Nikki Moore - Picnics in Hyde Park

Where the hell was he? She stepped back to gaze up at the impressive facade of the town house, which had to be at least four storeys tall including the basement area below her. The top two floors were exposed brickwork but the ground and lower floors were painted white, decorated with manicured window boxes. The property screamed refined wealth, as did the beautiful leafy communal garden area in the middle of the square. He must have paid extra for the property, which sat back from the road slightly. It was one of the only houses with off-road parking.

She turned to look at the gravel driveway. Someone had to be in, there were three cars parked up; a garish, canary-yellow convertible sports model, a sexy low-slung black supercar and a more modest silver Prius hybrid.

Thudding the door again, there was still no answer.

If she was some kick-ass action movie heroine she could bust the door down, flatten whichever of the selfish idiots was inside (although both at the same time would be preferable) and just be done with it. But at five foot seven, as well as pounds lighter than she’d been in years, she hardly looked or felt the part. Still, if there was anything guaranteed to bring out her fighting side it was protecting her younger sister Melody. She was her only proper family left apart from their Great Aunt Ruth, who’d always been distant and had all the affection of a watermelon.

What it came down to was that anyone who hurt Melody deserved justice. But she didn’t really believe in violence, and ruining her beautiful nails with their miniature stars and stripes design on every tip didn’t appeal either. The manicure was a present from her ex-boss Liberty, named after the statue of. It was something to remember New York by, a city she’d come to love. But better not to think about that, or what else she’d loved and lost.

Where the heck was Mr. High and Mighty Reilly, or for that matter, his younger brother Stephen? Surely they had enough staff to answer the bloody door for them. A girl could die of heatstroke out here. The midday sun was ferocious and prickling heat along the back of her neck. It was sure to be scarlet by dinner time.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Her hand was never going to be the same again. Then she’d be suing the sods for personal injury as well as emotional trauma for Melody. Her sibling had been crying so hard at Jemima’s flat in multicultural, packed Holloway that Zoe hadn’t been able to get the full story on arrival from Heathrow. There’d just been a lot of mumbling and sobbing around swollen red eyes and handfuls of soggy tissues. Still, what she’d figured out had been enough to instantly trigger her big sister reflexes. The stale, stuffy black cab had made for a nightmare journey across London but the sunlight glinting off the windows had matched her heated, murderous thoughts perfectly. She’d avoided direct eye contact with the chatty driver, jaw clenched as she replayed the fragments of her sister’s story in her head.

Fell in love with Stephen…Matt ended it, fired me…kicked me out without notice… never see the kids again… looked after them for three years!

How dare he? It was bloody outrageous and unbelievably unfair. How could anyone be so uncaring that they’d do someone who trusted them out of a relationship, job, home and salary all on the same day? So here she was outside of his posh, rich-guy’s, I’m so fabulous home, fully intending to grab her sister’s belongings as well as telling Matt Reilly exactly what she thought of a guy who’d treat a naïve twenty-two year old like dirt. If she could grab his brother by the scruff of the neck at the same time and give him a good shake for helping break her sister’s heart, she’d do that too. He had a lot of explaining to do as to why he wasn’t answering Mel’s calls.

Bloody men. They were a faithless lot at the best of times, the reason she’d left the States after five long years. But her sister’s boss had reached new levels of bastardom, if that was even a word.

Part of her wished that when confronted, Matt might admit he’d made a terrible mistake, beg forgiveness, tell Melody that of course she was good enough for his brother, and ask her to come back to them. But the text that had just pinged on her mobile meant the idea was a non-starter.

Appreciate the support Sis, but

please don’t cause a scene and

DON’T try and get my job back.

I’m never going back there.

M x

Zoe didn’t really want her sister anywhere near them anyway. Still, an apology from Matt, an opportunity for Melody to say goodbye to the kids properly, pick up her belongings and be offered some kind of compensation for the notice pay she was surely entitled to would be something. Along with some explanation as to why Stephen had gone AWOL and seemed to be letting Matt make all the decisions. Perhaps he didn’t feel able to stand up to him? Or maybe he was intimidated by his older brother’s success.

According to the tabloids, Stephen was abroad a lot of the time, a playboy who basically partied and shopped his way around Europe with the family money. Why her sister had fallen for him she couldn’t understand. At thirty, Matt was older by seven years, a famous music producer who was hardly ever out of the press, despite his attempts to evade the spotlight. Snapping pictures of his children was a rabid hobby for British journos and there were rumours of a new girlfriend every week, although you couldn’t believe everything you read in the papers. She and Melody were close, despite the vast miles that’d been between them, and Melody had told her a lot about Matt’s children via Skype and text messages but nothing about any of his personal relationships, respecting her boss’s right to privacy. Not that she’d got any thanks for that loyalty and professionalism.

Zoe banged her fist on the wood one last time and to her satisfaction finally heard footsteps. The door was yanked open by a dark-haired guy in his twenties.

‘Yes?’ he drawled, stepping out into the sunlight, forcing her to move backwards down the three concrete stairs and onto the pavement.

Cocky green eyes ran over her flat black shoes, tight black jeans and the fashionable short-sleeved print top that hung off one shoulder. Having had no chance to change out of the clothes she’d travelled in, she felt rumpled, sticky and at a distinct disadvantage.

She couldn’t afford to jump to any conclusions, but this guy had to be Stephen.

‘Are you planning to say something today, or not?’ he demanded, looking her up and down again, a bit too slowly for her liking.

Sucking in a deep breath, shudders of rage and adrenalin swirled with the giddy exhaustion of jet lag and noon heat, making her feel light-headed and dangerously out of control. Face scalding, she started shaking, hands bunching into fists around her oversized bag. Ignoring the feeling, along with the urge to ask if he was done checking her out and start demanding what the hell he was playing at with her sister, she expelled the breath. If she lost it too soon it was game over; he’d likely slam the door in her face. Getting over the threshold was the important bit. Then she could tear strips off them both.

‘Yes, sorry. Hello. Matthew Reilly?’ It was Matt’s house and it might seem weird if she asked for Stephen.

‘God, no! Definitely not,’ smirking, he turned his head to yell over his shoulder. ‘Matt, there’s some Katy Perry lookalike-wannabe here for an interview.’ A pause. ‘I’m off.’ Shrugging when there was no reply, a strange expression flashed across his face. ‘All right,’ he hollered, ‘see you when I’m back.’ Reaching back inside the hallway, he grabbed a travel bag and hustled past her, leaving the front door yawning open behind him.