Rosa Temple - Playing for Keeps - A fun, flirty romantic comedy perfect for summer reading

I turned the corner into Anya’s street, driving the flashy red Ferrari she’d brought back as a souvenir for me after one of her many trips abroad. Only weeks ago, or so it seemed, pink and lilac blossoms had filled every branch of every tree along the long, quiet road. And then, in the blink of an eye, the blossoms were scattered along the entirety of the pavement and road like a carpet of confetti. Now they’d been swept away by the breeze, disappearing as if they’d never taken pride of place on the overhanging trees. In no time we’d been catapulted from spring to mid-summer. It was hot, and I had the roof down in the car. The road gleamed with the heat.

Each time I’d visited Anya at her four-bedroom, two-and-a-half-bathroom house I’d found her flicking through old copies of Vogue , luxuriating on the sumptuous sofa in the lounge, her dazzling green eyes made larger behind pale skin and chiselled features, her pencil thin body (bar the five-month baby bulge), unwilling to leave the house. She was mourning her life as an international model and spent the days ignoring calls from her agent and personal manager. Anya was convinced her life was over now she was starting to show.

‘You’ve had offers to pose with your baby bump in several magazines, Anya,’ I’d said to her last time I visited.

‘But I’m the size of an elephant,’ she’d replied. ‘Vye vould I do it to my public?’

I’d had to bite my tongue. I desperately wanted to shake her and tell her to stop being so vain. I called her often, becoming more and more worried she might do something silly. I’d often follow up the call with a visit, no matter how brief, just to make sure she was all right.

The truth was Anya was becoming increasingly miserable; she was missing Henry, I could tell, although she’d never let on. She and her ex-partner, the baby’s father, had parted ways since she became pregnant. A complicated story, really, but her middle-aged ex had four daughters, all just a few years younger than Anya, and he couldn’t face nappies and teething again. But instead of giving up the baby, Anya decided to get rid of Henry. She hadn’t heard from him in months and, maybe because of vanity, she needed to hear from him even if it was just so she could tell him to drop dead.

Anya thought Henry had moved back to his Chiswick apartment and she was rattling around in their big house. She’d contemplated giving up the house in Richmond upon Thames and moving back to her empty one in Hampstead. I’d convinced her that this place, with its manageable garden and airy rooms, would be fabulous for raising a child. But then what did I know? The closest I’d come to being a mother was having a miscarriage at six weeks. A fact that nearly broke me and Anthony up for good.

But Anthony and I were hanging in there. Just. I wouldn’t say things were wonderful between us. Months ago we’d flown back from my parents’ second wedding in the Caribbean. It had been wonderfully romantic but just before the wedding took place Anthony and I had broken up. Our getting back together was as dramatic as the breakup and we’d returned to London vowing we’d be open and talk about our feelings all the time.

Good – I know communication is vital in a relationship, but the moment we landed in London our feet never quite touched the ground and all of our good intentions (well, most of them) fell by the wayside. Anthony was taking great strides towards building on his budding career as an artist and I was capitalising on my success as a business owner by opening a flagship shop for my leather bags for men and women.

So you see, we still had a few creases to iron out, made harder by the fact we were so busy we were leading separate lives. Sounds bad, I know. We hadn’t talked about trying for another baby; it just hadn’t come up since we’d flown back from the Caribbean.

So, instead of discussing having another baby with Anthony, I had thrown all my mothering instincts into helping Anya get through a very challenging time in her life. And I don’t mean giving birth and raising a baby with an absent father. Pregnancy problems for Anya meant having to wear clothes that were larger than a size ten. That in itself was a lot for her to deal with.

‘Hello, bitch,’ Anya said as she opened the door to me.

I’d left the Ferrari on the front drive in the space Henry used to park his Jaguar and stepped up to the shiny red front door. There were two large pillars either side of the porch of the double-fronted house. The tall Georgian windows were now being dressed with silk moire nets – yet another precaution Anya had probably taken to block out the world. She was becoming more reclusive with every passing month.

‘Hello, bitch?’ I replied as I went in and shut the heavy door behind me. ‘Is that our thing now? Is that what we’re calling each other?’ I followed her into the lounge. The sofa in the middle of the room was Anya-shaped. She’d probably sat there all morning. The Vogue magazines in a pile on the floor beside the sofa were dog-eared.

‘It is now,’ said Anya, signalling to a chair for me to sit. ‘Since you can still carry off Gucci in a size twelve.’

‘We don’t do jealousy, Anya. We never have,’ I said, flopping into a leather armchair. ‘Besides, I’ve been so busy trying to open a shop for the first time in my life I’ve had to comfort eat. The stress of running Shearman Bright and getting a flagship shop off the ground means extra pounds – all on my tummy.’

‘And your hips by the looks of things,’ Anya said. She raised the June issue of Vogue to her face as she slid back into her Anya groove on the sofa.

‘Thanks a lot.’ I tried to suck my stomach in. We couldn’t all have thigh gaps.

Anya knew only too well I’d been feeling the pressure of maintaining the buzz my new range of handbags had caused in the fashion-buying world. Add to that launching a flagship shop, having a refurb of said shop and wondering how to staff it, and everything was proving to be a nightmare.

I tried never to complain to her, though, just fill her in on the ups and downs. Otherwise I was totally devoted to Anya and trying to keep her finger off the self-destruct button.

‘Wait, Anya,’ I said just as I’d settled into my chair. ‘What is that sound?’

She took the magazine away from her face. ‘Vot sound?’

‘That sound. That growling noise. Can’t you hear it?’ My eyes darted around every corner of the room. ‘And come to think of it, I think I hear scratching. Do you have rats?’

‘Don’t be silly. That’s just Storm.’

‘Who the hell is Storm?’ I lifted my feet off the floor, tucking my legs underneath me, expecting to see a tiger leap out from behind the curtains.

‘I bought a cat,’ she said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. For most people, perhaps, but not Anya. ‘I realised I’ve never looked after anything in my life before. I buy plants, they die – even that cactus. I vonce had a fish as a child but ven I came home from school I found it floating on its side in the bowl. My baby could end up the same if I’m not careful, Madge.’

‘Er… I’m just guessing here but I think if you don’t leave your baby in a bowl of water all day you shouldn’t have to worry.’

‘Don’t patronise me. I’m not sure I’m the mothering type, Madge.’ She sat up properly. ‘I mean it. I’m beginning to think that maybe I shouldn’t have kept the baby after all.’ She got up and started looking under the chair I was sitting on. I hooked my arms around my knees. ‘I thought I could practise on the cat.’ She looked under the other sofa. ‘But the cat hates me. Look.’ She raised the bottoms of her wide-legged sweat pants. There were long, pink scratches on her lily-white legs. I shuffled as far back into the chair as I could.