Jill Mansell - Chapter 1

‘Oh, don’t say that! I’m sorry! It’s not you, it’s me, I just — mind that cyclist!’

‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to hit the cyclist.’

‘But I don’t want you to be upset.’

‘Lola, it’s OK. It’s not your fault.’ He steered skilfully around a couple of drunks staggering across the road, then indicated left and pulled into a side street. ‘Would it help at all if I said I’d kind of guessed this might be coming?’

The streetlights illuminated the angles of his face. Behind the spectacles Lola glimpsed sadness mixed with stoicism. They’d never even slept together.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘You’re so nice ...’

‘I know I am. I also know I’m not the world’s best looking guy, but I was kind of hoping to win you over with my brilliant personality.’ He shot her a lopsided smile, seemingly able to read her mind. ‘That’s why I never tried to get you into bed, in case you were wondering. Because I knew you hadn’t reached the stage yet where you really wanted to. I thought if I was patient ... well, that the right time would come along and everything would be perfect. But there was always the risk that you’d bale out before it had a chance to happen.’ He pulled a wry face. ‘And guess what? I was right, you’re baling out. Maybe I’m psychic.’

‘But you’ve slept with so many incredible girls,’ Lola protested. ‘Famous ones! Loads more glamorous than me!’

‘Maybe I have.’ He shrugged, half smiled. ‘Maybe they don’t mean so much.’

‘Oh God, don’t say that.’ Lola felt terrible now

‘Sorry, I don’t want you to feel guilty. Hey, it’s OK. Really.

Can’t make chemistry happen if it isn’t there. It’s a shame, but I’ll survive.’

‘You deserve someone fantastic.’ Lola really meant it. ‘Thanks.’ EJ started the Lamborghini up again and drove her home.

Before she climbed out of the car, Lola hugged him hard and said, ‘Have a great time in St Kitts.’

He smiled, sad for a moment, then gave her waist a squeeze. ‘I have to say, all credit to you for telling me tonight. A lot of girls would have waited until after the five-star, all-expensespaid holiday.’

• ‘I know’ Lola wondered if she’d live to regret it. ‘I think I’m probably mad.’

As he planted a goodbye kiss on her cheek, EJ said with affection, ‘That’s probably why I liked you so much in the first place.’

Chapter 48

What a shame you couldn’t fall in love with a man as easily as you could fall in love with a coat.

‘This is it.’ Lola hugged herself and did a happy twirl in front of the antique, rust-spotted mirror propped against the side of the stall. ‘This is the one. It’s perfect!’

‘Fabulous.’ Sally nodded in agreement.

Blythe, ever practical, said, ‘How much?’

But Lola didn’t care. It was love at first sight. The moment she’d clapped eyes on the coat, fuchsia-pink velvet, long and swirly, she’d known it was the one for her. And they’d be happy together; the coat wouldn’t reject her. It wouldn’t haughtily announce that it didn’t want to be her coat. It would never let her down, stand her up or make her cry.

Plus it had an iridescent parma violet satin lining; how many men could boast that?

Oh yes, when everything else around you was going pear-shaped, there was always Portobello Market, with its bustle and colour and endless treasure trove of shops and stalls, to cheer you up.

Just as there was always someone to nag you about money.

‘Lola. Tag: Blythe prompted, pointing to the sleeve.

This was the downside of having a mother who went for quantity rather than quality every time.

Blythe lived for the sales. Her idea of heaven was rummaging through the bargain rails in charity shops where you could buy a whole new outfit for six pounds fifty.

‘Um ... forty-five.’ Lola attempted to hide the tag up the coat’s sleeve as her mother approached.

Too late. Blythe peered at the tag then dropped it as if it had barked at her. ‘Two hundred and forty-five!’ She gazed at Lola and Sally in disbelief. ‘Pounds!’ Just in case they’d thought she meant Turkish lira.

‘But Mum, it’s a coat.’

‘It’s a second-hand coat.’ Blythe was indignant.

‘Vintage,’ said the stallholder.

‘If this was in a charity shop you’d be able to buy it for twenty pounds!’

‘But this coat isn’t in a charity shop,’ the stallholder patiently explained.

‘Not any more it isn’t. I bet that’s where you found it, though. You probably bought it for a tenner and now you’re selling it for silly money! Lola, offer her fifty pounds and not a penny more. Barter with the girl.’

‘Mum, sshh, look at the label. If this coat was on sale in Harvey Nichols it would cost thousands.’

‘But see how thin it is. You can hardly call it a coat — it won’t even keep you warm!’

Lola briefly considered pretending to give up, carrying on along the road and secretly scuttling back this afternoon. But how could she risk leaving such a beautiful thing for even a few minutes? What if someone else came along and snappedit up? It would be like leaving George Clooney on a street corner and expecting him to still be there waiting for you hours later.

Besides, she was twenty-seven years old, not seven. She looked the stallholder squarely in the eye and said, ‘Two hundred.’

The stallholder, who knew a pushover when she saw one, shrugged and said, ‘Sorry, I can’t go below two thirty.’ The subtext being: because I know how badly you want this.

Lola took out her purse and began counting out twenties.

‘Lola, you can’t buy it.’

‘Mum, I love this coat. It’ll make me happy. And it’s my money, I can spend it how I like.’

‘I don’t know where she gets it from,’ Blythe tut-tutted as Lola rolled her eyes at the stallholder.

‘Two hundred and thirty pounds for somebody else’s old cast-off. That’s shocking.’

At last the transaction was complete and they moved on. Sally, after a week back at work, was relishing her day off and getting along quite niftily now with the help of her walking stick.

Blythe stopped at a stall selling patchwork waistcoats and said, ‘Now these are fun, and they’re only fifteen pounds!’

‘They’re horrible,’ said Sally.

‘Oh. Are you sure?’ Blythe looked to Lola for a second opinion.

‘Really horrible,’ Lola confirmed.

‘At least they’re new. Ooh, how about this?’ Excitedly Blythe waved a peacock-blue scarf adorned with silver squiggles. ‘Seven pounds!’

Lola nodded. What harm could a scarf do? The sooner her mother bought something, the sooner she’d stop going on about the coat. ‘Yes, buy it.’

‘No, don’t buy it!’ Sally let out a snort of laughter and waggled her hands in a bid to draw Lola’s attention to something on the scarf.

‘Honestly, you two,’ Blythe grumbled. ‘It’s like going shopping with Trinny and Susannah.

What’s wrong with—’

‘My God! Lola!’

Everyone turned in unison at the sound of the girl’s voice. Next moment Lola found herself having the breath hugged out of her lungs as market-goers swirled around them on the pavement.

At last Jeannie put her down and Lola said, ‘I don’t believe it. Look at you! You’re so brown.’

‘That’s because I’m living in Marbella now! We’re just back for a few days visiting my mum.’

Jeannie’s hair was sunbleached, her skin was the colour of a hazelnut and she was wearing faded, hippyish clothes and flip-flops. ‘And you aren’t brown: she said cheerfully, ‘so that must mean you live in unsunny Britain.’

‘I do. I live right here in Notting Hill. And this is my mum.’ Lola indicated Blythe. ‘And my friend Sally. Mum, this is Jeannie from school.’