It is a truth universally acknowledged that working with an ex is a terrible idea…

Annie Elliot never expected her life to turn out this way: living with her dad, working as an accountant – surely the least glamorous job in Hollywood?! – and dodging her family’s constant bickering.

Landing a job as a producer on a new adaptation of Pride and Prejudice seems like the piece of luck she’s been waiting for. Until the cast is announced, and Annie discovers that the actor playing Mr Darcy is Austen Wentworth: the man she’s spent nearly a decade trying to forget.

Not only is Austen her ex – but while Annie’s life has stalled, Austen is Hollywood’s hottest property…and has just been voted World’s Sexiest Man.

With nowhere to hide, there’s just one question. Now the one who got away has come back, should Annie stand by her pride? Or give into Austen’s powers of persuasion?

Persuading Austen

Brigid Coady

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

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 Fourteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

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

Epilogue

Endpages

Copyright

BRIGID COADY

Brigid Coady was born in the UK but raised round the world with most of her childhood spent reading. Brigid works for a communications and digital marketing agency as a producer and storyteller. Much of her writing is done at weekends in various Starbucks around the world. In the past, she has been the official Writer in Residence on the 06:37 train from London Victoria to Canterbury West. Brigid is also a voice-over artist, loves country music and has had her own radio show. Brigid’s obsession with One Direction and Kenny Chesney is perfectly healthy, no matter what anyone else says. She lives in London. Persuading Austen is her second novel.

Acknowledgments

People say that writing a book is a very solitary activity. Obviously, I’m doing it wrong. This book would not exist if I didn’t have a huge amount of support for which I am eternally grateful.

Thank you to my family; Mum, Dad, and Annalise. You are my biggest cheerleaders and the best handsellers of my work.

There would be no Persuading Austen without my lovely agent, Felicity Trew, from The Caroline Sheldon Literary Agency. Thank you for taking me on, and who would have thought that two years after that initial brainstorm that produced Annie’s story and introduced us to Austen Wentworth that they would be out in the wild.

Thanks to my editors at HQ Digital. Victoria Oundjian for taking a chance on the book and to Clio Cornish for taking over at short notice.

I’m incapable of writing without the support of Liz Fenwick, we have decided we are really one person with two writing careers. She is the voice of reason when I’m panicking. My cheerleader, friend, family, and literary other half. We must never have the same deadline again. And thanks to the whole Fenwick clan; Chris, Dom, Andrew, and Sasha for letting me be a part of the family and also lending me Liz.

Julie Cohen and Anna Louise Lucia have been my writing sisters for years. We don’t see each other enough but I can feel you behind me every time I put fingers to keyboards.

Thanks to the RNA for having my back and for being the best writing organisation in the world. Also thank you to Dr David Hessayon for his sponsorship of the Joan Hessayon Award for New Writers. I was lucky enough to win this award for my first novel, No One Wants To Be Miss Havisham the boost it has given me is incalculable.

This book would have been written faster if Keris Stainton hadn’t pushed me down the rabbit hole that is the One Direction fandom. Thanks for that and much more. The Tumblr fandom is a weird and wonderful place, populated with many talented people writing fan fiction and distracting me from my writing. I have left little nods to the fandom in the book; all included with love and respect. So thanks Keris and Katey Lovell for the group chats, writing support, concert ticket panic, and the fan fiction recommendations. I promise I will finish The Breakfast Club AU one day.

Everyone needs a support network of non-writing friends. Matt Turner – white van man extraordinaire, Bookshop Crawl Stig, book recommender, and partner in crime. Thank you for being you, and also for being the only one who bothered to come and see me in Basel.

To Tricia Gibney and Mr Pie, thank you for letting me stay and looking after me so well. No writer could ask for more; gluten-free food on tap, cat cuddles, and great conversation.

The wonderful Jill Mansell bid on and won my offer – to have a character named after her – for the Authors for Nepal auction. The Jillian Mansell depicted in this book in no way resembles Jill.

This book has its own playlist that was the soundtrack to my writing - http://spoti.fi/2sE8Gye And yes, there are rather a lot of One Direction songs on it. That is the way I roll.

All the many mistakes in this book about producing a TV show are all mine. And in the words of Dick Wolf and Law & Order:

The following story is fictional and does not depict any actual person or event.

Dedication

For my sister, Annalise.

Thank you.

Chapter One

Wikipedia – William Elliot, Actor

William Charles Elliot – born March 1, 1950. Renowned actor. Son of Sir Walter William Elliot – actor, theatre manager, director – and Elizabeth Siddons, actress. Married July 15, 1974, to Molly Stevenson, actress (died 2002). They had four children: three girls and a stillborn son. Imogen Elliot, actress (1982), Anne (1983?), a son (1984), and Marie, actress and TV presenter (1986) married to Charles Musgrove, investment banker.

Annie heard the thump as she walked down the stairs. She stared down at the handmade leather brogue that had sailed from the living room and bounced on the black and white tiled hallway. She halted briefly, her foot hovering as she wondered whether she should take the next step or turn round and hide in her room. No, she needed to get out of the house …

Could she make it down to the kitchen without anyone seeing her?

She put her foot down carefully, hoping that it wouldn’t make any sound.

‘Annie.’

Crap.

Her name echoed up out of the living room, round the hall, and up the stairs. Her father’s voice could reach to the back of a large theatre; it had no problems with their house.

‘Annie. What was the point in having you as a Wikipedia editor if you don’t keep my page up to date?’ The words bounced and caused the chandelier to tinkle. At least his shoe hadn’t taken any more crystals off it.

She walked down the rest of the stairs, a solid lump forming in her gut. She would like one day without drama. She rubbed her temple and wondered what it would have been like if she had grown up in a family where dramatics weren’t the family business.

‘But, Dad …’ she said as she scooped up the shoe and cradled it in her hands. She quickly checked it wasn’t scuffed. William Elliot didn’t wear scratched shoes and the family finances couldn’t stretch to another pair of handmade shoes.

‘Don’t “but Dad” me. You know I wanted that link to the Guardian review added to it; it came out yesterday. It should be there.’

Annie stood in the doorway of the living room, watching as her father pulled at his bottom lip and frowned at the laptop screen in front of him.

If only someone hadn’t introduced him to Wikipedia. She would like to give that stage manager who showed him Alan Rickman’s page a piece of her mind.

‘I’ll do it when I get to the office,’ she said quietly. There was no point in raising her voice or saying no. It was a waste of time and energy because they all knew she’d do it anyway.

‘Well you’d better. It isn’t as though you were doing anything last night.’ He flicked his fingers at her in dismissal. Annie realized he hadn’t looked up from the screen once during the whole exchange.

And whose fault was that? she thought. The tickets she had to see Rag ’n’ Bone Man unused because Dad had wanted her to pick him up from the theatre. She’d waited in all night for his call, before he came home in an expensive cab.

She should’ve said something. If it had been work, she’d have ripped someone a new one. Annie sighed.

Annie stroked the burnished brown leather upper; it was warm from his body heat. It was the closest she’d been to him in awhile. Carefully she put the shoe down close to his chair so he’d see it but wouldn’t trip over it.

She turned and walked across the hall towards the stairs down to the kitchen, the lump in her stomach dissolving slightly. It could’ve been worse. Her finger brushed the small hole in the plaster in the wall; that had been his phone. And after that she knew no matter how broke the family were she always had to make sure he flew first class. She was thirty-two, lived at home, and was a complete pushover.

But as Annie entered the kitchen she took a deep breath and felt herself expand and unfurl. This was her place, every battered and old-fashioned part of it. The crazy Seventies-style cupboards with mustard-coloured doors that hung slightly off their hinges and the scratched and burnt wooden worktops. Her dad and oldest sister Immy never came down here if they could help it.

There had been a brief period when Immy had invaded, thinking her smoothies would gain an extra something if she prepared them herself. Immy took up more space than her spare frame should; her presence had squashed Annie into the corners of the room. Annie had felt like an interloper in her safe space. Luckily Immy had realized she could get the smoothies delivered from the same organic supplier that the Duchess of Cambridge swore by, and Annie had breathed a sigh of relief, moving the blender to the back of a cupboard.

An expensive gadget to be gathering dust but it was worth it for the freedom.

Annie closed the door to the kitchen, sealing herself inside, and turned on the small TV she had in the corner of the counter.

‘I don’t know why women make such a fuss about not having time to take care of themselves. For your marriage to survive you need to keep up certain standards. I mean … here I am with a career, two kids, and a very happy husband.’ Annie grimaced as she turned down the blast of her baby sister’s voice coming out over the speakers.

‘And a nanny, and a housekeeper and me,’ Annie muttered as she opened the fridge. If she had the show, Easy Ladies, on in the background she wouldn’t be completely lying when Marie called to ask, or rather demand, whether she’d watched it. Technically it was Annie’s day off but the prospect of spending more time at home had her, by mid-morning, desperate to escape to the office. And it also meant she didn’t have to give Marie blow-by-blow feedback on her performance.

Ah, there was the hummus.

She grabbed the tub. Her fingers grazed the pack of carrot batons. She could use them. She should use them. She looked up and caught Marie’s bleached white smile in the screen.

No.

She shut the fridge door with her hip and reached for the bag of salt and vinegar crisps from the cupboard beside it.

Annie felt in need of reinforcement, and there was something solid and safe about the tart tang of salt and vinegar crisps coated in the smooth creamy hummus. Ripping off the lid from the tub and breaking open the bag, she took a crisp and dipped it in.

Yes, there.

The taste exploded on her tongue, released saliva and with it a feeling of warmth. A hug. She remembered the way her mother and she had hidden down here, dipping crisps and giggling over the silliness of Immy and Daddy and Marie. How her mum had held her and told her that Daddy didn’t mean it when he called her ‘Podge’ or poked her in the tummy telling her to suck it in. And he was just busy with work when he forgot to call her on her birthday.

Why was she hiding down here, yet again?

She was a successful production accountant in her own right. Hired to wrestle spreadsheets into submission and ensure the cast and crew of TV shows and movies got paid. She was bloody good at it even if she’d fallen into it hoping that by being in the same industry as her family that might make them closer. What did it matter if she didn’t have some sort of vocation for it? It had led her to her dream job, producer, and she was so close to it happening. Not everyone was born knowing what they wanted to be when they grew up. Sometimes you found it by falling over it.

Hell, Annie could stand up to belligerent directors and producers and win. But what was it about her family that made her squish down into a completely spineless marshmallow? They made her feel as if she was ten again. Or maybe six.

‘Annie! Annie! Where the bloody hell are you?’ The voice came echoing down the stairs followed by the clatter of stilettoes on wooden stairs.

Crap. Immy was having one of her ‘moments’. In anyone else they’d be called a temper tantrum.

Annie dug another crisp into the tub of hummus, trying to hold on to the comfort, but it had disappeared.

The door banged open taking another chunk out of the plaster on the wall.

Damn. Annie tried to swallow the crisp quickly and ended up choking.

Gasping for breath as she coughed, she saw her sister staring at her in disgust through the tears in her eyes.

Not even an offer of the Heimlich manoeuvre, she thought as her vision started to blacken around the edges.

‘Really, Annie, there is no need to be so dramatic,’ Immy said.

Annie managed to dislodge the crumb and staggered to the sink. She stuck her head straight under the tap. The water flowed over her face and her neck but enough got down her throat to soothe the rawness.

‘When you have quite finished …’ Immy even stomped her foot. Annie noticed that she had new shoes again. That was probably next month’s electricity bill, the spiked heels making more marks on the wood floors.

‘What is it?’ she croaked.

