Grace Monroe - Broken Hearts

GRACE MONROE

Broken Hearts

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

AVON

A division of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by

HarperCollins Publishers 2009

Copyright © Grace Monroe 2009

Grace Monroe asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9781847560469

Ebook Edition © 2009 ISBN: 9780007331635

Version: 2018-06-18

To Auntie Theresa who made this world a little better.

Maria

To Paul for being so splendid.

Linda xx

Title Page

Copyright

Prologue

PART ONE Edinburgh November 2008

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

PART TWO London November 1988

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

PART THREE Edinburgh November 2008

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

The middle of a November night in Scotland is rarely a happy time. For any poor sod in a PVC miniskirt and corset standing in an Edinburgh alley waiting for a punter, it was even worse. The wind was whistling down the Shore and right up her backside, even through her thermal knickers and the thin coat she had thrown on top of her outfit.

It had better be worth it.

She knew how to protect herself, but this weather was wearing her down. It looked as if she wasn’t the only one who was affected–the streets were quiet, particularly lacking the type of man she was looking for. She’d seen a girl who looked to be no more than fifteen disappear with an old bloke about ten minutes ago. You’d think that the ancient ones would rather be at home having a cup of tea than spending the gas money on a quick fumble with an underaged girl. She laughed quietly to herself. Not her type. Not her type at all.

She wanted a nice car, with the heating on full blast, and a bit of comfort while she did what she had to do. Classy car; classy guy. She laughed quietly again. The ice moon actually suited her purpose, even if she was freezing. She could see almost everything right down the Shore to the Docks. If she had moved a few hundred yards, the Queen’s old yacht Britannia would have been in her line of vision from just beyond where lights from the local restaurants glimmered on the Water of Leith. During the day, and all through spring to autumn, there were swans swimming there. She remembered this from an earlier visit to Edinburgh, but, wisely, they were at home tonight as well.

A car engine revved in the distance, creeping towards her. There was ice on the cobbles where she stood and the punter was obviously a careful man, which she could see both in the way he was driving in the treacherous weather and the manner in which he was scanning the women. A thought flew into her mind–maybe he was too careful. She screwed up her eyes; she didn’t want to be stopped by any of Lothian and Borders’ finest. Mind you, the cops in Edinburgh were tolerant of vice girls, and the official line claimed that they had ‘created a safer environment’. She’d read in the local paper that the residents weren’t quite so broad-minded and the flat owners around the gentrified area were no doubt less than happy to be part of this safety campaign for whores. She’d have to go on gut feeling–you couldn’t tell a cop by looking at him, and you couldn’t tell whether any man was going to be fit for the purpose until way beyond the stage when it was too late to turn back.

The Mercedes drew up alongside the kerb. She teetered along in her heels to the window–it wasn’t the latest model, but it was close enough. Salesman probably. Away from home, away from the wife, needing a bit of recreation and able to justify that it’s meaningless. She saw in him what she was looking for–what she needed. She threw open her coat and gave him a look at what was on offer. ‘Evening, darling,’ he grinned after rolling down his side window, letting her feel the warmth away from the streets behind her. She smiled back and wiggled her way round the front of the car to the passenger door.

Inside, it smelled of stale sweat and cloying pine air freshener. The back seat was littered with empty crisp packets, a discarded boy’s football boot and a teddy wearing a Newcastle United strip. She smiled at him again as if she hadn’t noticed, as if his treachery didn’t turn her stomach. She needed him as much as he needed her. More.

Locking onto his eyes, she ran through a quick menu, making sure that the prices hovered somewhere between a bargain and a promise of satisfaction. She didn’t want to be too cheap or he might suspect that she was a beginner; she didn’t want to be too expensive or he might prefer to take his business somewhere less pricey. It was a balancing act, and the customer needed to get the sense that his luck was in. She offered a lot for twenty quid, and gave the excuse that it was a cold night.