New year. New love. Fresh start.

Newly minted career girl Magenta Bright reluctantly finds herself growing up – she’s now a live-in girlfriend, a successful business owner, and an obsessive desirer of classic leather handbags.

But, fuelled by her creative talent, Magenta doesn’t seem to know when to stop. Between designing and launching a new range of bags, planning her parents’ second wedding, and whisky binges with scary international model and best friend Anya, something’s got to give, and it’s not long before her relationship with shy artist Anthony is in the firing line.

Will handbags lead to heartbreak for the unstoppable Magenta Bright?

Also by Rosa Temple:

Magenta Bright Series

Playing by the Rules

Playing Her Cards Right

Rosa Temple

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Book List

Title Page

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Endpages

Copyright

ROSA TEMPLE

is the pseudonym of writer Fran Clark. A ghostwriter of romance novels, Fran was awarded a Distinction in her Creative Writing MA from Brunel University in 2014. To date, Fran has penned five publications as Rosa Temple: Sleeping With Your Best Friend, Natalie’s Getting Married, Single by Christmas, Playing by the Rules, and Playing Her Cards Right. A mother of two, Fran is married to a musician and lives in London. She spends her days creating characters and story lines while drinking herbal tea and eating chocolate biscuits.

Acknowledgements

A few years ago, when I was dreaming up the character of Magenta Bright, I must have bored quite a few of my friends and family senseless about her. I rambled and sounded off several ideas before I was able to launch into her story. Thank you for your patience and for not glazing over.

I’d especially like to thank my family for the time and space they gave me as I delved into Magenta’s second adventure. My husband has always been my number one fan, and not in a Misery kind of way. Thank you for your continued support and faith in this nervous wreck of a writer.

In particular, I’d like to thank Hannah Smith and the wonderful team at HQ for taking a chance on me and the wonderful support and advice you gave.

Dedication

I’d love to dedicate this book to my sister, Josie Bannis. An inspirationally phenomenal woman who juggles several balls in the air with one hand while spinning plates with the other, but always manages to play her cards right.

Chapter 1

The Mantra

You can do this.

You can.

All you have to do is keep smiling and you’ll be fine.

So, there I was, lying in my king-size bed in the hotel room, the view of a cloudless sky from the window, the sound of waves drifting in and out on the white sandy beach below, and all I wanted to do was roll over and cry.

But it was Friday morning, the third day of a short stay on the glorious Caribbean island of Guadeloupe, and it was my parents’ wedding day – not the time to be a crumbling mess. I had to put on a brave face.

I’d spent months planning this wedding since my parents, five years divorced, had announced that they were getting back together. I practically forced the beach wedding on them, thinking that some sand and a platinum ring would keep them married this time (I wasn’t leaving anything to chance). They would have been happy just to live together but in the end I’d convinced everyone that this was going to be great. The wedding to end all weddings and a great excuse for a family getaway. We hadn’t been together for a celebration like that in absolute ages.

Yes, you can do this, Magenta.

Throw off the covers and just go for it!

The scent of bougainvillea was beckoning from the open window but the only thing more noticeable than the sound of the ocean waves was how lonely a king-size bed could be. I looked over at the vacant spot beside me and blinked rapidly to chase those prickly tears away. I made up my mind. I wasn’t going to cry. I had a wedding to organize for goodness’ sake.

At the foot of the bed little Tallulah lay fast asleep in her cot bed. Her black hair plastered to her head in the heat, cheeks warm and chubby. Anthony always said her eyes were just like mine and we shared a similar disposition. If you picked up a baby picture of me, you could easily mistake it for Tallulah. It was the sand-coloured skin and the black curls that did it.

She’d become very clingy since we’d arrived on the island but I didn’t mind one bit. I loved to cuddle Tallulah. And with my emotions flying here, there, and everywhere she was the constant that kept me sane.

To the rest of the family I’d made a billion and one excuses for Anthony not having made the flight out – none of them true. No one knew that it was all over between us, that I’d asked him to be out of the house on my return. I’d told him, in no uncertain terms, that I never wanted to see him again. And before you go assuming that this was just one in a list of Magenta Bright dramas (well okay the break-up was pretty dramatic) a break-up was inevitable and unavoidable.