‘Why didn’t you tell me that Sam Mendes was casting for his new imagining of Romeo and Juliet? You know I’d make a perfect Juliet. When I played her at the National the papers said my performance was sublime.’

‘Immy, that was over ten years ago. You do remember that Juliet is supposed to be a teenager? Anyway Sam was looking for an unknown actress.’ Annie left off the age range bit. At thirty-three, Imogen was ten years over the upper range.

‘Don’t you think I can act like a teenager?’ Immy demanded.

Annie would have sniggered if her throat weren’t so scratched. She did in her head; she had enough self-preservation not to point out that her sister always acted like a teenager.

‘Look, Immy,’ she said forcing her voice into the cajoling tone that she hoped would work. This was the problem with working in the same industry. Immy and her dad expected her to be their eyes and ears. And Cassie, her boss, was working with Sam. ‘I hear he was thinking of going all low class on the casting. Soap actors.’ She nodded and rolled her eyes to pretend to Immy that this was a fate worse than death. Which in the Elliot family it was.

‘I even heard that Will Elliot was being considered as Romeo. I mean if Sam is thinking of casting him … Well it isn’t really something you want to be involved in. Can you imagine?’

Annie didn’t have any particular issue with their cousin, Will, who had made a name for himself on EastEnders. And of course, there were those unfortunate stories in the tabloids about that affair he’d had with a married co-star.

In fact, she’d only met him once when they were kids, which she didn’t remember, but the mere mention of his name made her dad start foaming at the mouth. She was sure it was the EastEnders connection that annoyed him more than the affair – the Elliot name connected to such mundane TV. In the Elliot world, soap actors might as well be reality TV stars. Annie had always felt an affinity to Will. As soon as it became clear to Dad that she had no interest in acting she had ceased to be of interest.

‘Well, hmm.’ Imogen’s face screwed up as much as it was able against the chemicals that she injected into it every six months.

‘I’ll let you off this time, but really, Annie, you know it should always be family first.’ And on that line she swept out of the kitchen.

Annie leant back against the sink and wiped her mouth.

Family first? Ha. But on that list she knew she came last.

Sighing she folded over the top of the crisp packet and secured it with a clip. The TV flung bright images of Marie, who was smirking at her. She needed to grow a backbone where her family was concerned.

‘They need to be grounded; they need to feel taken care of. That is our job.’ She could hear her mother’s voice as if she were standing right next to her. There had been a low huskiness to it. It was the voice that had kept them all fed and clothed through the years. She had been the narrator of a thousand TV commercials and the true caretaker of their family. Her beautiful talented mother who took jobs because the family needed the money while her husband wouldn’t deign to sully his reputation. And he’d let her. And now it was Annie’s turn.

Annie who tried to fill the gaping hole left but didn’t quite manage: sister, daughter, and caretaker. Her mum’s stand-in, but she didn’t fill the gap quite well enough no matter how she squished or pulled herself.

Annie wasn’t sure she wanted to do it any more but what was she without it? Maybe eight years ago there had been an alternative but now … She shook her head. Annie wouldn’t think about it. She’d lost her chance and now she had to get on with the choices she’d made. Maybe she could at least start looking at moving out. If she could put some distance between them maybe things would get better.

Suddenly the taste in her mouth was too cloying, less like a hug and more like a vice.

She put the lid back on the hummus tub, only just remembering to put the tub in the fridge and the crisps in the cupboard as opposed to the other way round. She turned off the TV and felt guilty for the sense of relief from wiping Marie’s face out with the press of a button.

Annie wondered if she could get a remote that did that in real life.

That was harsh. She felt a shiver of guilt at the thought but then a bigger swoop hit her stomach when she had to admit it was true.

Slamming the front door of the house a few minutes later, she clattered down the steps, noticing the replacement tiles she’d ordered when she’d realized some cracks were showing. She looked back. The house was shone and the brass was sparkling on the door. It was always camera ready in case Immy was papped leaving it.

The house overlooked a part of Clapham Common that, when her parents had bought it, had been down at heel. A house with four floors and a back garden had been a steal. Clapham had pulled itself up by its bootstraps in the past thirty years. Now their house, which had always looked a bit too polished and slick for its neighbours, almost fitted in.

But Annie knew that the other houses had interior-designed kitchens, fittings that would cost her a year’s salary. Whilst their house was a façade, with everything inside stagnated and crumbling. She was glad Mum couldn’t see it.

‘Sorry,’ she whispered as she pulled her jacket round her, trying for protection from the chill February wind, and rushed up the street to Clapham Common station. But she wasn’t sure who she was apologizing to or what for.

Chapter Two

Annie breathed out and felt the tension leach from her body as soon as she clattered down the steps and through the front door of work. The Northanger Agency office was in the basement of a terraced house on a road parallel to Notting Hill Gate. Three rooms, a toilet, and a small kitchen, and not another Elliot in sight, bliss.

She shrugged off her jacket and hung it on the rickety hat stand that leaned lopsided just inside the door.

‘Crap,’ she said as it fell into the wall and took another small flake of paint off the wall. She rubbed it as if that would make a difference, instead merely managing to spread the red plaster underneath.

‘Are you taking chunks out of the office? You know the boss will take that out of your wages?’ Annie smiled when she heard the dry voice coming from one of the offices.

‘She’s such a slave driver,’ Annie replied as she walked through to the kitchen and flipped the switch on the kettle. She turned and leant against the counter, smiling at her boss who was now leaning against the doorjamb. The only reason Annie had a boss was Annie had enough responsibility without adding in running their tiny two-person agency. And Annie didn’t trust her family not to get their fingers into the firm’s finances.

‘I know. I mean if she didn’t chain you to the desk you’d never do any work.’ Cassie grinned. Cassie Steventon was all of five foot and with her mass of curls, dimples, and curvy figure most people dismissed her as a pretty doll. Which she was, if the doll had a spine of steel, a mind that ran rings round everyone else’s, and the ability to deal with the financial running of a production with the ferocity of a honey badger. So, yes, a really scary doll.

‘Speaking of which, isn’t today your day off?’ Cassie came and perched on the counter next to the kettle.

Annie cringed inside. How sad was her life that she had only one place to escape to when home got too bad? There was only work and home and if she had to choose, she chose work.

‘You know … I wanted to make sure everything was in order for that meeting you have with Sam about Romeo and Juliet.’

‘Annie, you had that all tied up yesterday. And we both know that Sam will be like putty in my hands.’ She fluttered her eyelashes as she said it. ‘Are you hiding out here again? It isn’t like I don’t enjoy having you round the place but really how can you be the kick-ass person at work who doesn’t take any nonsense and then at home …’

Annie quickly interrupted her.

‘I know, Cassie. I promise to get a life. Soon. It’s just …’ How could she explain that it was as if as soon as she came into contact with her family her backbone dissolved to mush? It was like that acid that even with a brief contact could burrow into your skin and then start leaching the calcium from your bones. No amount of washing would take it off. Maybe she should be wearing a HAZMAT suit when she was with her family?

‘Okay, I’ll leave you be. But one day they truly will drive you mad,’ Cassie said as she made a twirling motion with her finger against her temple. ‘Anyway enough of this, I have news. Big news. I thought I was going to have to keep it to myself till tomorrow but now you’re here …’

Annie relaxed. She was off the hook with the nagging for a little while. ‘Spill,’ she said.

‘Maybe we need cake for this particular piece of news?’ Cassie said.

‘Just tell me.’

‘No, I really think I should get us some of those cupcakes from the bakery across the way.’

‘If you don’t tell me, Cassandra Steventon, I will personally squash every cupcake within a mile radius with my fist. You know how I feel about them, evil foreign interlopers that have endangered our native fairy cake. It would be a pleasure … and stop distracting me. Tell me!’

‘I don’t know why I employ someone with such heathen taste in baked goods,’ Cassie said.

‘Number one, you “employ” me because I’m the best. Two, I’m the one who is pushing ahead with expanding into production. Oh, and three, I own part of this company too.’ Annie counted off the reasons and summoned up her best withering look. It was one she’d learned from Imogen and her dad. She knew it was a mere shadow of theirs but it worked a treat on non-Elliot people.

‘Okay okay, I’ll tell you,’ Cassie said. She put her hands up in surrender. Then she dropped them to her thighs and leant forward on the counter.

‘I’ve had it from Les Dalrymple’s assistant that he’s got the funding for his TV adaptation of Pride and Prejudice. It is going to have a quick pre-production and then they’ll be filming it on location …’ Cassie leaned even closer. ‘It turns out he got the money from one of the big US networks because he bagged a brilliant Mr Darcy.’

Annie could feel herself lean forward. Cassie was weaving her magic again. Her heart accelerated as she realized that if they hadn’t cast the rest of the production she knew exactly who she would put forward. This was it. This was what she could use to shoehorn her father and sister into gainful employment and put some much-needed cash in the family coffers. And then she could have the peace of mind to go and get a place of her own.

‘Fantastic. Please tell me they still haven’t cast Mr Bennet and Caroline Bingley.’ She crossed her fingers. She could almost see the rental listings she would be looking at.

‘I’m sure we can pull a few strings,’ Cassie said with a wink. Annie wanted to pay her the fifteen per cent that an agent would take. Cassie waved her hands as if it were taken as read. ‘Now shut up and let me tell you who the big star is.’

Annie mimed locking her mouth.

It was going to be Benedict Cumberbatch, she thought. He hadn’t done much Jane Austen yet.

Annie was wondering what the Cumberbitches would make of their hero in breeches when cutting through her thoughts she heard: ‘Can you imagine it, Austen Wentworth in breeches?’ Cassie’s words echoed in her head.

What?

It reverberated round and set neurones firing.

Suddenly her mind was producing images of exactly what Austen Wentworth, voted People magazine’s sexiest man, looked like in breeches. She knew. She’d seen it. Truth be told she also knew what he looked like out of breeches.

She shook her head to dislodge the pictures of her past.

‘You what?’

She felt a burn on her shoulder blade, where ghostly tattoo needles made themselves felt, seven years after she had been inked. The tattoo that she always kept hidden, that no one knew about. Then Annie could feel a shaking start in her hands and gradually move up her arms to join the burn. As if she was having an attack of the chills. She clenched her teeth to stop them chattering.

‘Yes, Austen “phwoar” Wentworth. I mean he is the hottest property around. And when I say hot, I mean it in all possible ways.’ Cassie waggled her eyebrows as if Annie needed it underlined.

Suddenly Annie thought the sugar from a cake would come in very handy. Even if it was a cupcake.

‘Just think – weeks of being on set with Austen Wentworth. I think Les Dalrymple will need our services, yes?’

‘Well I don’t know. As long as Dad and Immy get parts, I’ll be happy.’

‘Yeah, right, we’ll sort them out otherwise. Now think about yourself. This is perfect for you. This is what you’ve dreamt about since I met you. Production. All that solving problems and getting things moving: your forte. Such great exposure for you working with the best in the business. You’ll get seen by some serious TV producers. Eric Cowell is the lead. Hollywood, baby. This is where you swoop in and move into production like we planned.’

Cassie punched the air.

Eric Cowell. If Annie’s body hadn’t already been dealing with the Wentworth bombshell, she would be tingling with excitement instead of going into shock.

Yeah, suddenly Hollywood was looking good. It was a place that she had actively avoided, turning down work so she didn’t have to go. Great for her sanity, not so great for her career.

But now, for the first time in eight years, it would be Austen-free. Even sitting in the kitchen in the office she could feel the UK shrinking round her just with the thought that he was in the same country. A few miles between them instead of thousands and the likelihood that she could turn any corner and he’d be there had exponentially increased.

Annie wasn’t stupid. She knew that he had been back in the UK sometime in the past eight years. But she wouldn’t have known when that was; she had been oblivious.

