Charlotte Butterfield - Crazy Little Thing Called Love - The perfect laugh out loud romantic comedy you won’t be able to put down

Freddie looked very quickly over his shoulder and shifted a little, ‘Um, you know what, now’s not really a good time…’

‘Your office told me you were sick, don’t worry, I won’t pounce on you, I promise, I’ll just keep you company until you feel better. It’s Christmas tomorrow, maybe you could then call the office and take a couple more days off and we can make up for lost time, I’ve missed you so—’ Her words tailed off as she saw a movement in the slither of room she could see behind him. ‘Is there someone in the room?’ she asked, pushing the door tentatively against his weight behind it.

‘No, of course not! Why don’t you wait downstairs and I’ll just get dressed and come down?’

Then a cough came from behind him. A woman’s cough. Leila pushed open the door with a force she hadn’t known she possessed and saw a topless blonde sat on the bed pointing the remote at the TV. Leila’s suitcase came crashing to the floor as her hand let go of the handle to fly to her mouth.

‘Layles, I can explain.’

‘I really don’t think you can Freddie.’

‘But I—’

Leila put her hand up to stop him talking. ‘You know what Freddie?’ She took a deep breath. ‘I may be naïve and gullible and a romantic, and yes, an eternal optimist, but even I, in my sleep-deprived, stomach-cramping, starving state, fail to see how you can charm your way out of this one. Now excuse me, I have a train and then a plane to catch.’

She shouted over his shoulder to the woman, who had thankfully covered up her bare breasts with a cushion, ‘Good luck love, you’re going to need it.’ And she picked up the wobbling suitcase and strode off down the corridor.

‘Layles, wait!’ Freddie shouted from the doorway.

Leila kept walking, her head held high and shouted back without turning around, ‘Bye Freddie. And for the record. I fucking hate the name Layles.’

A month later

Expensive does not necessarily mean best. Leila knew that. She was a landscape gardener, and would pick an everyday peony over a rare orchid any day and twice on Sundays, but when it came to chopping off over a foot and a half of her hair, opting for a hairdresser with an eye-watering price list seemed sensible.

The scissors hovered menacingly over her head. ‘You’re absolutely sure?’

‘Absolutely.’ Leila nodded. ‘Never been surer.’ A pause. ‘No! Wait! Yes, I’m sure. Go ahead. No, stop!’

‘Too late.’ The stylist held up a long black ponytail. ‘Oops.’

Between the shaping and feathering and smoothing, Leila was placated to hear the stylist make encouraging sighs and clucks. When she’d finally finished the dramatic elfin cut, and spun her round to face the mirror, Leila took a sharp intake of breath. This small act of defiance had instantly elevated her from sweet to striking in less than an hour.

‘Why in God’s name haven’t I done this sooner?’ Leila said out loud, more to herself than the stylist who had gathered a few of her colleagues over to witness the transformation. She couldn’t stop touching her neck, and her ears felt weird, sort of breezy. But she couldn’t get over how big her eyes were, and her cheekbones, which had previously been hidden under two curtains drawn either side of her face were sharp and sexy.

‘Whoever he is you’re doing this for, is a very lucky man,’ said a voice under a head full of foils next to her.

‘Oh no, there’s no man. Or woman.’ Leila quickly added after an attractive girl with a nose piercing placed her hand on the back of her chair. ‘Just fancied a long overdue change.’

Being an empowered woman of the world, she ought to have been affronted at the wolf whistles that followed her down her street from the house on the corner that was having its attic converted. She did at least roll her eyes at a couple of women she passed as if to say, ‘I know, neanderthals, right?’ while allowing herself a little smile as she let herself in her front door. But then pretty much every time she stuck her key into the lock and pushed open the newly painted sage green door her mood was instantly lifted. She’d only moved in two months previously, and it was the first time she’d lived alone. And, thankfully, as she’d been given the key while Freddie was away, he had never set foot in it so it was completely free from toxic memories of any of her exes.

The flat was tiny, even by London standards, but at least it was all hers. It was in the basement of a tall Victorian townhouse. There was a steady stream of boots and shoes passing her living room window, which she oddly loved. She’d often choose feet-watching over TV at weekends, making up stories about the wearers of the footwear that ambled past, often in twos, or groups. You could always spot a first date by the nervous tottering and inappropriate height of heel. She loved the couples who walked in step with each other, placing right after left in perfect harmony.

When the estate agent showed her round, strategically placing himself over the largest of the damp patches in the hallway, he was understandably twitchy. It had been on their books for a while, and the vendor was getting desperate. He needn’t have worried. Leila looked right past the discoloured walls, and due to her height, the low sloping ceiling in the galley kitchen didn’t even make her duck. As soon as she’d glimpsed the private garden leading off the bedroom she was sold. It was a walled courtyard more than a garden, but in Leila’s mind it already had trellises of trailing wisteria and honeysuckle. She imagined vibrant earthenware pots adorning every ledge and a small raised bed with a herb garden. And now, two months after she moved in, it had exactly that. The patches of damp had been gotten rid of too, and whitewashed walls made the formerly neglected cellar bright and welcoming. There was just about room for a double bed in the bedroom, but little else, so she’d designed a double bed on six foot stilts and one of the craftsmen at work had made it for her. So she ascended a ladder to bed every night, freeing up the whole of the floor space underneath for her desk that was placed in the middle of the room looking out onto the garden.

Her shopping bags made a loud clunk as Leila dumped them onto the kitchen work surface reminding her almost too late of the two bottles of wine that were in them. She then set about making the salad and marinating the chicken that she was going to serve her sister Tasha for lunch when she arrived.

It was the first time Tasha had seen the flat, despite only living two stops down the tube line. But when one of you owns a basement shoebox in Bayswater and the other a five-bedroom, three-storey townhouse on High Street Kensington, of course you’d choose to dine at the latter. But Leila wouldn’t take no for an answer this time. Apart from the disastrous two years she’d lived with her ex-boyfriend Luke, whose table habits were so vile she never invited anyone round, she’d always shared her kitchen with an endless stream of flatmates, who commandeered every available pan or plate come meal time. This was, and it made her feel ashamed to admit it, the first time she’d cooked for her sister in thirty-two years.

The knocker sounded. That was another purchase that made Leila feel very grown up. One of the first things she’d done after moving in was take a screwdriver to the shrill doorbell and ceremoniously bin it, replacing it with a smart brass knocker like the one the Banks family had in Mary Poppins.

‘Welcome, welcome to my humble abode,’ Leila wrapped her sister in a big hug and stood to one side to give Tasha enough room to squeeze through the door.

‘Ooooo, I am loving the hair! Amazing! You’re actually really pretty! And this is so quaint! And the neighbourhood isn’t as rough as I thought it would be.’