Authors: Alexandra Potter
Then suddenly out of the corner of her eye she saw it – the answer to her prayers – a shiny silver trolley, and it had been left unattended outside Knickerbox. Feeling a wave of excitement, she made a dive for it and, with a technique worthy of Magic Johnson, triumphantly threw her rucksack into the basket area. At last, something was going right. Taking a deep breath, she was about to enjoy a huge sigh of relief when she was interrupted by a voice behind her.
‘Excuse me, that’s mine.’
‘Pardon?’
She swivelled around. Standing in front of the ‘50% off G-string promotion’ was a bloke wearing faded jeans and a checked flannel shirt. Frankie’s eyes travelled upwards, noting the scuffed leather boots, fraying Levi’s and rolled-up shirt sleeves revealing tanned forearms and a couple of those hippy-dippy woven wrist bracelets. A silver chain glinted against the nape of his neck and he wore a battered old cowboy hat that cast a shadow over his face. He looked like a scruffier version of the Marlboro Man. Frankie suddenly realised she was staring.
‘That’s my cart.’ Marlboro Man spoke in a deep Texan drawl, lazily rubbing his chin, which was covered in what looked like a week’s worth of beard growth.
Frankie looked at the trolley and then back at the American. She hated any kind of confrontation and seemed to spend her whole life apologising, regardless of whether or not it was she who was at fault. But the mixture of vodka, last week’s triple whammy and airport nerves had had a peculiar effect. She might have lost everything else, but there was no way she was losing this trolley. ‘I think you must be mistaken,’ she replied politely but firmly. ‘It’s
my trolley
.’ She spoke slowly, deliberately emphasising the words and shielding the trolley defensively with her body. With any luck Mr Cowboy here would bugger off and get his own.
He didn’t. ‘I don’t think so.’ He shook his head and started piling his luggage on to the trolley – large black tripods, scratched metal camera cases, an oversized holdall.
Frankie watched in utter disbelief. This guy had some cheek. Determined not to be outdone, she piled her stuff on top and grabbed the handle. So did he.
‘Hey, I ain’t got time for this. I’ve got a plane to catch.’ He pushed a strand of hair away from his eyes and stared hard at Frankie.
She glowered.
He had a plane to catch!
What about her? What the bloody hell did he think she was doing in Departures? Enjoying a day out? She gritted her teeth in determination. ‘Excuse me, but I’ve got a plane to catch too, you know.’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, that makes two of us then.’ And he began wheeling the trolley across the departure lounge, accompanied by Frankie, who adamantly refused to let go of the handle.
‘Bloody hell, you’re so rude,’ she gasped in amazement as he pushed defiantly on to the moving concourse, the hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. ‘
This is my trolley
.’ Chivalry was obviously a four-letter word in the United States.
Infuriatingly, he completely ignored her.
‘Didn’t you hear what I said?’
It would have been impossible not to, with Frankie’s voice echoing loudly along the corridor, but he chose not to answer. Instead he continued striding down the moving walkway with both of his large, strong hands firmly on the trolley. They made a bizarre sight – him cool, calm and collected in his cowboy hat, her drunk and dishevelled with holes in her tights, both clinging grimly on to one trolley – but neither of them was laughing. Instead they were caught in a silent duel until, suddenly, they reached the end of the conveyor belt causing Frankie to trip as they lurched on to the carpet where they came to an abrupt halt.
Presuming he’d realised the error of his ways, Frankie felt a rush of victory. It was to be short-lived.
‘Well, thanks for coming along for the ride,’ he drawled sarcastically. ‘This is where I get off.’ He started unloading his bags – leaving hers to fall on the floor, scattering her duty-free products. ‘It’s all yours.’ He smiled broadly and, tipping his hat in mock politeness, threw his bag over his broad shoulders and strode towards his gate and a cluster of stewardesses, who took one look at this burly passenger and rapidly changed their impatient scowls to flirtatious smiles.
Frankie was gobsmacked. She’d been taken for a ride – literally. Watching him disappear down the jetty to the plane, she suddenly noticed the gate number displayed in digital lights – 14. She was at gate 14. Her frustration was momentarily replaced by relief that she hadn’t missed her flight – but it didn’t last for long. As soon as she’d handed in her boarding card it dawned on her that the trolley rustler was obviously on the same aeroplane. And probably in the seat next to her. She swiftly dismissed the thought. Nobody – not even she – could be that unlucky.