‘So what do you reckon?’ Cassie was looking at her expectantly.

A shudder went through her.

What did she reckon?

She reckoned it was the worst thing that had ever happened.

She reckoned that it would be hell on earth.

She reckoned that if she didn’t get her dad and sister parts she might be flayed.

‘It’ll be interesting,’ she croaked in understatement.

The kettle clicked off and Annie turned away, reaching to grab a mug, her hand shaking.

‘Tea?’ She was surprised her voice came out so steady.

‘Sure,’ said Cassie. ‘And cupcakes later, yeah?’

‘Yeah,’ Annie said not capable of restarting the cupcake debate. Even the mention of his name had her almost giving in.

Was getting Immy and Dad jobs worth pulling the scab off her wounds? Maybe she could pull in other favours to find other jobs for Immy and Dad? Some other high-profile production, which also had literary merit, and was far far away? If only someone would do a production of King Lear in Iceland. Then she would have a viable alternative.

Of course, it would be cold and there was always the worry of volcanic eruptions. These weren’t things that bothered her. It sounded like a regular week at home.

There had to be another way, but how did you turn down Pride and Prejudice?

Slopping tea over the side of her mug, Annie tottered into her small office across from Cassie’s. She collapsed at her desk and acting on automatic she turned on her laptop.

Eight years should’ve been enough time to move on. Annie knew this in her head but she wished her heart would get with the programme. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t tried. The first few years had been okay. Austen had popped up in bit parts on US crime shows, his American accent getting better each time. It was easy, in between those occasional shocks, to pretend that he didn’t exist.

But then the Google alert she had set up on his name started going wild. He became the British actor who went from obscurity to stardom the night after the first episode of his Netflix show Ten Peaks was released. And suddenly every woman was staying in or hosting parties with her friends to binge-watch the show when the whole of the first season had been released in one go.

He was everywhere: chat shows, internet memes. It wasn’t until the alert led her to a small article online about him dating a US TV star, that she’d taken off the notifications and signed up to a dating site. But he was always there like Banquo’s ghost. She shuddered at the memory of the few blind dates Marie had set her up on. Paunchy merchant bankers who thought John Donne was the new signing for Chelsea.

And really, it wasn’t as if she had any spare room for a half-hearted love affair in her life. Every part outside of work – and sometimes in it – was occupied and furnished by her family and their problems. Manoeuvring through the cluttered junk shop that was her life would take a lot more than most men would like to try. That or they would have to smash through the walls and clear out the detritus.

He could have done that. If she’d let him.

He, Austen Wentworth, written about as the ‘one to watch’ by TV and film journalists everywhere.

But for her, he’d always been the one to watch.

She took a sip of her tea, not caring that the heat was almost too much, revelling in feeling pain somewhere else than the centre of her chest.

The first time she’d seen him was in Stratford-upon-Avon in the doorway of a dusty rehearsal room. He was propped against the wall, the script dangling from his hand as he leant his head back, eyes closed. His lips moving, muttering his lines, and even before he opened his eyes she’d been hooked. The legs, that now had fan fiction written about them, had been a bit ganglier then. When she’d tried to step over them to get into the room they’d tangled with hers; she’d started to fall. He’d caught her round the waist.

‘Oops,’ he said as she landed on his chest.

‘Hi,’ she whispered. His eyes were so green. She’d spent days afterwards trying to find an exact match for the shade. She’d had to settle for bottle green glistening in the sun.

He was playing Lodovico to her dad’s Othello. A small part but it was with the RSC, and Austen was fresh from drama school and bouncing on his toes to get somewhere, to prove to his parents that being an actor wasn’t a complete waste of time. Annie had gone to act as Dad’s assistant, knowing that if he was left on his own who knew what nonsense he would get up to or what scandal could come from his indiscretions.

And because they were the youngest ones there, they had naturally stuck together.

Annie remembered those months as if it had been constructed and lit by an Oscar-winning cinematographer. Golden days and nights, vignettes of Austen and her locked in their own world.

‘We’ll get married and go to Hollywood and rent a little apartment. I’ll audition; you can be free to do what you want to do. And then when I make it big …’ His smile was wide as the world, as he hugged her to him. Admittedly his teeth had been a little less white in those days.

Her heart clenched even now and more tea spilled. All those dreams that had died and dried up and blown away.

Who got married at twenty-four to a penniless actor who only had his looks to recommend him? she heard her dad say, echoed by Aunt Lil, her mum’s best friend who was also her godmother. It was stupid beyond words, Lil had said. Didn’t she know how fickle the industry was?

And what would she do in Hollywood except become some housewife? It wasn’t as if she could do anything, was it? And why would she want to be away from her family? Hadn’t she made that promise? And once the idea was planted in her head, once it got its roots in her that she would be disposable again, could be disposable again … that she would be breaking her promise …

Her mobile rang and half the cup of tea ended up on the desk. Cursing quietly she grabbed some tissues and tried to mop it up at the same time as taking the call without checking the caller ID.

‘Hello.’

‘Annie, where are you? You should be here by now. You know it’s Angelique’s day off and I need to get ready for the awards show tonight.’ Marie’s voice ran out the last of her Austen Wentworth memories for the moment. It had an edge to it that cut through most things.

Bugger. She’d promised to babysit. So much for hiding away at work.

‘I’m on my way.’ Annie hung up and then briefly rolled her forehead on the desk, not caring about the dampness and the faint aroma of tea she was now carrying. Sighing, she pushed herself up. Pastries would have to wait for another day.

***

Standing rocking in the Tube she held on to the strap and wondered whether she should’ve picked up a bag of Haribo to bribe the kids with. Marie had done a whole segment last year for Easy Ladies on the dangers of sugar. Ever since then sugar was treated like a class A drug in her household.

Annie came off the Tube at Pimlico. The wind had picked up and whirled round the exit. She pulled her scarf further up over the bottom of her face. Before she headed up Tachbrook Street to Marie’s house, she popped into the corner shop. Annie grabbed the largest bag of Haribo she could see for the boys and a bar of Lindt chocolate that she would slip to Charlie. Ever since she discovered him in her kitchen looking guilty with a tell-tale smear of chocolate by his mouth, she’d kept him in chocolate. He might be a successful investment banker but in his own house he was definitely the second-class citizen.

Annie stood at the till waiting to pay and then she saw Austen Wentworth.

Her heart dropped as if falling off a cliff. It started beating again after it hit the floor.

Austen wasn’t actually there. No, it was his face on glossy paper staring at her. Make that faces. He was on the front cover of at least three gossip magazines.

‘Austen Wentworth – tells all on life and love’

‘Austen gives hope to women everywhere’

‘Austen Wentworth – who is he dating?’

Her fingers itched to pick them up. Surely it was better that she knew what was happening? Her hand reached out.

No.

She pulled it back.

But what if it was only one, for research?

Annie felt like a smoker being peer pressured into ‘just one more cigarette’.

‘Next,’ called the newsagent.

Annie moved forward and put down the Haribo and chocolate.

‘Anything else?’ The question hung there.

Two minutes later she shuffled out of the shop clutching a blue plastic bag, the tops of three glossy magazines peeking from it.

She was pathetic. She’d been clean for years.

Buying them didn’t mean reading them though.

She could leave them for Marie, as untouched as they were now. No thumbprints on the pages.

She was glad she’d added a bag of crisps. She needed the comfort.

***

‘Darling,’ Marie said. Annie winced at the volume. Marie then descended on her in a swirl of heavy floral perfume and pressed her cheek against Annie’s. The touch was fleeting.

When was the last time she’d had a proper hug from someone? Annie sighed – too long ago. She was sure her family loved her. If they thought about her, which wasn’t often.

‘Auntie Annie.’

Her knees came under attack from Archie and Hector. Okay so she did get hugs. Maybe she should amend that to grown-up hugs, ones with less snot.

‘Hello, you horrors.’

She quickly held the bag out of the way. So they didn’t get the Haribo, of course. Nothing to do with grubby fingers on the magazines.

‘Where have you been? The car will be here in an hour and I can’t get anything done with these two under my feet. Of course, Charlie was supposed to be home by now to help. You’d think I had nothing better to do than wait on him. No, Archie. Mummy can’t pick you up.’

Marie stood with her hands in the air while Archie leapt up.

‘You’ll ruin my manicure, Archie.’

‘Come here.’ Annie dropped the bag on the table and scooped up Archie before the tears, which threatened, exploded. His bottom lip was trembling and there was a sheen across his eyes.

‘You and Hector are going to tell me all about what happened at nursery today. And Mummy is going to finish getting ready.’ She motioned Marie to go with her head.

As Marie left, she whispered, ‘And then if you are very good, I have a treat for you.’

She lurched through to the kitchen with Hector clinging to her leg and Archie clasping his arms round her neck.

Marie’s house was a magazine idea of a family home. It was warm and welcoming as long as there was no one in it. As soon as you added a small child, or two, then the image was ruined, as were the distressed white surfaces. Annie herded them to the kitchen table and pulled out the bright-coloured table covering that was hidden behind the large dresser full of beautiful glass and crockery.

Paper and crayons were in a small tub in the bottom of the dresser.

Annie prayed that the boys would keep their drawing skills to the table area and not try and re-create the Sistine Chapel on the skirting boards.

***

‘Hey up, is it safe?’ a voice said from the doorway.

It was fifteen minutes later, and a balding man put his head round the door.

‘Hi, Charlie. I’d say we’re at DEFCON 3.’ Annie studied him as he came fully into the room. His suit was crumpled, his tie pulled loose, his hair mussed on top.

‘You look tired,’ she said and was then drowned out by the shouts and yells from the boys when they spotted their dad.

Charlie grimaced and then grinned as the boys threw themselves at him and started climbing him like a tree.

Annie smiled as she watched him wrestle with his kids.

It was weird to think this could’ve been her life. Charlie had wanted to date her first. They’d been friends through uni and Annie had known he had a crush on her. But then there had been Austen. And, much as Charlie was a nice guy …

No. It was silly to think about this. Austen or no Austen, she’d never have gone out with Charlie. They didn’t work that way. Of course, there was no way that Marie knew about Charlie’s crush on her. Annie shuddered at the thought of the fallout if she ever found out.

She caught Charlie’s eye. Surreptitiously she waved the bar of chocolate at him.

Thank you, he mouthed at her.

Annie popped it into the pan cupboard. Marie would never find it there; she never used them.

‘Charlie. Where have you been? The car will be here soon. Hector, let Daddy go. Charles Musgrove, go and change.’ Marie marched back into the kitchen, putting on her earrings. Her dress probably cost the same amount as the mortgage payment on the house in Clapham. Thank God Charlie could afford to keep her.

Maybe he could afford to keep Dad and Immy too?

Annie’s stomach clenched at the thought of going cap in hand to either of them.

No, she needed to work out another way. She was the one who was left with the job of looking after them. Not Charlie.

She stopped thinking about it – it wasn’t feasible – and unclasped the kids from Charlie as he rolled his eyes at Marie’s remarks. He then walked out of the kitchen, briefly air-kissing his wife’s cheek. He’d learnt the hard way not to mess with Marie’s make-up.

‘I don’t know how he can be so selfish,’ Marie said as she finished putting her earrings in. ‘Oh and I forgot to say that Henrietta and Louisa are coming with us tonight. They should be here by now. Selfishness seems to be a Musgrove trait.’ Marie’s lips thinned and Annie could see her father and Immy reflected back to her. Even though Marie was the spitting image of her mum, Molly.

‘Hallo!’

Sound and light burst into the kitchen. Annie blinked.