The relationship I’d craved to have with the man I’d fallen in love with almost on sight was over. When Anthony and I first met, he was my boss and I was his PA but we couldn’t be together for a whole year because we’d each been involved with other people. We finally got together and the magic almost lasted. It hurt to admit that Anthony was not going to be at my parents’ wedding, by my side, holding my hand and … well, just being Anthony.

We’d moved in together almost immediately after our first date. Some might say that it was a bit too soon. Some being my best friend: Anya. She had secretly been rooting for me to choose Hugo over Anthony during that traumatic year. But the kiss Anthony and I shared after his first art exhibition in London had sealed it for me. I chose Anthony, the whimsical artist in geeky glasses, the reluctant CEO of a failing leather goods company with dark tousled hair and chocolate-brown eyes.

I sighed and rolled away from the still-plump pillow beside mine and turned back to look at the beautiful sky. I heard Tallulah stir and I knew I should get up and start getting on top of my parents’ big day. But there was a second silent heartache I had to endure. As if breaking up with Anthony wasn’t enough, I’d fallen out, big time, with Anya.

Unlike Anthony, Anya would be at the wedding. She was like a fifth daughter to Mother who had practically adopted her as one of her own several years ago. Anya, an international supermodel who had recently acted in her second film role, had her business manager clear her diary for the wedding: no photo shoots, fashion shows, television appearances or interviews.

She and I had been faking smiles at each other since she landed.

No one knew that I’d royally ruined our friendship and no one knew that the break-up with Anthony, the biggest tragedy of my life, had happened just before the wedding. And Anya, the one person I could have confided in, hated my guts.

I’d gone over and over the decline of my two most valued relationships and I’d decided that if anything was to blame it was the levels of stress I was under. Planning weddings, moving home, and falling pregnant are major mind blowers in themselves. So when I tell you that I’d bought and was running my own business, you’ll understand what kind of stress I was under.

Since buying the leather goods company from Anthony’s family and turning it into a successful manufacturer of leather man bags, my feet hadn’t touched the ground.

Don’t get me wrong, though. I thrived on the buzz and activity of running my own business, and the desire to make Shearman a company that succeeded had never been stronger. I’d dropped the mantel of hedonistic socialite who relied on her parents’ wealth to keep her in flashy clothes, London apartments, and expensive booze. I’d grown up and I was working hard. At the same time Anthony was fulfilling his dream of selling the family business and returning to his passion of making and selling art. He was doing well, too. He was as busy as I had been.

I finally got up out of bed and went to stand on the balcony. I took several deep breaths, blowing each one out slowly with a sigh. Any minute I’d get a call from Mother asking when I was going to come to her suite on the top floor.

You can do this, Magenta.

The staff had begun moving tables and chairs around on the patio garden, getting ready for the wedding. One last sigh and I headed for the bathroom before Tallulah woke up. I looked in the mirror. My skin had been kissed by the sun. Like Tallulah, I’d assumed a honey glow but my hair wasn’t behaving itself. The humidity had caused my already big curls to expand and it would probably take more time to control my hair than it would getting Mother ready for the ceremony.

I stood in the shower, underneath the stream of warm water, and thought about Anthony. Again I wondered what he was doing. Was he missing me?

I had to get out of the shower. Tallulah would wake up and start crying for her mummy.

You can do this, Magenta.

You can.

Chapter 2

The Saturdays

Anthony and I lived together for well over a year before the real problems started.

It was a time of love, laughter, discovery, and a massive challenge for me. Who would have thought it? Magenta Bright, owner of a business, living in Chelsea with the love of my life and practically teetotal compared to my former life. Yes, the partying and jetting round the globe with my supermodel friend had stopped but I never missed that life, not once, because in the beginning, I thought Anthony and I were unbreakable.

After our first proper date, towards the end of a hot and dramatic summer, we wanted to live together straight away. But Anthony had just undertaken a three-month art commission in Italy and had to move out there, and I was finding my feet as the new owner of Shearman. So he’d take short breaks from his commission, flying back to London to see me and helping me look for a place for us to live.