Hurrying on to the plane, she was greeted by a stony-faced stewardess handing out boiled sweets and a 747 full of grumpy passengers who looked at their watches and eyed her accusingly. Frankie smiled apologetically and started bumping and banging her way down the gangway, struggling to keep a grip on her carrier bags – and their contents – while searching for her seat number. Out of the corner of her eye she could see a familiar-looking Stetson looming ominously ahead and as she edged closer she saw that slap bang across the aisle, next to the window, was an empty seat. Her heart sank. She didn’t even have to double-check her boarding card. She knew it was hers.
Resignedly stuffing her bags in the overhead locker, she squeezed herself into the economy seat and fastened her seat belt. She stared resolutely ahead, determined not to look in his direction, but after a few minutes curiosity got the better of her. Barely moving her head, she sneaked a look at him out of the corner of her eye. Resting his chin in his hand, he had his eyes closed and was breathing slowly and heavily, as if he was in the first stages of falling asleep. Tufts of dark hair bleached almost blond by the sun had escaped from underneath the brim of his hat and faint lines flickered around his eyes – the result of squinting in the sun. Frankie noticed his eyelashes, thick and dark against his tanned and slightly freckled skin, and the small squiggle of a scar cut across his left eyebrow. At a guess he was in his early thirties and, although she hated to admit it, he was sort of handsome, in a rugged, unkempt kind of way.
Not that Frankie liked rugged and unkempt. She liked clean-shaven and smart. Starched collars, freshly pressed suits and the faintest whiff of aftershave. Just like Hugh. Closing her eyes, she could see him now in his Ralph Lauren shirt, his neatly knotted tie, his short fair hair neatly gelled into a little quiff. Gorgeous Hugh. Her Hugh. She bit her lip, trying to stop a tear she could feel prickling her eyelash from falling down her cheek.
The noise inside the cabin suddenly rose to a high-pitched whine as she felt the Jumbo begin its slow journey down the runway. Craning her neck, she stared out of the small porthole window, watching as Heathrow Airport began to whiz past, blending into a blur of grey concrete. Suddenly there was a surge as the engines roared beneath her and she felt the thrust of the g-force as the plane tilted sharply upwards, the wheels leaving the ground.
Taking a deep breath, she slunk down in her seat. Well, this was it. It was finally happening. She was waving goodbye to London and her life as she knew it. A mixture of relief, panic and second thoughts washed over her. Was she doing the right thing? Frankie didn’t know. All she knew was that yesterday she’d been depressed, dumped and on the dole and today she was on a 747 bound for LA and the bright lights of Hollywood. It was too late to change her mind, but as daunting as it was, she knew she couldn’t have stayed. It would have been just too painful. Closing her eyes, she wiped away the tear that had trickled down the side of her nose and for the first time in ages started to smile. Yep, the decision was made and, whether she liked it or not, there was to be no turning back. Frankie was going to Hollywood . . .
2
It had all started less than a week ago when she’d discovered the receipt from Tiffany’s the jeweller’s. Not that Frankie had been meaning to go through her boyfriend’s pockets, but it was a Monday morning, she was late and she’d been looking for change for the tube. After taking apart the sofa – cushion by cushion – scouring the edges of the carpet along the skirting boards and emptying all those little candle-holders and ethnic bowls along the mantelpiece, she’d almost given up. Until in desperation she pulled out Hugh’s grey woollen overcoat from the cupboard in the hallway.
Breast pocket – nothing; inside pocket – an empty Snickers wrapper and a lottery ticket; side pocket – a pound coin and a scrunched-up receipt. She was about to throw it away when something stopped her. A gut reaction, sixth sense, woman’s intuition: whatever it was, something caused her to carefully unfurl the piece of paper, lay it on the kitchen work-surface and smooth out the creases with the palm of her hand. That’s when she saw it came from Tiffany’s and the words ‘item of jewellery’ printed underneath. Feeling a jolt of excitement, she tried to see the amount, but the ink had gone all blurry. Undeterred, she held it up to the sash window and squinted – it looked like a 2 and a few noughts. Her mind raced from nought to 2,000 in less than a second.