The Musgrove girls had arrived. They were all long gold hair and caramel coltish limbs. They glittered as if they carried their own light source with them. Annie sometimes struggled to tell them apart unless they were standing together – then it was obvious. Louisa was brighter, bolder, hair more golden, limbs longer. Henrietta was a muted copy. Louisa was an actress. It seemed that no part of the family was immune from the family disease, even by marriage.

‘Annie, darling,’ they cooed.

Why had she been worrying about hugs? She was enveloped by their brown limbs, their fragrant hair drifting over her like thistledown. But yet, it didn’t seem enough; it was as insubstantial as candyfloss.

‘Henrietta, Louisa,’ Marie said and kept them at arm’s length and gave them air kisses.

‘Hey, Annie, how are things?’ Louisa leant against the island in the centre of the kitchen, trying for nonchalant, but Annie could see her quivering like a greyhound ready to run.

‘I’m good, busy. You?’ Annie asked.

‘I’ve got an audition with Les Dalrymple.’ Louisa was now bouncing on her toes. ‘It’s the Pride and Prejudice production. The one everyone’s talking about. Have you heard who’s playing Mr Darcy?’ Louisa looked hopefully at Annie.

‘Be still my heart,’ said Henrietta from across the room. ‘Austen Wentworth. Such a hottie.’

Chapter Three

How did she know?

Annie’s head snapped round to look at Henrietta.

It was supposed to be a secret. Cassie would kill her if somehow she had given it away.

Then she saw that Henrietta had found the bag with the magazines and was clutching them. Annie couldn’t help but think her hands looked predatory as they touched his face.

‘Not sure yet …’ Annie mumbled.

Bloody hell. Could the world stop showing her that all roads led back to Austen?

‘He is seriously sexy. I wouldn’t mind playing opposite him,’ said Louisa.

Annie felt sick at the thought of seeing Louisa play Lizzy Bennet to Austen’s Darcy. Not that it would happen. Louisa wasn’t a big enough name yet to play Lizzy. Annie’s stomach cramped when she realized that someone would be playing opposite him though. She would have to tell Cassie there was no way she could work on the production. No way.

‘I’d rather play underneath him,’ Henrietta said as she flicked through the magazine. Annie closed her eyes and swallowed back the nausea. Why didn’t they see that he was another human being and not a piece of meat?

‘Hush, Henry, what would Robbie say if he could hear you?’ Louisa joked as she tried to grab the magazine from Henrietta.

‘We knew him didn’t we, Annie,’ Marie said as she watched the Musgrove girls with a distasteful twist to her lips.

Crap.

How did Marie know? Hadn’t she been away at university at the time, disappointing Dad having not got into drama school? Although she’d made up for it by quickly scaling the TV presenter ladder. But surely, she couldn’t remember some bit-part actor from eight years ago? Marie never noticed anything unless it directly affected her.

Annie made a choking sound as she stared at Marie; she hoped everyone would take it as agreement.

‘Yes, he was in a play with Daddy in Stratford – I forget which one. Anyway I was still a student at the time but I remember him from going to visit. He was a bit geeky at the time but still sexy,’ Marie said. ‘Of course, he fancied me but I was too young and he wasn’t willing to wait.’

Annie could feel her tongue drying out, which was when she realized she had been standing there with her mouth open. Fancied Marie? Why was she even surprised? Marie never saw anything except in how it related to herself, which did explain why she remembered Austen.

‘You remember him, Annie? I think you had a crush on him; you followed him round like a puppy. Dad said it was cute if a bit annoying. Supposedly Austen hadn’t wanted to hurt your feelings by telling you to get lost.’

Everyone turned to look at her.

She could tell them. Tell them that the man thousands of women wanted to sleep with had wanted to marry her.

How he’d quoted Shakespeare and Donne to her when they’d been wrapped round each other in that cramped single bed in his lodgings.

How she knew that now he waxed his chest, which she could see was glistening, peeking out of the V-neck shirt in the photo that Henrietta and Louisa were drooling over. She knew because she’d liked to stroke the little tuft of hair that used to curl out of his T-shirts. Had wrapped it round her finger as they’d cuddled watching TV.

‘Yeah, well.’

Her face burned with humiliation as the words stuck in her throat. What was the point? Her place in the family was not the femme fatale; she wasn’t the one men fell for. Her part was as the steady and boring one. The maiden aunt.

She squirmed. She hated to be pitied.

‘It was a long time ago. And things have changed. Isn’t that the car?’ she said. Annie heard the rev of an engine and thanked whatever deity had sent it. She needed a break.

‘Charlie,’ Marie’s voice screamed up the stairs.

There was a flurry of goodbyes.

And then they were gone. How could the adults be more draining than the kids?

Annie glanced over at the boys but a pair of two-dimensional moss-green-coloured eyes caught her gaze; the last time she had seen them in real life they had glared at her.

Damn him. She’d made her choice and still it felt he was giving her grief about it.

***

‘Cupcakes, beyotch, whether you like it or not.’

Annie jumped as the shout came from Cassie across the tiny hall that separated their offices, almost accidentally entering Idris Elba’s pay at three times his fee.

‘Never. I’ll compromise on Portuguese custard tarts and macarons but never cupcakes,’ she called back as she amended the cost, smiling at the ease with which she could fix work problems.

It had been two weeks since the Austen bombshell and Annie had only now stopped looking over her shoulder when she was out.

Which was stupid. London was a big place.

And, she needed to concentrate. This was her job. This is what she was good at – what she loved. The only part of her life that worked and the place she’d thrown the leftover parts of her heart into.

Cupcakes. Annie could feel the grimace on her face. Horrible overly sweet cloying invaders.

But if Cassie said cupcakes it meant there was obviously more news. Good news. If their little company got any more successful she and Cassie would be obese. Or maybe they’d have to hire someone else to spread the calories.

‘So, what will it be?’ Annie called out. There was a considered silence from the other office. She waited, her hands poised over the laptop keys.

‘If you buy the champagne then okay.’

Champagne? The news must be good. And Cassie would be dying to tell it, which is why she gave in so easily.

‘On it.’

Annie grabbed her purse and coat. She rushed out of the little basement office before Cassie could change her mind. Taking the steps two at a time, she burst onto the residential street of terrace houses. Diving down the street by the local pub, where Cass and she had spent way too much time celebrating and commiserating, Annie came on to Notting Hill Gate. Dodging tourists, she pushed open the door to her favourite patisserie.

The puff of hot air laced with cinnamon and sugar warmed Annie’s face, chilly from the outside. She took a huge breath in almost tasting the buttery pastry on her tongue.

The shop had a few tables at the back but mostly it was a long counter with a glass display case full of the most indulgent cakes and pastries. They were piled high, some oozing cream, others glistening with egg wash, and most drenched in fine powdered sugar. And to Annie’s happiness not a cupcake in sight.

‘Hey, Maggie, can I have two custard tarts and a small mix of macarons,’ she said to the middle-aged woman in an apron behind the display case.

‘So is it good news or bad news?’ Maggie was used to Cassie and her buying patterns by now.

‘Cass said to get the bubbles in so I’m thinking extremely good news,’ Annie said and couldn’t help rubbing her hands together as she waited for Maggie to fill her order.

She felt buoyant, as if she had already drunk the bubbles. There was something about work that freed her. Cut her ties to her family even for a small amount of time. At work she was Annie Elliot, production accountant extraordinaire. She liked that Annie Elliot so much better than Annie Elliot, resident doormat. And when it became Annie Elliot, producer … She smiled harder.

‘There you go,’ Maggie said closing the lid of the white cardboard box, hiding the brightly coloured macrons and glistening tarts. ‘That will be twelve pounds sixty, please.’

Annie tapped her card on the card reader, grabbed the cardboard box and her receipt. She rushed to the door.

‘Bye, Maggie,’ she called back.

Hopefully the off-licence would have some chilled champagne, she thought. Who was she kidding? This was Notting Hill. Of course it would and it was only a week since Valentine’s so they might have some on offer. She grabbed the door handle, hoping that the Pol Roger was on sale and whether the news was good enough to justify it.

‘Bugger.’

The door handle was pulled from her and she fell forward, almost dropping the cake box.

‘Sorry,’ a husky voice said and a firm male hand grabbed her bicep to steady her. ‘I wasn’t paying attention,’ he continued. Annie looked up into a pair of pale blue eyes.

The bloke had fox-like features and a slow sideways smile. He waved his phone at her and looked sheepish.

Annie felt a jolt of recognition, as if he was someone she should know. As if his name was on the tip of her tongue.

‘I hope I didn’t squash your cakes,’ he said. His voice held a resonance she recognized as trained.

Ah, an actor, she thought. That was it then. She’d probably seen him in something on the television. God, she hoped it hadn’t been in a production and she’d forgotten him? That wasn’t good for business.

Better smile, she thought as she grinned, channelling in-charge production accountant extraordinaire Annie. It wouldn’t do to piss off someone who she might work with in the future.

He blinked and opened his mouth, as if about to say something.

But for Annie there were more important things to be doing than talking to a cute bloke, like buying champagne.

‘No worries,’ she said, sliding past him.

She rushed off but couldn’t help glancing back to see the bloke still holding the door to Maggie’s open and watching her with an appreciative but calculating stare. She shook it off.

***

‘Champagne. Check. Custard tarts. Check. Frivolous French macarons, even the green pistachio ones. Check.’ Annie counted off the supplies onto Cassie’s desk. A pair of mismatched champagne flutes waited for the frothy contents.

Annie went to open the foil on the top of the bottle.

‘Hold on. I think we’re missing something?’ Cassie said.

Annie checked again. They had everything they needed. ‘What?’

Cassie winked and flourished a piece of paper in front of Annie.

It was the print-out of some emails.

Annie read it.

Then she read it again. Her hand trembled and the paper shook.

‘But …’ Cassie quickly rescued the champagne bottle that was in danger of dropping to the floor from Annie’s suddenly slackened fingers.

Annie knew that the black type were words. And she could read them all individually. In fact she could’ve read it out loud. What she was struggling with was actually comprehending what the email meant.

‘How come Eric Cowell wants me to be a producer as well as the production accountant?’ It was better to ask questions. Yes, questions and then maybe the reality would sink in.

‘I might have mentioned that Northanger was looking at expanding their expertise into producing.’

That wasn’t a complete lie. Cassie knew how much she wanted to take control and move into producing. All those long lunches and wine-soaked evenings when Annie had waxed lyrical about her ambitions.

But that had been about testing the waters with a small production, something under the radar. Not this. This was as if someone had taken her pipe-dream and put it on a course of steroids.

Could she do it?

‘And what is this?’ Annie’s trembling finger pointed at the paper. ‘The bit about Les Dalrymple offering Dad and Immy roles? They haven’t even read for him yet.’

This was unprecedented. She would have known if they’d had auditions. There was no way they would have kept it quiet.

‘He might have come across those audition videos you made them do for that Downton Abbey spin-off that never went anywhere …’ Cassie tried to look innocent.

‘How would he come across them …?’

Annie knew the videos had been sitting on the work server because she’d edited them during her downtime. But then they hadn’t been seen by the world ever since Dad had decided that Julian Fellowes was, as he said, ‘a horrible little tick’. This, of course, only after Julian hadn’t shown him quite the deference William Elliot expected was due of him at an awards ceremony.

‘They fell on an email?’ Cassie said trying to look innocent as she took off the wire and popped the cork. ‘And if we can keep your dad and sister sweet until the production is too far gone for them to be fired then we are good to go.’

The custard tart in Annie’s mouth suddenly tasted like ashes.

Her dream job that at any point could turn into the night terrors. Because having Dad, Immy, and Austen in the production was one huge perfect storm brewing. How the hell was she going to come out of it without drowning?