Initially he’d suggested Clapham. I didn’t want to move there because that was where Anthony and his ex-fiancée, Inez, had shared a flat. I didn’t want to be living in her shadow.

Equally, Anthony coming back to my Holland Park flat evoked too many memories of the times I spent there with my ex, Hugo. We were having dinner at a Mexican restaurant in the King’s Road when our number one topic, the house hunt, came up again.

‘Why not find a place around here?’ I asked Anthony. ‘It’s pretty cool in this area and I think we could just about afford somewhere nice.’

And just like that we decided – south-west London it was.

As I said, Anthony popped back to London from Italy whenever he could while working on the commission: a series of landscapes in his signature bold colours for a filthy-rich, Italian film producer. I missed Anthony like mad when he was out of the country but I had a lot to keep me occupied at home.

Once or twice I managed a trip to Italy and whenever we were together we couldn’t get enough of each other. It was like a first date every time I saw Anthony. We had non-stop sex. I mean non-stop to the point of needing a vagina transplant kind of sex. I can’t tell you the number of times Anthony almost missed his flight back to Italy.

But, as luck would have it, we found the perfect place for us. Our two-bedroom house in Chelsea, whose outer walls were painted dusky pink, sat halfway up a lazy, terraced mews. We woke to the sound of traffic on the busy King’s Road, even though the mews itself was extremely quiet and two streets away from the main road. Each cottage-style house in the mews was painted in a dusky shade of blue, yellow, pink, or red. It was like moving into a posh rainbow.

Despite a bid to shake off our past, as in our exes, there was one thing I brought with me when I moved out of my Holland Park flat – my gorgeous red sofa. I couldn’t imagine life without it. I had once pledged to wear it into the ground. Anthony was happy for it to move in, too. My one regret about the new house was not having a walk-in wardrobe any more. But there were two bedrooms in the new place. All I needed to do was get some clothes rails and, voilà, a walk-in wardrobe was born.

‘What if we have a guest?’ Anthony asked.

‘Well they either sleep hanging from a clothes rail or we pay for their taxi home.’

‘So no guests, then?’ he said. I didn’t answer; at the time I was too busy staring into my new wardrobe and marvelling at how much more space there was, thinking: Maybe I could put up a hat shelf. There was certainly room for a few more than I already had.

It was almost winter once we’d settled into our new house.

One Saturday, with an icy breeze that had turned the tips of our noses pink, Anthony and I insisted on a long, early morning walk to take in the area. We set out in thick jackets and beanie hats. I had my arm wrapped around Anthony’s waist and his hugged my shoulder.

‘This looks like a nice place.’

‘Looks good to me,’ Anthony said. ‘And I’m starving.’

We were on the King’s Road – a few streets away from the house – and the café bar we’d stumbled across was called Rhythm ’n’ Brews. There were oversized vinyl records in the window, the exterior was painted dark green, and a smart-looking crowd was occupying the tables in what looked like a pretty casual and relaxing place.

The smell of coffee was more than welcome and so was the music. Jazz and breakfast. A great combination in my opinion. I’d grown up listening to my father’s soul and jazz collection so walking into Rhythm ’n’ Brews felt like walking into the massive kitchen diner of my childhood home.

Anthony and I sat at a table by the window and started salivating over the endless menu.

‘What should we have?’ I said. ‘A Bird in the Bap? A Thelonious Hunk of Oatmeal? A Chet Baked Bagel?’

We thought it was so genius to name the whole menu after jazz and R&B heroes that we decided to work our way through the entire list of breakfast and brunch goodies on a weekly basis. It became our Saturday ritual.

Whereas I used to spend Saturday mornings with my personal trainer, running laps of Holland Park, once we’d discovered this divine little café on a corner of the King’s Road, Anthony and I would sit and stuff our faces there Saturday after Saturday, reading a newspaper or book and catching up on everything we didn’t manage to say to each other during the week.

