘Oh.’ His cheeks flushed. Spellbound by those eyes, he had not noticed her condition. ‘I’m awfully sorry, but I made a reservation.’ He felt bad not offering to relinquish his seat to a pregnant lady, but he could not stand all the way to Doncaster. ‘Seriously? You’d leave me standing because you booked ahead.’ ‘You don’t understand.’ She folded her arms across her chest. ‘You’re being a git.’ He clenched the hand rest. How dare she talk to him like that? He straightened and squared his shoulders, ready to dress her down. Then he noticed her hand pressed against his headrest as if she would collapse without its support. Reg leaned over him. ‘Now listen here, young lady—’ Rupert patted his arm. ‘It’s all right, Reg. Would you please pass my stick?’ ‘Are you sure? I understand you want to be a gentleman, but—’ ‘I’m sure.’ Gripping the edge of the table for support, he manoeuvred his good leg into the aisle. As he struggled to stand, his knee flared, and he grunted with exertion. Her eyes widened. ‘You’re disabled. I…’ Both hands atop his stick, he mock-bowed. ‘Your seat, milady.’ ‘No. I can’t take your place.’ ‘I insist.’ He stepped past her, and a pleasing jasmine scent teased his nostrils. Not perfume, he decided. Fabric conditioner. No longer scowling, her heart-shaped face looked as angelic as that of a lady in a Renoir portrait. She placed her tiny hand on his forearm, and he couldn’t help but notice she wore no ring. She tucked a lock of hair behind an elfin ear. ‘Seriously. I can’t allow you to stand when you have mobility problems.’ ‘It’s not as bad as it looks.’ ‘You’re sure?’ ‘Absolutely.’ She hesitated, biting her lip. Christ, she was attractive. Was it sinful to harbour carnal thoughts about a woman heavy with another man’s child? Her shoulders slumped in defeat. ‘I really must sit before I faint.’ She squeezed his arm. He nodded to Reg. ‘It was nice meeting you.’ ‘Likewise.’ Reg scowled at the woman as she lowered herself into the seat. As a whistle blew, Rupert stumbled down the aisle, floundering when the carriage jolted. His knee throbbed, but he kept moving. He needed to distance himself from that woman and her enchanting eyes. Imagine, some lucky man had the pleasure of her company every night. He wished he were half as fortunate. When he entered the next carriage, a seated middle-aged man locked eyes with him through the crowd and then glanced down at his stick. He stood and waved Rupert over. ‘You shouldn’t be standing. Here, take my seat.’ ‘Thank you.’ ‘You’re welcome. I’m getting off at Stevenage, anyhow.’ ‘It’s still most kind of you.’ ‘You should’ve reserved a seat.’ Rupert smiled. ‘I shall bear that in mind for next time.’ The man’s kindness in surrendering his seat reassured Rupert that there were still good people around. Indeed, the world was filled with all kinds of people. While Rupert never felt truly loved by Abigail, that didn’t mean there was nobody out there for him. When he met that pretty woman, he felt a spark. If he opened himself up to the possibilities, maybe he would meet another lady who raised his pulse. Hopefully, one not already spoken for. His physical imperfections may limit the field, but surely somebody kind would overlook his flaws. As the train accelerated, he gazed out the window at the cityscape moving ever faster backward, and his mind drifted to thoughts of lost opportunities. There was something unique and special about that woman and a vulnerability that made him yearn to wrap her in velvets and keep her safe. Although he knew she was another man’s beloved, he couldn’t help but hope that one day he might meet her again.  |
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