Chapter Four

‘Darling, I knew you wouldn’t forget your family.’ Immy engulfed her in a hug that smelled of exotic flowers that only bloomed at night. Annie knew how much the personalized scent cost down to the nearest ounce. It would’ve been cheaper to import the flowers in on a weekly basis. But it would be pointless asking Immy to change perfumes.

‘And why would Annie forget us?’ Dad said, as he adjusted his tie in the mirror over the mantelpiece.

Honestly, she thought, she wished she could forget. Life would be so much easier.

And more financially stable.

Annie watched as Dad and Imogen got ready to go out to celebrate their new roles.

They had invited Annie.

Eventually.

Even if she hadn’t known she was an afterthought, she did after Immy said, ‘I’m sure Carlo will be able to squeeze an extra chair at the table, but then we might not get the good spot …’ Immy’s forehead creased as much as it was able to.

Throw me a bone why don’t you, Annie thought. One day she was going to call them on all this. She was going to start sailing through life not giving a crap about them. Letting them sink or swim on their own.

Annie drifted off into a dream where she was an orphan. A dream where she knew exactly how much money was in the bank account because she was the only one who used it.

‘Annie.’ Imogen’s voice brought her back to the present with a bang. The world of Christmases spent alone in exotic locations popped like a balloon, catapulting her back into her real life.

‘Yes,’ she said, the taste of a fruity cocktail fading on her tongue.

‘As you’re going to be on this shoot anyway, Daddy and I have decided that it would be nice if you took care of us while we’re on location.’

Took care of them?

Any thoughts Annie had of keeping her personal and professional life separate whilst on this job were shot out of the sky by a Messerschmitt and went twirling in a smoky tailspin to the ground.

‘Look, Immy, I’m going to be working on this shoot. I have two jobs already. Accountant and producer. I’m not there to look after you and Dad.’

Imogen patted Annie’s cheek with her manicured, soft hand. The feeling of the palm against her skin made Annie cringe. Should she tell Immy that her hands were clammy with moisturizer?

Or maybe Annie was cringing because she was yet again being treated as if she meant nothing. As if she were a pet to be patted on the head and then ignored.

‘Whatever, darling; Daddy, we need to go.’

And in a flurry of clicking heels and ciaos, they were gone leaving Annie in a fog of exotic scent and anger.

Why couldn’t she tell them no?

The whisper of her mother’s voice was in her ear: ‘Promise me, Annie. Promise to look after them.’

Annie stood in the hall, her chest heaving with all the unsaid words she wanted to shout. Her throat choked by familial feelings.

This had to stop. She needed to make a stand.

***

‘What the hell?’ Annie poured the rest of the white wine from the bottle into her glass.

Taking a stand meant Annie needed to figure out the family finances. Ever since Mum died, she had been the one who managed everything. At first because Marie was too young, Immy had stuck her face in a pile of drugs and Dad, well he’d just let her.

Which was why Annie was sitting downstairs in the kitchen. She shifted as her bum was going numb on a rickety kitchen chair and her laptop wobbled slightly on the uneven surface of the table.

She took a massive gulp of wine and rubbed her eyes.

There should have been enough in the family’s account for the next mortgage payment. Everyone’s salary went in, the big bills were paid, and then everyone got an allowance in their own account. Annie had come up with the system and with a few tweaks it worked.

But now she was sitting looking at the statement on the bank’s website and it had a very different figure than it should have, a much lower amount than the one her spreadsheet said should be there.

Hadn’t she taken Immy and Dad’s cards away that linked to this account? They weren’t allowed access ever since she found Dad had left the card behind the bar at a pub and charged the whole of a wrap party’s tab to it.

Annie downed the rest of the glass, her lips pulling back as the acidity hit her tongue. She squinted at the website. Slowly she scrolled through the past month’s transactions. Her salary had gone in last Monday and almost immediately it had nearly all gone.

What the …

And there was the culprit: three thousand five hundred and twenty-one pounds ninety-nine spent at … She looked a little closer.

She was going to kill them. Absolutely annihilate them. They had spent what little financial cushion they had at a place called The Kybella Klinic. With shaking hands she typed it into the search engine.

A series of injections to get rid of fat, especially under the chin, she read.

And the worrying thing: she wasn’t sure whether it was Immy or her dad who had wasted the money because neither of them looked any different.

Annie downed the remainder of the wine.

She couldn’t do it anymore. That was her salary. She would get them standing on their own two feet and free of her or die trying.

Annie got up from the table and headed towards the fridge where she knew there was another bottle of wine.

And if she was going to die then it didn’t matter how much wine she drank in the interim, did it?

***

‘You need to rent out the house, tell them to pull their socks up and act like grown-ups. Let you get on with your life.’

The whole restaurant went quiet and Annie could see everyone’s head swivel to watch them. She wanted to crawl under the table in the Italian restaurant. She wondered how her godmother would take being asked to keep her voice down.

Not well.

Crisp and RADA trained, Lily Russell’s voice had filled the Old Vic and had projected to the back of the Olivier. It easily reverberated around the small room that made up the exclusive restaurant. She was a national treasure. Dame Lily Russell, grande dame of English theatre. More importantly she had been Annie’s mother’s best friend at drama school and beyond. She didn’t do quiet.

But she definitely did managing.

‘I know, Auntie Lil.’ Annie sighed. ‘Renting out is the only way we can get out of this mess. But I don’t know how to bring it up. Dad will have a fit, Immy will go into queen bee mode, and Marie, who doesn’t even live there, will get all sentimental about how I’m taking her childhood home from her.’ She smoothed the tablecloth as she said it, looking down so she didn’t see the faces of the other diners she knew were still staring at them.

Annie knew this because she tried to bring up the idea for renting out the house about once a year. She shuddered. And there was that one time she’d suggested selling …

The house was a millstone around their necks – or rather her neck. She should be rejoicing about the new job but she was stuck.

And now with the mortgage in danger of being defaulted on she needed to do something. She couldn’t bury her head in the sand.

That is why she’d called up Auntie Lil. Reinforcements. Or an old-fashioned kick up the backside.

‘You let them bully you,’ Lily said. ‘You have to be firm and stick to your guns. Your mother, God rest her soul, babied them all. Ruined them.’

Annie raised her eyes to stare at the picture of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, which was on the wall behind Lily. Bullied? Well, Annie couldn’t deny it. But they needed her, didn’t they? She was looking after them. Just like she promised.

‘Annie, darling.’ Auntie Lil leaned forward as if she were saying something she didn’t want overheard. Her voice came down a few decibels but could still be heard in the kitchen. ‘While you are looking after the whole family, you can’t move on.’

Annie could feel her eyes fill.

Crap.

‘Now, I know that you aren’t getting any younger. I mean, I was talking to my private doctor the other day and he said that no matter how you young people put things off, your eggs are ageing.’

Let the floor open up and swallow her. How had they gone from family finances to her fertility?

‘How will you settle down and start a family when you are too busy babying William and Imogen?’

Start a family?

What?

Annie felt she had taken a sharp turn into a different conversation.

‘I know you wanted to settle down with that callow actor fellow. That was wrong for you then. Penniless actors are ten a penny. Now … well, you can’t be fussy. And you’ll have to be the breadwinner. Maybe you’ll meet a nice chap on set?’

Annie’s heart clenched.

She had tried to forget the one disastrous meeting between Aunt Lil and Austen. No one had come out of it unscathed.

‘But …’ Annie tried to interrupt. She wasn’t looking to meet anyone and start pushing out babies. She wanted her independence. Her job.

‘Now, no interrupting me – it is for the best. I’ve arranged for Clay Shepherd from Shepherd and Kellynch to come by the house tomorrow at ten to view it. You have to take your father by surprise. It is the only way.’

And also take Annie by surprise as well.

She knew Auntie Lil meant well even if she was taking over. It was nice not to have to always be the grown-up and have someone look after her instead.

Thank goodness for Auntie Lil. Annie wasn’t sure they would’ve survived this long without her.

Although that wasn’t what her dad thought. Lily thoroughly disapproved of him and had told him so in no uncertain terms on numerous occasions. Dad hated her – not that he would ever let that be known. William Elliot couldn’t be seen to be at outs with one of the national treasures of British theatre.

Annie shouldn’t be amused with the way Lily exploited it ruthlessly but how could she not? The acidic exchanges they had about ‘what Molly would’ve wanted’ happened as regularly as clockwork and sometimes were the only way Annie could get Dad to budge.

‘It will be a month or two before we will be off on location, yes? And then when the production is done we’ll have to hope we can find them more work.’

The ‘we’ in Auntie Lil’s speech was something she was trying hard not to think about too hard. Les, in a casting coup, had cast Lily as Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Annie was trying not to think about the one-upmanship that would happen between Lil and Dad on location. Luckily they were both too sensible to brawl in public. Or too vain.

And then when the production is done we’ll have to hope we can find them some more work.

Annie wasn’t sure why everyone seemed to think she was also acting as an agent to the pair of them. They both had professionals who took a percentage of their salaries to find them work. Admittedly most of the work Dad and Immy had over the last few years was through her but there were only so many favours she could call in before people started avoiding her. Immy and Dad weren’t always the best employees. In fact they were poster children for complete horrors.

‘Yes, Aunt Lil,’ she agreed, saving her energy for an argument she could win.

‘Now, I can’t keep chatting all day. I’ve a meeting with that darling Ken Branagh. He always has the best gossip.’

Lily waved for the bill, and the waiter popped up as if from a secret trapdoor in the floor. No one kept Dame Lily Russell waiting.

With a flurry of pound notes and air kisses from the staff they were ushered through the restaurant so that all the patrons could see who had been bellowing out their troubles. When they were outside, Lily pulled Annie into a hug, and then rushed off into a taxi that miraculously appeared. Annie was left ruffled on the pavement with a slick of red lipstick smeared on her cheek. Dealing with Aunt Lil was like being in a film, where everything had been choreographed to ensure that Dame Lily Russell was the star.

It was then that Annie realized nothing had actually changed. She was still going to have to be the one to tell her family they were renting out the house.

***

‘Annie,’ Cassie said as they sat in their local, The Hill Gate, a week later waiting for their friends, Julie and Anna, fellow accountants. ‘Why haven’t you replied to Les’s invite for the pre-production party? I’m being chased by his PA for the fifth time.’

Annie screwed her eyes closed. She wondered if she could get away with sticking her fingers in her ears and singing la la la la.

‘Don’t close your eyes on me,’ Cassie said.

‘I thought we weren’t talking work?’ Annie opened her eyes and reached for her glass.

Cassie glared at her.

Decisions about the party weren’t the only thing she’d been avoiding. It was what she had been doing about the house-renting business too. She could have it on the market tomorrow and tenants by the end of the week. Financial issues gone. Freedom guaranteed.

The problem there, she thought, was telling Dad and Immy.

Why was life so complicated? Why couldn’t she make it all behave like numbers on a work spreadsheet? She took a sip of wine and looked round the pub. Where the hell were Julie and Anna? Surely they should be here by now?

Cassie kicked her under the table.

Annie rolled her eyes. Of course, she hadn’t replied to the invite because then she would actively be putting herself in front of Austen Wentworth.

And eight years ago, Annie had sworn she would never do that again.

Mind you, all she was doing was putting off the inevitable; she was going to have to see him throughout the whole production.

But maybe it would be okay. A treacherous tendril of a thought escaped out of the box she had hidden all her Austen-related feelings in. Maybe he would take one look at her and eight years would fall away. He’d look at her again with his famous green eyes, ones she knew turned from emerald to grey to brown depending on the light, and his mouth would twitch up at the edges. As if he was trying not to laugh.