When the nice weather came back around there were tables and chairs outside. But during the cold transition from autumn to winter in those early months of moving to Chelsea we’d huddle around a little table by the window, always the same one if we could, hands around a hot cup of coffee to keep them warm.

Back then I’d noticed, on the corner opposite Rhythm ’n’ Brews, a shoe shop, which also sold handbags and leather gloves, called Veronique’s. I wasn’t sure if that was the owner’s name but the delicate woman with black hair and white streaks like a zebra looked like a Veronique. Veronique’s was sophisticated: a made to measure type of place. Very few people went there and the styles were quite classic, nothing trendy but stylish and extremely top end.

I loved looking at the wooden exterior of Veronique’s from our table at Rhythm ’n’ Brews. There was something quaint about it. A little bell above the door would alert the owner who appeared as if from nowhere to greet her customers.

‘What are you staring at?’ Anthony asked me once. ‘You’re not after more shoes are you?’

I laughed. I had a healthy appetite for clothes and shoe shopping but I hadn’t had much time for it with work and everything.

‘No, I just love the look of that shop,’ I said. ‘The brickwork on that part of the street is different. I don’t know – there’s just something about it. I was just admiring the handbags. I think when I’m older, and hopefully more sophisticated, I’ll shop in there.’

‘Do you think it will last?’ asked Anthony. ‘Shops like that tend to be the first to close. It reminds me of the shop my dad had when Shearman used to be A Shearman Leather Designs. That had to close down in the recession.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘But sometimes a business like that can be lucky. I hope she is.’

Veronique, as I chose to call the owner, was always dusting the shelves and she fell over herself if any sophisticated ladies happened to walk in.

‘Maybe what she needs,’ said Anthony, touching my hand and stirring me from my reverie, ‘is a bright and breezy, business-minded person with an eye for leather goods to infuse some new ideas into it.’

‘No, I hope she lasts just the way she is,’ I said, resting my chin on my hand. ‘What do you think of the idea of me diversifying and selling handbags along with the man bags at Shearman?’

‘What – and blow Veronique out of the water?’

‘No, I’d be after a different target group so I wouldn’t be direct competition – not really. The man bags are doing great and Harrods have given me more shelf space so … I don’t know, maybe expanding isn’t the best idea.’ I shook my head and giggled. ‘But you know how I love my handbags.’

‘Any more “must haves” and we’ll need a third bedroom.’

We left shortly after, arm in arm as usual. I crossed over to Veronique’s and peered into the window. I stopped there often on my way back from work just to see how Veronique had arranged the shop but this time I dragged Anthony along. He was all fidgety and wanted to go home but just then I noticed the handbag of my dreams. Anthony noticed me notice it, too.

‘No you don’t,’ he said, pulling me off towards our mews. ‘You told me to stop you spending on clothes and accessories until we could afford to have the downstairs redecorated.’

‘I’ll paint the downstairs myself. I must have that bag.’ I tried to drag him back to the window but Anthony scooped me up in a fireman’s lift and carried me towards home.

‘Okay, okay,’ I said, feeling my Ella Fitzburger brunch threatening to resurface. ‘I think you made your point. But the offer of me painting the downstairs is still on the table.’ Anthony gently set me back on my feet.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the handbag in Veronique’s window and the prospect of Shearman selling handbags that no woman could resist.

A week after sighting the gorgeous bag my twenty-ninth birthday came around. Anthony surprised me with the handbag from Veronique’s.

‘My very first grown-up bag,’ I said. I held the bag on my knee as we sat on the sofa. I ran my fingers over the smooth, midnight-blue leather, opened and closed the gold clasp, inhaled the interior, and stroked the short straps. ‘It’s perfect, Anthony.’ I grinned up at him, wondering if Veronique did matching shoes. ‘I can’t thank you enough.’

Anthony, looking slightly worried about my handbag obsession, took the bag off my lap and placed it to one side. He kissed me.

‘Well maybe there is a way I can show you how thankful I am,’ I said. I wrapped my arms around Anthony and pulled him into a kiss.

Anthony and I were made for each other; I was convinced of that. I never saw a break-up coming. Not then, not when we had our Saturdays.

