the
unexpected.
London , the present .
Errin McGill pushed open the door of the small junk shop
in Camberwell and paused, as she always did, to drink in the familiar evocative
smell of old wood, mildewed books and damp upholstery. She loved this place, so
much so that she always made it her first port of call on her regular buying
trips from New York, though she rarely purchased anything here. Errin’s wealthy
Manhattan clients demanded the very best, which meant genuine antiques in mint
condition, without any of the scratches and signs of wear and tear that Errin
herself preferred, for they gave each piece a provenance, a personality. But her
rich clients weren’t really interested in history. They wanted ‘authentic’
period rooms, unsullied by evidence of real age. If antiques could somehow be
injected with botox serum, that’s what her clients would have her do to
them.
She’d come straight here after dumping her bags at the hotel,
having only two weeks in which to acquire a frighteningly long list of
commissioned items. The flight from JFK had been delayed by three hours, and she
hadn’t eaten since that fateful dinner with Mark the night before. Not that
she’d eaten much then, not after Mark dropped his bombshell and produced, with a
flourish, the small designer ring box. She had been too shocked to do anything
other than stare, and Mark, expecting delighted exclamations, had taken
immediate offence. The ring, a diamond solitaire, winked up at her smugly. She
hated it. Too big, way too showy, it would brand her indisputably as Mark’s
property, another one of his expensively acquired possessions.
Suddenly and with embarrassing clarity, Errin had realised that
she didn’t love Mark. She would never love him, not in the crash, bang, dizzy,
breathless way that true love should manifest itself. Nor experience that
heart-stopping desperate-to-be-with-him, can’t-bear-to-be-without-him feeling.
He was rich and gorgeous but that wasn’t enough. Despite her pragmatic sister
Megan forever reminding her about biological clocks and career women, Errin
wanted something she’d only read about in romance novels. What was wrong with
shooting for the stars? She was only twenty-eight. Surely, out of the millions
of men out there, her Mr Absolutely Perfect existed and was waiting for her?
Mark had been more angry than upset, stung by her refusal. He
was, as he himself pointed out, an excellent catch. They’d been dating
exclusively for over a year, so marriage was the next logical step, except now
it made no sense whatsoever to Errin. ‘Your loss, Errin. There’s plenty more
fish in the sea,’ he’d sneered before storming off, sending their champagne
flutes flying and drawing shocked stares from their fellow diners at the
exclusive restaurant.
Cringing now at the memory, Errin stooped to examine a
companion set of brass fire irons, but although they were prettily made, they
had been over-polished, the patina destroyed, so she put them back. Her head
ached. Reaching up, she removed the clip that held her auburn hair back and
shook it out, sighing with relief and rolling her shoulders in an effort to ease
the tension in them.
She’d wanted to explain properly but Mark had refused to take
her calls. She couldn’t really blame him, but nor was she sorry. When she got
back from this trip, maybe it was time to make some other long-overdue changes
to her life. Despite the phenomenal success of her interior-design business, she
was bored. It wasn’t how she’d pictured her life panning out when she graduated
with a master’s in fine arts seven years ago. She’d imagined an exciting career
doing something fulfilling and creative, not becoming a glorified personal
shopper for people with more money than taste.
A wingback chair caught her eye. Mahogany, with cabriole legs
and ball-and-claw feet, it was upholstered in dark brown leather. Early Regency,
one of her favourite periods. She stooped to examine it more
unexpected.
London , the present .
Errin McGill pushed open the door of the small junk shop
in Camberwell and paused, as she always did, to drink in the familiar evocative
smell of old wood, mildewed books and damp upholstery. She loved this place, so
much so that she always made it her first port of call on her regular buying
trips from New York, though she rarely purchased anything here. Errin’s wealthy
Manhattan clients demanded the very best, which meant genuine antiques in mint
condition, without any of the scratches and signs of wear and tear that Errin
herself preferred, for they gave each piece a provenance, a personality. But her
rich clients weren’t really interested in history. They wanted ‘authentic’
period rooms, unsullied by evidence of real age. If antiques could somehow be
injected with botox serum, that’s what her clients would have her do to
them.
She’d come straight here after dumping her bags at the hotel,
having only two weeks in which to acquire a frighteningly long list of
commissioned items. The flight from JFK had been delayed by three hours, and she
hadn’t eaten since that fateful dinner with Mark the night before. Not that
she’d eaten much then, not after Mark dropped his bombshell and produced, with a
flourish, the small designer ring box. She had been too shocked to do anything
other than stare, and Mark, expecting delighted exclamations, had taken
immediate offence. The ring, a diamond solitaire, winked up at her smugly. She
hated it. Too big, way too showy, it would brand her indisputably as Mark’s
property, another one of his expensively acquired possessions.
Suddenly and with embarrassing clarity, Errin had realised that
she didn’t love Mark. She would never love him, not in the crash, bang, dizzy,
breathless way that true love should manifest itself. Nor experience that
heart-stopping desperate-to-be-with-him, can’t-bear-to-be-without-him feeling.
He was rich and gorgeous but that wasn’t enough. Despite her pragmatic sister
Megan forever reminding her about biological clocks and career women, Errin
wanted something she’d only read about in romance novels. What was wrong with
shooting for the stars? She was only twenty-eight. Surely, out of the millions
of men out there, her Mr Absolutely Perfect existed and was waiting for her?
Mark had been more angry than upset, stung by her refusal. He
was, as he himself pointed out, an excellent catch. They’d been dating
exclusively for over a year, so marriage was the next logical step, except now
it made no sense whatsoever to Errin. ‘Your loss, Errin. There’s plenty more
fish in the sea,’ he’d sneered before storming off, sending their champagne
flutes flying and drawing shocked stares from their fellow diners at the
exclusive restaurant.
Cringing now at the memory, Errin stooped to examine a
companion set of brass fire irons, but although they were prettily made, they
had been over-polished, the patina destroyed, so she put them back. Her head
ached. Reaching up, she removed the clip that held her auburn hair back and
shook it out, sighing with relief and rolling her shoulders in an effort to ease
the tension in them.
She’d wanted to explain properly but Mark had refused to take
her calls. She couldn’t really blame him, but nor was she sorry. When she got
back from this trip, maybe it was time to make some other long-overdue changes
to her life. Despite the phenomenal success of her interior-design business, she
was bored. It wasn’t how she’d pictured her life panning out when she graduated
with a master’s in fine arts seven years ago. She’d imagined an exciting career
doing something fulfilling and creative, not becoming a glorified personal
shopper for people with more money than taste.
A wingback chair caught her eye. Mahogany, with cabriole legs
and ball-and-claw feet, it was upholstered in dark brown leather. Early Regency,
one of her favourite periods. She stooped to examine it more
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