‘Anne-ticipation, Anne-tediluvian, Annie-matronic.’ He’d have his arms round her waist and he’d swing her from side to side, coming up with more and more inventive additions to her name.

Austen had always said that she needed a bigger name than Anne or even Annie. That only one or two syllables didn’t seem enough to him. He’d started going through the dictionary adding endings to her name. She’d never felt as if she took up space until Austen. He saw her and in his seeing her she grew bigger in the world.

With him she expanded. She felt as if she didn’t have marshmallow for a spine but that she could conquer the world. That she mattered.

Until she didn’t.

She put her glass down and clamped her hands over her ears. Anything to try and stop the chorus of names that he had called her, the way they had of tying her heart in knots again.

This is why she couldn’t go to the party.

What if he just called her Annie?

‘Annie, putting your hands over your ears to block me out isn’t going to help.’ Annie opened her eyes to find Cassie frowning at her.

‘If you’re going to do it then at least use sound-cancelling headphones and we can both keep our illusions. Also we are in a pub…’

‘Sorry,’ Annie said.

How could she explain it to Cassie? She had never told her about Austen. But maybe she could? Not all of it, of course. She didn’t need to see the disbelieving look from Cassie. She liked Cassie.

‘Look. I …’ Just say it, Annie, she thought. Rip off that scab. ‘I kind of knew Austen Wentworth back in the day and, well, we didn’t part on the best terms.’ She rushed it out.

Best of terms? That was putting it politely. Although there had been no screaming – only excruciating silences punctuated by pleading and a slamming door and her heart walking away on the coat tails of another.

‘You never said, you sly dog.’ Cassie smiled. ‘Look, you don’t have to tell me but we’ve all made arses of ourselves over pretty boy actors. A bit of drink and a declaration of love can happen to anyone. You have to get over it. Ten to one, he won’t remember. And if he does I’m sure he’ll be flattered.’

And there it was in a nutshell, Annie thought. No one would ever believe that it was Austen who had said ‘I love you’ first.

‘Yeah,’ Annie sighed, her whole body slumping in the chair like a deflated balloon. ‘Just a little leftover psyche scarring,’ she lied so she could forego the disbelieving look.

‘Well get over it. You are going to the party,’ Cassie said. ‘This is the chance for you to be Anne Elliot, producer. Isn’t this what you wanted? A place in the business for you. Where you get introduced as yourself and not William Elliot’s daughter or Imogen or Marie’s sister? And wear something nice – not the usual “blend into the background” stuff you wear around the family. I’ve seen you dressed up for nights out. You scrub up well, when you want.

‘You need to do this for yourself as much as for the agency. You know that don’t you?’

Cassie looked at her with concern, her curls rioting over her head like a halo.

Of course she knew that. In theory Annie knew exactly what she had to do. And if Cassie could guarantee neither her family nor Austen would be there then she could be the biggest social schmoozer in the history of schmoozing.

‘And you replace that embarrassing memory of Austen with a completely professional one.’ Cassie winked as she waved Julie and Anna over from where they were hovering by the door waiting.

Professional? Ha, Annie thought.

‘Hey,’ Annie said and handed out hugs and kisses.

‘You’ll never guess what we’re working on,’ Cassie said to their newly arrived friends. ‘Pride and Prejudice.’

‘Austen Wentworth? You lucky bitches,’ Julie screamed.

Lucky? Ha, Annie thought again.

How had she let her personal life start to bleed into her professional one this badly?

***

‘No. No. Definitely not. What was I thinking?’ Annie whispered to herself as she went through her wardrobe, clicking the hangers back one by one. Everything formal and work-related was black or a dark grey because it was practical. And it helped her hide in plain sight.

Annie wasn’t sure what Cassie meant when she said she scrubbed up well. She couldn’t remember the last time she had dressed up. Most of her outings were to the pub or gigs. Jeans and band T-shirts worked fine there.

She pulled out a black dress that had been squished near one side of the wardrobe, only one shoulder still on the hanger. She looked at it, frowning. It was scooped low at the back and looked as if it would cling to her curves. She didn’t remember this dress. When had she worn it? Annie never wore anything that showed off her shoulder blades now. The ink was hers alone, even if it was for someone else.

A memory of wearing a pair of high heels and clutching a solid, muscled arm clad in scratchy wool flowed over her.

Oh. Then. When things had been different. Before the tattoo.

She’d bought it because for once she’d wanted to be seen, because her date had called her ‘Annie-matronix’ when he’d seen her come down in it. He’d spun her under his arm and had hugged her from behind as they stood in front of the mirror, his chin resting on her shoulder.

The mark on her shoulder burned, yearning to be complete.

Annie hugged the dress to her chest.

It was also for a person who was at least two sizes smaller than she was now and didn’t have a piece of body art she’d regretted as soon as she’d got it.

Why did she still have the dress in the wardrobe? She was never going to wear it again. But she couldn’t quite stop hugging it. She brought it to her face and sniffed. She didn’t know what she was trying to smell. She didn’t remember what Austen smelled like. Maybe she was trying to capture the past.

No. There was no going back. Annie hesitated to put it back in the wardrobe.

She looked at the overstuffed cupboard. She couldn’t take it all with her when they rented out the house.

She turned and threw the dress onto a chair in the corner.

There. She’d started her charity shop pile.

Now if only she could throw her memories out as easily.

Annie carried on flicking the hangers. She had to have something she could wear that didn’t evoke memories or expose them.

There, that was what she’d wear. It was another black dress but it wasn’t really in the same genus as the previous one. The boat neck skimmed her collarbones, or where they should be. It fell straight to her knees. It was sleeveless, but a cardigan could deal with that, she thought.

Cassie would have to deal with her blending in but she looked business-like. Nothing that would remind Austen of the girl she had been.

Anne-onymous.

***

‘Hi, I’m Anne Elliot, producer,’ she said firmly in the mirror when she’d changed. The dress showed little skin. The pale skin on her arms glowed against it. She’d need a cardigan. She grabbed a black one and looked again.

Annie saw a grim-faced businesswoman looking back at her. A take no prisoners type. She snorted. If only they knew that – for certain people – she would collapse at the slightest confrontation.

‘You are a producer,’ she told her reflection. ‘Not Dad’s daughter or Immy’s sister. You are supposed to be there.’

Annie in the mirror didn’t look convinced.

She could do this.

She had to do this.

The sound of ‘Supercalifragilistic’ came from her phone.

Marie’s ringtone.

What crisis had happened now?

For once, Annie leapt on it as fast as possible, a potential escape route merely a swipe on a screen away. She fumbled with the phone as she stumbled over a pair of shoes she had kicked out of the way when they didn’t go with her dress.

‘Yes.’ Her voice was high and hopeful as she collapsed on the bed.

‘Annie, it is a disaster! Hector has fallen off his scooter and Angelique dialled one one one. They say he needs to be kept awake in case of concussion,’ Marie’s voice blasted at her.

‘Annie doesn’t mind coming over, Charlie – don’t be silly. You don’t mind do you? It’s just I’m supposed to be going to the party. I’m only asking, Charlie. Sheesh, she is my sister. I should know whether it is an imposition or not.’

‘I’ll come over.’ Annie looked at herself in the mirror. Nothing grim about her now.

Cass would understand, wouldn’t she? Family came first.

‘Get off, Charlie, you’re mussing my outfit.’ Annie listened to the scuffle that was happening as Charlie was obviously trying to get Marie’s phone off her.

The phone went dead.

A few seconds later it rang again but this time it was Kanye West’s ‘Gold Digger’.

‘Hello, Charlie.’ She smiled.

‘Look, Annie, she shouldn’t have asked.’ He sounded flustered and this accentuated the slight pomposity that seemed to come into his voice.

‘I don’t mind,’ Annie said feeling as light as candyfloss. ‘I’ll see you there in half an hour.’

There was no point in changing. She shoved another set of clothes and her wash stuff into a canvas tote bag and put on a pair of battered Vans.

Forty minutes later, after an argument with her Addison Lee driver due to her change of destination, she was seeing the back of Marie and Charlie out of the door whilst Charlie was still apologizing to her.

She tried not to grin too much at Hector’s misfortune.

But it was for the best, she thought as she watched a flash of silky brown leg get into the car.

The Musgrove girls would be big hits at the party. Annie was pleased that Louisa had landed the role of Kitty and was taking Henrietta as her plus one.

Was there really only five and six years between them and her? Sometimes it felt like decades, a completely different generation. Had she ever been that glossy? That fingerprint-free?

Annie in the mirror would be very grim next to them. Even if anyone noticed her at all.

‘I’m going to pull Austen. I’m the oldest so it should be me,’ Louisa said loudly from the car, swinging her hair over her shoulder and winking at her sister.

‘Nah, you’re over the hill, you old bag. He’ll want someone with less miles on them,’ Henrietta said.

‘Hey, you’re the one with a boyfriend,’ Louisa said.

‘It’ll be fine; he’s one of my free passes. Robbie and I made a list last Christmas. His is Diana Tomlinson.’ She laughed as she pulled Louisa’s cheek to hers and, phone out, took a selfie.

How did they do that? Annie thought as she watched them in the car and looked over at Marie who was fussing around getting in.

She shuddered.

The only way she and Marie would press cheeks was if they were trying to get through the same small space. And let’s be honest, Annie would let her go first.

And Imogen?

Annie shook her head.

She always looked at the Musgrove girls as if they were an alien species. In fact the whole of the Musgrove family seemed foreign.

It was so different from hers. Sometimes she felt like David Attenborough hiding in the undergrowth, and trying to work out what made them tick.

And then with an almost silent purr the car pulled away, laughter trickling back, until they turned a corner.

They were gone.

Annie stood on the doorstep and stared at the place the red tail-lights had been.

By the end of the night, one of them really could have pulled Austen …

She took a breath, ignoring the way it shuddered.

‘Okay, Hector,’ she said turning back into the house and closing the door. She looked at her heavy-eyed nephew, his cheeks red and raw from crying. ‘A Pixar moment?’ She picked him up gently and carried him through to the living room.

Living in Pixar’s world seemed better and more fulfilling than her reality.

***

‘He is gorgeous,’ Louisa said as she yawned through brunch the next day. ‘And his eyes …’

Henrietta sighed in agreement as she dug into her scrambled eggs.

‘And his really cute friendship with his co-star, what’s his face …’ Henrietta flapped her hand.

‘Harry Harville. You know he plays the sidekick in Ten Peaks. How can you forget, Henry? He was all cuddly with his husband.’ Louisa waved a fork at Annie.

‘I know that. He’s married to Lewis Deakin, the record producer,’ Henrietta butted in and mumbled through a mouthful of egg. ‘I think it is great that Austen isn’t afraid to be so close with an openly gay couple,’ she finished.

Annie tried not to roll her eyes at Henrietta’s gaucheness. Sometimes the Musgrove girls showed their white upper middle class background, as if they looked at anyone who wasn’t like themselves as exhibits in a zoo.

Annie carried on helping herself to some bacon and moved to sit at the table.

Silence reigned for a few moments, until the sound of heavy feet came down the stairs. For someone who was consistently on a diet and didn’t carry a lot of weight, Marie could make an elephant seem light-footed.

‘Austen said he remembered you,’ Marie said as she walked into the kitchen without saying good morning. She picked up a piece of bacon from the pile that their housekeeper had made and left warming on the top of the range.

‘No, I’m on a diet. If I could just have my shake?’ Marie sat down while still chewing on the bacon but waving away the offer of a full English that Angelique was about to make.

‘Yes, Annie. He said he remembered you from Stratford,’ Marie carried on.

The piece of sausage Annie had been in the process of eating got stuck in her throat. She swallowed. The sausage went down but the lump remained.