Chapter 3

The Assistant

I started making a slight diversion to and from work each day just so I could walk past Veronique’s. The idea of manufacturing women’s handbags never left my mind. I had to bide my time, though, and really think it through because keeping on top of the man bag market was not exactly a walk in the park. But once a very successful first year in business was under my belt I began acting on the idea of diversifying. I wanted the new range for women to be in keeping with the man bags: varying in price, style, and use but with a signature look that made them say Shearman.

It wasn’t an easy decision to make. Shearman was already a European market leader in man bags but the market for women’s bags was flooded with competition. I needed handbag designs that would wow every woman who saw them but none of the designers I approached or who approached me had anything new to add to the market. The process proved more difficult than I’d first thought.

I decided to cast my net wider than the UK when it came to designers. I’d started making inquiries in Europe. My search led me to track down three very promising contacts, all in Paris, and I planned a trip to meet with the designers in person.

A few days before the business trip, Riley, my dizzy secretary come receptionist and personal assistant in training, burst into my office.

‘You asked me to keep your caffeine levels up,’ she said. ‘This ought to do the trick.’

Riley was in her early twenties, very petite, completely lovable, and extremely naive. She had the willingness of a puppy, up on hind legs waiting for a ball to be tossed across the grass for her to fetch.

In many respects Riley was another of my challenges. Maybe I’d hired her as some sort of test for myself. You see I could tell she was neither a competent secretary, a useful receptionist, nor a potential PA at the interview. But then, neither had I been when I first started at Shearman as a PA.

I wanted to give Riley the benefit of the doubt; I really liked her a lot. Even though she turned up at work on her first day, half an hour late, with a goldfish in a bowl, which she plonked on her desk, splashing fish water everywhere, I still thought I could make something of her.

After her initial three-month trial everyone asked why I didn’t just sack her. I’d obviously made an awful mistake. She’d made blunder after blunder and I’d taken care of her mess-ups each time. She double-booked appointments, sent emails and letters to the wrong person, and ordered a taxi to take me to Harwich Harbour when I’d told her I needed to get to an interview at Harper’s Bazaar. But I knew, or at least I hoped I was right to assume, that somewhere deep down, beneath the charity shop chic and Doctor Marten boots, there was an amazing PA just waiting to emerge.

Riley was carrying two cups of caffè macchiato. She’d gone all the way to the place near the tube station for them. Not only because we both loved their macchiatos but because Riley had been blown away (her words) by the owner. Admittedly, he was gorgeous, if you went for the unshaven, Ryan Gosling type.

Jimmy, the unshaven, Ryan Gosling-alike, dropped everything and made a beeline for Riley the second she walked into his coffee shop. I’d witnessed him about to put plastic caps onto scalding cups of coffee and totally forgetting to when Riley appeared behind me one morning. His customers left with hot coffee slopping onto their hands while Jimmy swooped across to serve Riley – ignoring the fact that I’d been next in line.

Jimmy and Riley had flirted outrageously for ages and neither had made a move.

I could have intervened and helped the courting process along but since having finally convinced Mother and Father that they should remarry I had begun to plan their second wedding. One matchmaking job at a time was all I could handle. Besides which I was always playing catch-up on my own work: a trip to Paris to organize, a desk piled high with the detritus of my business accounts, not to mention the constant worry that planning to expand the company might be the worst decision I ever made.

‘That’s great, Riley,’ I said reaching across my more messy than usual desk to grab for the caffeine. I flipped off the lid from the Styrofoam cup and took a big gulp. As I thought, it was only just warm. Not only was the coffee bar a good walk away from our Mayfair office, Riley had probably hung around for some necessary flirting with Jimmy and forgotten the time.

The diminutive Riley sat opposite me, messy auburn ponytail flopping to her shoulder as she crossed her legs, wrapping them in that rubbery way of hers, at least twice round. I’d often worry she’d forget to uncross them when she stood up and fall flat on her face. So far it hadn’t happened. She put her coffee on my desk and whipped out a notebook from thin air.