Two thousand pounds!
Her heart accelerated into fifth gear to keep pace with her imagination. Hugh had bought jewellery at Tiffany’s for two thousand pounds. Nothing cost that much, unless of course . . . She couldn’t bring herself to even think the words, let alone say them. But it was her birthday in a couple of days and he had been acting very oddly recently. Still, surely he wouldn’t have, he couldn’t have . . . could he? She looked at the receipt. He had!
He’d bought an engagement ring
. There, she’d said it. He’d bought a Tiffany’s engagement ring and was going to propose – and on her birthday!
Feeling her legs tremble as if they were going to buckle and give way beneath her, she plonked herself down on top of the stainless-steel pedal bin, still clutching the receipt. Her stomach was doing gymnastics and she felt as if she was going to laugh and cry at the same time. It was such a surprise. Such a fantastic surprise. Looking down at her left hand, she wiggled her ring finger in anticipation. Mrs Hamilton, Mrs Hugh Hamilton. Grinning ecstatically, she thought about Hugh. She’d had other boyfriends, but she’d never felt like this before. Never had a man made her regress from being a twenty-eight-year-old career girl with a private pension, gym membership and a Boots club card, to a dippy, daft, dumb-struck teenager every time he even looked at her. Never before had she spent her precious weekends getting grass stains out of golf trousers or shivering under an umbrella in the pouring rain, watching him playing rugby, when she could be snugly tucked up on the sofa with a cup of tea and an old black and white movie. But now she did.
And
she enjoyed it. Frankie was in love.
They’d met nearly two years ago. It had been the week before Christmas and she and her flatmate Rita had just been bluntly informed by their scrooge of a landlord, Mr Figgins, that the lease was up on their cramped flat above Toni’s Tanning Salon on Westbourne Grove and he wanted them out before the new year. His timing was lousy. Rita – receptionist/shop assistant/part-time hairdressers’ model and now budding actress – was in panto in Southend-on-Sea (‘You may laugh, but playing the back end of Daisy the Cow is just the beginning,’ she’d sulked at Frankie, who, on hearing the news, had collapsed in a fit of hysterics and nearly choked on a veggie sausage. ‘Every actress has to start somewhere. Just look at Anna Friel – she was a lesbian!’) and it was therefore left up to Frankie to sort out their housing crisis.
Which is why she’d sneaked out of the office at four thirty one afternoon and fought her way through hordes of half-crazed Christmas shoppers spewing out of the tube station hungry for tinsel, Christmas compilation CDs and glittery boob tubes for the office party. With only six shopping days to go, Kensington High Street had become a no-go area – one false move and you could be poked in the eye with ‘three for the price of two’ rolls of metallic wrapping paper – and shops that were normally perfectly safe were now potentially hazardous. In Marks & Spencer, empty shelves in the food hall were causing a threatening furore among present-buyers desperate to snap up boxes of chocolate truffles and gift-wrapped wooden cases of vintage port and matured Stilton, while in WH Smith an ugly fight had broken out over the last pack of charity Christmas cards.
Making little progress with polite ‘excuse me’s, Frankie had adopted a rugby stance – head tucked in, elbows out – and, breaking out of the scrum, headed blindly for the blue and white striped awning of Binkworths Estate Agents. On making it, she’d wearily pushed open the heavy glass door and had been hit by the warmth of central heating. Loosening her fluffy mohair scarf, she’d stumbled gratefully inside and, with flushed cheeks and watering eyes, slumped herself and her quilted puffa jacket into one of the shiny leatherette chairs in the sales and lettings department.
‘Do you need any help?’
Frankie looked up from the glossy property magazine she was idly flicking through and into the velvety green eyes of a very good-looking man who’d sat down behind the desk opposite. Raising his eyebrows, he smiled at her as he leaned back against his chair and ran his fingers briskly through his blond hair. Frankie was slightly taken aback. She’d been expecting to meet one of the usual run-of-the-mill estate agents: early thirties ex-public schoolboy, pigeon-toed and portly, wearing a nasty pinstriped suit and pinky ring, with a permanently red face from a shirt collar that was too tight and dug into his burgeoning double chin. But the man behind the desk was none of the above. Slim, self-confident and sexy, this particular estate agent was a very handsome member of the male species.