Her heart raced and the fork she held slipped in her now sweaty hands and fell on her plate.

‘Well, I’m surprised. It was so long ago,’ she whispered.

Please, change the subject, she thought. She could feel the weight of all their gazes on her. Asking questions she couldn’t answer. Well she could but …

‘Oh and Cassie said she’d be calling you today.’

Bugger. Annie had been avoiding looking at her phone. She knew there would be missed calls, texts, and messages sent on whatever social media platform Cassie could think to harangue her via.

Not her most professional moment.

Annie knew she shouldn’t have done it. She should have been the professional she knew she was. Hell, she had been offered the most amazing once-in-a-lifetime job and she’d ran out on her first obligation.

Would Eric Cowell still want her now? Hell, would Cassie be talking to her? A family emergency wasn’t that great of an excuse for missing the party, especially as the rest of the family had managed to be there.

Annie couldn’t blow this. She shouldn’t let some old flame be the reason her job went up in smoke.

‘Austen said he might drop round today. He’s staying around the corner,’ Louisa said dreamily as she pushed a mushroom round her plate with one hand and played around on her phone with the other.

And of course he’d be in Pimlico, Annie thought, because her life was a soap opera full of stupid coincidences. Why the hell couldn’t he hang out in Primrose Hill like any normal self-respecting celebrity?

‘Maybe we should text him to come over for brunch?’ Henrietta bounced in her seat.

They were like a basket full of puppies in their enthusiasm. Annie felt tired watching them. Even after the minimal amount of sleep they’d got the night before they looked box-fresh.

When she’d woken up, Annie’s eyeballs had felt like they were coated in grit even though she’d had seven hours’ sleep. Absently she pushed her glasses further up her nose and put a hand up to sort out her hair, which she knew was squished flat on one side and up into a mohican on the other.

‘Already done, sister dearest. He’ll be here in ten.’ Louisa’s voice rang triumphantly through the kitchen as she brandished her phone like a weapon.

Chapter Five

Annie scratched her head as Louisa’s words bounced through the tiredness that clogged her ears.

Austen.

Coming here.

Now.

If she broke it down into small words then maybe it would go in.

Austen. Here.

Holy crap!

Suddenly as if she’d been smacked in the head, it went in. As did the fact her hair was a rat’s nest and she had on a faded, torn Feckless Rogues band T-shirt that was two sizes too small along with jeans a size too big. Also her glasses had been fashionable when she’d last seen Austen.

They’d actually chosen them together, she remembered. Laughing in the optician’s as she’d tried on different pairs, some good and most bad. Austen reaching out and pushing these ones up her nose as he smiled at her and told the saleswoman that they’d take them. And the T-shirt – she stroked it recalling the concert it had been bought at. She could feel the ghost of Austen’s chin resting on her shoulder, the warmth of his arms where they’d wrapped round her waist as they swayed to the music.

It was as if she was stuck in an Austen memory loop, never moving on, cursed to relive their past.

Without thinking she half got up from her chair; as she pushed it back, the feet scraped on the floor. Everyone stopped and looked at her.

‘I just … and …’ And what? She wasn’t sure what she was doing except she knew she needed to get out of there.

‘Annie, sit and finish your breakfast. You deserve it after last night,’ Charlie said whilst giving Marie a dirty look. A look that zipped right over Marie’s head as she had her mirror out and was checking her make-up.

‘And it’ll be nice if you got to see Austen again,’ he said. ‘Catch up.’

‘I’m surprised he remembered you,’ Marie said.

There was a stunned silence round the table. All the Musgroves looked first at Marie and then quickly at Annie, their mouths hanging open. A blob of Nutella fell unnoticed off Henrietta’s toast onto the white tablecloth.

‘Marie!’ Charlie almost shouted.

‘Of course he’d remember Annie,’ Louisa said and then turned to Annie and put a hand on her arm. ‘She’s only joking you know.’

The pressure of her hand made Annie feel both better and worse. Because she knew Marie hadn’t been joking and really, she wasn’t being malicious. She was only voicing the family narrative. Bless Louisa for defending her. What would it feel like to be defended by one of her sisters?

And what would it feel like to see pigs fly?

Annie sat back down. Her hand trembled as she picked up her toast.

This was it.

Of all the ways she’d planned this moment, and she’d thought about it a lot, this wasn’t how she would have it happen.

At the beginning she’d imagined that she’d have the guts to fly to Hollywood with an amazing job of her own, something like the producer job she now had. Surprise him once she got there and that would be it. They would be what they had been before, young, in love. Happy. If not better because they would be building AustenWorldTM.

But back then she couldn’t think of a job or career to take her there. That was when she realized that she had no goals. No plans of her own.

It was weird to think she’d mostly taken her first production accountant job to be closer to Austen’s life. Or at least to understand a little of his world.

But she was damn good at it. And as the time spread between them, her career grew, not as big and glitzy as his had but big.

And yet when it came to her personal life … still stuck and stagnant, looking after people who paid her no heed.

‘Who are you living for, Anne? You or them?’ She could still hear Austen saying it. And she knew that he meant it because he called her Anne.

And she still couldn’t answer that question eight years later.

She tugged at the hem of her T-shirt and hoped it covered her tummy.

The doorbell went.

This was it.

She couldn’t breathe. That bloody lump was back in her throat bigger than ever. Maybe if she collapsed from lack of oxygen she could escape?

But there was nowhere to run.

They all stood up, Louisa running past Angelique to get the door.

And then she heard his voice. Blood rushed from her head and pooled in her knees.

That voice – she’d listened to it whisper Donne in the darkest parts of the night. She had made it groan her name; she’d heard it laugh at her jokes.

‘Hi.’ And there he was.

Bloody hell, Austen Wentworth was in the same room as her. Again.

He’d always been ‘head-turning’ attractive. His presence as much as his looks had made you look at him twice, but now? Somehow he’d become honed to be ‘oxygen-depriving’ devastating.

He walked into the room and the air was sucked out as everyone took a breath.

That included Annie; she couldn’t help herself. Even if she knew that he used to pick his toenails.

She gripped the back of her chair for support.

No falling down. Not now.

She couldn’t feel her toes. Would anyone notice if she stamped her feet?

After the collective gasp that caused the vacuum, Austen stood in the doorway hunching his shoulders and then looking up through his eyebrows. Yes, there were the green eyes she’d been dreaming about for years.

Then the occupants of the room rushed towards him like a tsunami.

Annie clung to the chair, her little piece of flotsam.

Bugger, he was looking round as he shook Charlie’s hand and as he was covered in a flurry of cheek kisses by Louisa, Henrietta, and Marie.

And for the first time in eight years she was the centre of his attention.

It felt like she had stuck a knife in a toaster.

Her back straightened and goosebumps went up and down her arms.

Her heart stopped.

It was as if it had only been yesterday, seeing him looking at her. But it was also in a different lifetime.

His smile froze and slipped slightly. His brows tightened into a frown.

For Annie it was as if for that brief instant there were two Austens in the room. There was the younger less polished boyish man who’d loved her all that time ago and then this older, harder, hewn man. And then the two images clipped together, became congruent. As if the older had swallowed the younger.

Her heart started again.

It had been both a microsecond and an aeon.

Of course no one’s heart stops in reality – just like the way it was thundering in her chest didn’t mean she was having a heart attack. It was adrenaline: physiology driving psychology.

Even though there had hardly been a pause as they’d made eye contact, it had focused everyone back on her.

Great.

She wished Marie had bought less flimsy kitchen chairs. She felt as if she was about to reduce this one to kindling.

‘You remember my sister, Annie.’ Marie was actually simpering. As if she hadn’t grown up around famous people her whole life.

‘Yes, hi, Annie. Good to see you again.’ Annie. He’d never called her Annie; it was Anne or a silly name.

‘Hi, Austen.’ Her voice pushed past the obstruction in her throat. No RADA or LAMDA trained vocals from her – just a small, strangulated burst of noise.

There was a brief silence as if everyone was expecting something more.

Annie wanted to shout at them all to look away.

‘So,’ Austen said breaking the tension, ‘I didn’t want to interrupt a family breakfast. Maybe I should go?’

She wished he would, leave her be, but when he said family all she could think was that this could’ve been his family too.

She watched as Austen smiled down at Louisa and Henrietta with appreciation.

It was like her heart was a sponge in his fist and everything was being wrung out of it.

Of course, it could still be his family …

A fork clattered to the floor.

Hector started to cry.

She swooped down and picked him up, glad for his chubby body to cover the defects the T-shirt didn’t.

‘Oh, no it’s fine,’ said Charlie, all puffed up, his eyes shining with the light of a new bromance.

‘Why don’t I take you out for coffee?’ Austen said it generally, but Annie knew she wasn’t included.

‘You all go. I’ll hang on here.’ Annie buried her face in Hector’s hair. Not wanting to see the relief that was probably painted all over Austen’s face.

‘You are a doll,’ Louisa said, her smile swift and conspiratorial.

‘Thanks.’ Henrietta’s face was shining with happiness.

‘Are you sure?’ Charlie looked worried, biting his lip.

‘Of course she is,’ Marie answered for her. ‘She is the best person to stay. She had Hector all night.’

Annie couldn’t help but look up at that and almost without thinking the first person she looked to was Austen.

His lips thinned and he frowned at Marie before looking up to catch Annie watching.

Ah, that was what had been missing from this touching reunion, flaming red cheeks. Was she going to add to her indignity by spontaneously combusting?

For a brief second they looked at each other. Was that contempt or pity she thought she saw on his face?

Contempt was preferable.

Being pitied was … She looked away. Was she really pitiable?

Yeah, she was some kick-ass career woman who still couldn’t say ‘no’ to her family. She was in the exact same place where he’d left her, whilst he …

‘See you later,’ said Louisa as she grasped Austen’s hand and pulled him along with her. With various goodbyes from everyone, suddenly the kitchen was empty of all but her, Hector, and Angelique.

‘You should’ve gone,’ Angelique said, her arms crossed and looking at Annie fiercely.

‘It’s okay.’ Annie shifted Hector back into his seat. He’d lost interest in making a scene as soon as there was no audience. He’d inherited a fair set of the Elliot genes.

‘Humph,’ Angelique said and pulled a face. ‘I can look after Hector. You can still follow them.’

And she’d be like a puppy begging for attention.

‘No, it’s okay. I’ll settle Hector.’

***

‘Where the hell have you been?’ Annie cringed as Cassie shouted from her office. For such a small person she could produce a hell of a noise.

After Louisa had come back in swooning over Austen and Marie had preened about things he had supposedly said about her TV career, Annie had felt as if she was being suffocated. She thought she’d rather take her chances with Cassie than the burn in her chest, which she was realizing wasn’t heartburn from too much black coffee but regret.

Then Charlie spoke about how he and Austen were going to see a Premier League match. Annie had made her excuses and fled. Sod what Cassie would say.

It was as if she had stepped into an alternate universe where she had slept for eight years and woken up to find Austen was part of her family.

Only in this universe he wasn’t her Austen.

Annie had hoped to slink into the office and look like she had been at her desk for a while.

‘I was at Marie’s …’ she said quietly.

‘When will you tell your stupid family where to stick it? They have a housekeeper, Anne Elliot,’ Cassie interrupted as she came into Annie’s office glaring. ‘This was a big thing for you and for the agency. This wasn’t some two-bit party. This is your career. I need you to focus on this. This is the big break we need. This is all you’ve talked about for years. Years, Annie. If you can’t stand up to your family then we have a big problem. Big.’ Cassie flailed her hands around emphasizing exactly how big a problem they had.