‘Now,’ I said, impressed by Riley’s efficiency before noticing that all she had was the notebook but no pen. ‘I’ve finalized the meetings in Paris. These are times, dates, and addresses. I’ll need you to hire a driver. I think my appointments are fairly dotted around but not too far from the hotel.’ I shoved a piece of paper I’d scribbled onto across to Riley and slumped back in my big purple chair to finish off the macchiato.

‘You told me you were fluent in French?’ I said to Riley.

She nodded.

‘Then booking a driver will be a doddle for you won’t it?’

‘Oh, absolument,’ she said with a flourish of her hands. ‘And will I need to confirm the flights and hotel?’ she asked.

‘Yes please. I just really need next week to run as smoothly as it can. I’ve got so much to get done. Don’t forget I’m in New York with Mother and my sisters tomorrow.’ I looked at the coral lipstick smudge I’d made on the foam cup and then at Riley. ‘Don’t you think you should be writing this down?’

‘It’s all in here,’ she said tapping the side of her head and nodding. She blinked her enormous blue eyes at me, looking more like a character from a Japanese anime than ever, and smiled. I was worried that by tapping her head on one side she was bound to empty it of all the information she’d just acquired via the ear on the other side.

‘Are you sure?’ I asked and bit my lip in concern. Riley hadn’t glazed over and vanished into one of her dream sequences so maybe she had taken it all in. She looked down at the To Do list I’d scribbled for her. I watched her lips move as she read the list to herself. I noticed her frown and I began to panic.

With a silent sigh I reached across to grab the list back. I then rewrote it in a meticulous step-by-step format.

‘Don’t let me down, Riley,’ I said handing her back the revised instructions. ‘I’m leaving next Wednesday. You’ve got a week. Just make sure I’ve got the plane tickets in my hand before I set off for Heathrow. It’s essential you have a word with my driver in Paris. Tell them I’m on a short and precise schedule. I can’t afford to be late. At all.’

‘I won’t let you down.’ Riley sprang up and set to work. She left my office with a determined gait and returned two seconds later to retrieve the list and her coffee cup. ‘Leave it with me,’ she said in a casual sing-song way.

When she closed the door for a second time, I couldn’t help but think that those were the famous last words of someone else – the captain of the Titanic, perhaps?

Chapter 4

The Dress

Wedding dress shopping with Mother had been fraught to say the least. We’d left every appointment I’d made with every reputable wedding dress couturier empty-handed. Mother knew exactly what she wanted one minute and didn’t have a clue the next. She was also terribly fussy. She had wanted all four of her daughters to be bridesmaids. That meant I had five dresses to think about. Well two designs – one for the bride and one for the bridesmaids – but my sisters and I had been squabbling about the style of our bridesmaid dress.

Then I’d had a brainwave. I was convinced I could settle the whole matter by flying out to one of the Vera Wang bridal shops in New York. If Vera (well the assistant in the shop) couldn’t settle this, then no one could. Mother and I had hit Browns Bride in Mayfair where there was a small selection by Vera Wang, and though we came close, Mother still wasn’t satisfied. I figured a larger selection might inspire her and if we went halfway around the world, Mother might feel compelled to say yes to something.

Our day in New York was booked. I’d scheduled an appointment in the Madison Avenue shop. As my older sisters Amber and Indigo both worked for my Mother’s lingerie company as head of marketing and company lawyer, respectively, time off was easily arranged. I’d managed to coax my younger sister, Ebony, away from her buyer position at Harrods with some difficulty. Ebony worked hard and played hard but she very rarely found time to play since her promotion to a senior buyer position. It took a lot of fast talking and lashings of white wine to first, detach her from her mobile phone earpiece and, second, to get Ebony to relax once we’d checked in to our New York hotel.

After two hours into our visit to Vera Wang in Madison Avenue, my sisters and I had tried on several Vera Wang bridal gowns, not one single bridesmaid dress I might add, while Mother sat watching from a corner.

‘Mother, please,’ I said to her in a dress very similar to the one Kate Hudson wore in Bride Wars. ‘You’re not taking this seriously.’

‘And you are?’ She glared at me in the full and fluffy skirt that swept the carpet. ‘Look, Magenta, these dresses are far too youthful for me. Why don’t you girls stop trying on wedding dresses and see if there’s an actual bridesmaid dress you can all agree on? Maybe we can go somewhere else for me. I’m sure I’ll come up with something.’

‘Mother, you’re impossible,’ I said staring at my reflection in the full-length mirror. I looked gorgeous. ‘We’ll run out of time at this rate.’

The shopping expedition wasn’t a complete disaster. The four of us settled on a dress we would be happy with as bridesmaids. The slight snag was that they were four different designs.

‘Honestly, girls,’ I said to my sisters, ‘we might as well get them in different colours, too. How about the colour of our names?’ It was intended as sarcasm but Mother adored the idea.

‘Yes.’ She leapt up and looked enthusiastic for the first time since our quest for dresses began. ‘What a great idea.’

‘It’s tacky,’ I said.

‘But delightfully so,’ Mother replied. ‘Please? For me?’

We gave in to Mother’s whim but at least that was one less thing for me to worry about. We ordered our dresses and a big tick was added to my mental Wedding To Do list.

Exhausted by the flight and the morning of trying on dresses, we needed some refreshments.

We found an authentic English teashop and ordered cream scones and strongly brewed tea.

Mother sat in her graceful way, red hair piled into a low bun and her little finger elegantly cocked as she sipped her tea.

‘We’ll have to go back to the idea of a specially designed dress for you, Mother,’ I said, my energy levels well and truly sunk.

‘Yes that’s all well and good,’ she said. ‘But I’ve got so many ideas in my head. I’m not sure I could be much help to a designer. We’ve tried and I’ve only confused them.’

I laid a napkin on the table and pulled out a pen.

‘Tell me,’ I said, licking a rogue spot of cream off my top lip. ‘How do you see yourself? It’s a romantic Caribbean wedding, by the sea, on the sand. How do you imagine yourself that day?’

Mother looked off towards the window. The painted menu on the glass obstructed the view of yellow cabs and passers-by but she seemed to be picturing herself on the beach, eyes half closed.

‘Something flowing. Not white, obviously, but something in a very pale colour to complement my complexion.’

I began to draw on the napkin. I drew a slinky figurine. Mother was slight and well toned for a woman of sixty-two. I began the sketching of swoops and lines as Mother voiced how she’d pictured herself on her wedding day. The first sketch wasn’t right. I reached for another napkin and tried again as Mother went on.

‘It shouldn’t be too young-looking but a dress rather than an ensemble,’ she said. ‘Those add years to the older woman and I don’t want to look ancient. As long as it’s comfortable but shows off the body I’ve been working on for most of my adult life. No upper arms showing. No matter how much I exercise, age isn’t kind to upper arms.’ She picked up her teacup.

‘Something like this?’ I pushed the napkin towards Mother. She took out her glasses and inspected my scribbles.

‘And what would it be made of?’ she asked, her light brown eyes being magnified by her glasses.

‘Georgette or crêpe de Chine. Something silky and flowing. It’s going to be hot on the beach.’

‘Not see-through.’

‘Of course not,’ I agreed.

‘Colour?’

‘For you, I was thinking light peach.’

Mother pulled off her spectacles. ‘Magenta, this is it. You’ve just designed my wedding dress!’

‘Have I?’ I took the napkin and stared at my drawing. ‘I have. I could take this to a designer and have them put it together.’

Mother placed her hand on mine.

‘Why don’t you do it, Magenta? You had some fabulous ideas when you were on your fashion course. I remember that smashing dress you made for an assignment.’

‘Oh, Mother, that was a hundred years ago. I dropped out of my degree course. I was crap.’

‘Don’t use that word. And you were far from crap.’ She took the napkin. ‘This is my dress, Magenta, and I want you to make it.’

My sisters were in total agreement, each one grabbing the napkin and nodding in approval.