‘Look, I’m sorry but I’m no good at those big parties. I wouldn’t have made a good impression,’ Annie lied. Because when she wasn’t around her family she could hold her own with most anyone. ‘I’ll meet the rest of the cast at the run-through next week. It will be best that way; I’ll be working rather than just being a hanger-on.’ She tried to placate Cassie.

‘Jesus, Annie, when are you going to figure out that you aren’t a hanger-on?’ Cassie was standing in front of Annie’s desk, waving her hands around. Annie was worried that she would knock down the files from the shelves that were attached to the walls of the tiny office. ‘You’re stepping up and taking over as a producer on this movie. You. Not your dad, not either of your sisters, not even Lily. You. That is who Eric Cowell and Les Dalrymple have hired.

‘What will it take to get it through your thick head? I swear to God I could strangle you sometimes.’ And on that dramatic declaration, Cassie stormed out of Annie’s office; taking one step to cross the hall and enter her own office.

‘I’d be slamming my door if I had one,’ she shouted.

Annie smiled.

‘And we’re meeting the producers for drinks so don’t even think of backing out.’

Cassie was right. She needed to get with the programme. This was her job, her career. She hadn’t been hired to babysit her family, no matter what they thought. She was the producer.

***

Annie’s plain black dress wasn’t too crumpled for being in a bag overnight. She smoothed one long crease as she followed Cassie’s bouncing curls into Shoreditch House. During the trip across London, Cassie had been silent in the car Eric had sent for them.

This wasn’t good.

She needed to pull out all the stops.

Professional Anne Elliot.

‘Cassie.’ A booming North-London-accented voice reverberated round the upper floor bar, half empty in the early evening. ‘Great to see you again.’ The man it came from was only a bit taller than Cassie. Annie wasn’t sure how that amount of body could produce that volume of voice.

‘And you’re Anne Elliot.’ He shook her hand and looked her up and down. ‘You don’t look much like your sisters.’ Annie concentrated on the slight American twang in Eric’s voice rather than the words.

She counted to three.

‘I’m the changeling,’ she said with a smile.

‘She’s the one who keeps them on the straight and narrow,’ Cassie interrupted with a quick squeeze on Annie’s arm in apology. It acted like a balm on Eric’s thoughtless comparison. ‘And that makes her priceless.’

They all sank into squishy brown suede winged chairs. Music softly piped from speakers round the room.

‘Annie, I’m sorry you couldn’t meet the rest of the cast last night. But it is good we can have this talk here.’ Eric leaned forward, his feet not quite touching the ground. Annie tried not to giggle as he swung his legs, looking like a child playing at being an adult.

‘Les and I are really excited to have you on board. We’ve heard such great things about the Northanger Agency.’

The worried, heavy feeling in Annie’s chest warmed and loosened, even as she could feel herself blush at the compliment.

‘Well I mean, Cassie is also …’

‘No, I know Cassie is just as talented, but I wanted you. This is a tough job balancing the usual accountancy work with what will be my person on the ground, troubleshooting anything that needs it.

‘I’ve been asking around about you, Annie, and I like what I hear. Doesn’t take nonsense, goes the extra mile. In fact from what I can gather you have been doing a producer role on your last few productions.’

Where was the waitress? Annie needed someone to distract him from the love fest.

‘If this goes well, I have some options based in the States that could do with your sort of touch.’ Eric touched his finger to his nose and winked.

‘Thank you,’ Annie breathed, looking over to Cassie incredulously. The silent, judging Cassie of earlier was gone and replaced by a grinning, happy Cass.

‘I’ll be watching you, kid,’ Eric said and then turned to the now-hovering waitress. ‘We’ll take a bottle of champagne – my private collection.’

Was this her life now? And she’d done it all by herself, no matter who Eric didn’t think she looked like.

Would someone pinch her so she could see if she was dreaming?

After the champagne was poured and she clinked glasses with Eric and Cassie, Annie made a promise.

She was telling Dad and Immy about the house rental as soon as possible. If she wanted to show Eric what she could then she needed to put in place some ground rules with her family, and fast. Maybe by the time it got to production they would stick.

Chapter Six

House on rental listing. Tick.

Annie sat at the battered and scratched kitchen table blowing on the M&S lasagne she’d reheated, her work notebook opened to the back page. Her personal to-do list was scrawled there.

She chewed on a mouthful of food, not really tasting it.

As soon as she’d floated home from Shoreditch House, Annie had emailed Shepherd and Kellynch and the next morning got them to put the house up for rent.

That had been a week ago.

She wasn’t sure how they managed to get prospective tenants through the house for viewings without either Immy or Dad noticing. There had been one close call when the couple had been leaving with the estate agent when Dad came back from a meeting.

Annie promised she’d buy a ‘Tablet’ from the next Jehovah’s Witness who came calling as an apology for using their name in vain.

Although God couldn’t have been too upset, the fake Jehovah’s Witnesses had taken the house and the moving date was in three weeks.

Three weeks.

But they didn’t start on location for another two months.

Place to live was the second bullet point. Annie added an ‘s’ to the end of the first word. It felt almost like a bigger act of rebellion than the day she showed Dad her acceptance into university to study History, not even a drama subsid.

So, places to live, pack up the house, all while starting a new job.

Annie screwed up her face. Doable, she thought, and looked at the next bullet point.

It was underlined so heavily the pen strokes had almost torn the paper.

Tell Dad and Immy.

Now this was the real problem.

Currently Annie was going with the Lily Russell School of dealing with difficult situations: do it and ask for forgiveness afterwards. Or run away and hide.

That only worked up to the point the new tenants moved in.

Even Dad would realize that Jehovah’s Witnesses, whilst extremely dedicated to their faith, would draw the line at moving into someone’s house.

But how did she tell them?

She scraped up another piece of the lasagne from her plate. At least she’d done an inventory of the house over the weekend. Admittedly creeping in and out of her dad and Immy’s rooms when they’d been out had been somewhat underhand but needs must.

Now she had to work out what needed to go into storage, what was getting dumped, and what they would take with them. When she presented it as a fait accompli then they couldn’t back out could they?

‘It will be fine,’ she lied around her full mouth of food.

This was the start. The beginning of Annie’s fight back. She did this every day at work and was rewarded for it; she was merely making sure that she got the same from her family.

If she could stand her ground here, stand by her decisions, then maybe she could start clawing back some respect.

She shuddered.

She could do this.

She had to.

Annie moved her notebook out of the way and pulled out the spreadsheet she’d printed out at the office. It ran on for twenty pages, portrait and double-sided.

The house really did have a lot of stuff in it.

They were definitely not taking the full-length portrait of Granddad Elliot with them – that was for sure. It was going into storage. No rental place any of them moved into would be big enough for it and she wasn’t leaving it for the tenants. They had kids.

Annie could feel her shoulders tighten even though the painting in question was a floor above her. She’d been scared of the painting when she’d been a child. Nothing like a painting of your grandfather carrying a skull and looking gloomy to give you the heebie-jeebies and a complex against powdered wigs.

But supposedly Sir Walter Elliot had been the foremost Shakespearean actor of his day and that meant he’d hired some gullible artist to paint his portrait. Full length. In costume. Family legend had it that the artist had never painted again. Dad said it was because he’d reached the pinnacle of his success, more like he’d been scarred for life.

God, Annie wanted to sell it. Whisk it away and everything it represented: the vanity and the ego of the Elliots. Why couldn’t they have fuzzy unposed photos on the walls like normal families?

But she wouldn’t sell it. That wouldn’t get respect from her family; that would be a declaration of war and she wasn’t at that point with them.

A small voice in her head added ‘Yet’.

No. She’d made a promise to Mum. Her job was to keep the family together, although maybe not geographically. And to do that meant keeping them financially solvent or die trying.

Annie put down her fork, picked up a pen, and scribbled an instruction to wrap the painting tightly next to its entry for the packers. She paused and tapped the pen on her lip. Maybe she could somehow get them to mislabel it and perhaps lose it. The warehouse the storage place used in Thurrock was massive. When she’d toured it on Monday all she’d seen were packing cases for what looked like miles. It would be hard to find.

She sighed and put down the pen. She’d never get that lucky.

Picking up her fork again, Annie found that she had finished her dinner without realizing. Should she have the second portion of lasagne? The package had been a meal for two. She could’ve bought a single portion but, well, it was never quite enough.

A flash of Louisa’s sleek figure crossed her mind. The whole of the production would be spent with people whose only spare tyre was in the boot of their car.

Annie pushed the plate from her and pulled the list closer.

The library would also have to be packed up. She dreaded having to explain that one. Suddenly the extra lasagne felt like a comforting idea. It wasn’t as if her dad read any of the books, but a library gave weight to his image that he was some kind of actor manager from another century.

The hazy dread that had enveloped her since that lunch with Auntie Lil became a little more solid.

How the hell was she supposed to tell them? Even if she got them to accept that they had to move out, they would probably expect some fancy Regency type townhouse in a small town as if they were really characters from the productions they were in.

There was no probable about it.

Of course they would.

And Bath wasn’t cheap.

For fuck’s sake.

Annie added a few more choice swear words and threw the stapled list at the wall. It fluttered apart and shed pages like leaves.

She looked round for something with more weight to throw so that it would make a more satisfying thunk and add to the chips and nicks and scars the kitchen already bore.

She thought of the expensive smoothie maker in the cupboard gathering dust. It would sound great as it split apart taking bits of wall with it.

She got half out of her chair.

No.

She wouldn’t stoop to their level. What she needed was to show them in no uncertain way what the reality of their life was going to be.

She sat back down and started to smile.

Oh, what a great idea, she thought.

Okay, it was time for some show and tell.

***

Annie looked round the living room, seeing it with new eyes.

She never realized exactly how big it was.

Hell, this had better work.

They’re going to sulk and shout and scream; they’re going to annihilate you, Annie couldn’t stop the fear whispering to her.

Nope. She shook her head to distract herself. She could do this.

No matter how much she hated family confrontation she had to do this. Needed to. She had to pull them into line and get them to understand the reality of their situation. She couldn’t keep letting them go down this road to what was toeing the line of bankruptcy even if it meant they’d shout at her. Letting the family fail wasn’t why her mum had left her in charge.

And maybe she could free herself in the process.

Annie could feel her shoulders seizing up, rising towards her ears. Her breath was coming fast, her mouth was dry, and her hands were shaking. She felt about five years old.

There was nothing they could do. Nothing, she told herself. She was a grown-up now. She wasn’t a child.

She could do this.

‘Really, Annie, I don’t know why you are making such a fuss of talking about finances. You do this every year and every year we’re fine.’ Immy was speaking as she walked through the door into the living room. ‘I can’t believe …’ Her words stopped.

Annie started chewing on her nail as she watched Imogen take in what was before her.

Or what wasn’t before her.

Immy’s eyes had widened and her mouth hung open. Then she snapped it shut at the same time as her eyes narrowed. ‘What the hell?’ Her voice was like an arrow and it hit Annie right in the gut.

How was it that your family could reduce you to a quivering prepubescent mess with a word and a tone of voice?

Immy’s voice held the memories of Chinese burns and ostracism. It carried with it ties and hooks, ready to clutch at Annie and remind her of how things were supposed to be. How they had always been. The tone of it spoke of where Annie fitted in to the world, her place in the family hierarchy. It told her that she was not to challenge the status quo.

But that was all changing – had to change. Annie had to stay strong.

‘I wanted to show you and Dad how much of our things we could realistically take to the new place. I mean, our new places.’ Annie’s voice started strong but wavered towards the end.

Damn it, she couldn’t show fear.

‘This is some kind of joke?’ Immy’s voice got sharper. Harsher.

‘No, it isn’t. This –’ she gestured around the living room ‘– is reality.’

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