I became excited at the prospect of being the designer of my mother’s wedding dress. But could I really pull it off? I did a mental list of the things I’d already committed to do. I remembered I’d told Anthony I was going to repaint the kitchen when I got back from New York. Was I crazy to even consider this? But it was autumn and the wedding wasn’t until the following May; surely I’d have long enough.

‘Well the girls and I all have our dresses sorted,’ I said. ‘But I still have to shop for Father’s suit.’

‘Oh he’ll be happy with anything off the peg as long as it’s from his usual place,’ Mother insisted. ‘No one is expecting you to design clothes for the whole wedding party. Just my dress, darling, and I’m sure you could do it.’

I couldn’t resist the challenge.

‘I’ll do it.’ I had a wide grin plastered across my face as we left the teashop. I walked arm in arm with Mother along the wide street, my sisters flanking us. With a renewed energy, we all managed a little retail therapy before making our way back to the hotel.

I was excited about designing and making Mother’s dress. I’d need help – I knew that. I didn’t even possess a sewing machine. I’d either have to buy one or hire a seamstress. It was going to be a mammoth task, juggling wedding dress fabrics for Mother’s gown and colours for the kitchen walls. I could envisage a catalogue of disasters but not if I got organized.

At this point I didn’t see that being organized wasn’t going to be enough. I jumped in at the deep end – wedding planner, house decorator, and entrepreneur extraordinaire. Weeks later, at age thirty, I got my first grey hair, a sign that my stress levels were on the increase, but I still didn’t take a step back from it all. You see I was in my happy place, high on a year of Saturdays spent with Anthony.

Chapter 5

The Chauffeur

‘So I’ll be off to Paris tomorrow afternoon,’ I said to Anthony.

I was cooking a late supper and breezing in and out of the kitchen to the annexe at the back of the house, which Anthony used as his art studio. It was actually a conservatory, which the previous occupants used as a breakfast room, but it was perfect for light and a good temperature for Anthony’s materials.

Since moving in with Anthony, I noticed how incredibly moody he became when he started a new project. It wasn’t until his piece was well under way and he had a clear visualization of his subject that he became my Anthony again. If I spoke to him while he was working on a new idea he just grunted at me. But always, once he’d stepped out of the confines of his studio, Anthony was the relaxed, easy-going man I’d fallen in love with and who was openly affectionate and kind.

Anthony’s dark hair was touching his shoulders now but it looked unkempt and was definitely unwashed. It was scooped up in one of my scrunchies to keep it out of his eyes and from the doorway I could see the gorgeous dip at the back of his strong neck. I was dying to kiss it but as he was barely grunting over his shoulder at me I returned to the kitchen to finish dinner. I could always seduce him later.

The sauce was simmering away nicely so I thought I’d pop upstairs and start some packing for the trip. I took my suitcase down off the rickety wardrobe in the bedroom and opened it up on the bed. It was dark outside, a chilly November evening, and I was looking forward to snuggling up with Anthony on the sofa later when he was out of the studio.

Anthony had taken up an artist residency at Slater Gallery in Piccadilly. It was a one-year residency and he was part way through it. He should have been doing all his artwork at the gallery but he insisted on completing a series of paintings at home, which meant he was draining himself creatively and being a bit of a grouch with it.

As artist in residence at Slater’s, Anthony would have to have an exhibition ready at the end of the one-year period. It would consist of everything he’d completed while at the gallery. Anthony wanted to include some additional material he’d been working on in his home studio, causing himself extra pressure, I thought. He was also expected to collaborate with the local sixth form college, giving occasional workshops to A-level Art students. Anthony wasn’t too happy about the workshops. He was fundamentally shy and would probably stand in front of the students with sanguine cheeks while he lectured. I was pretty sure the girls would fall in love with him, though.

I opened the cabinet in the bathroom. What would I need to pack? I stared at the unopened box of tampons, which surely I should have started using since I bought them. I calculated the days in my head as I threw the packet into my toiletry bag. I got out my phone and looked at the calendar. It confirmed that time had flown by without me noticing not having had a period. It was probably due to the stress.

I’d spent several days up a ladder having painted three of the kitchen walls. I’d also bought a sketch pad and pencils and had been losing sleep over whether my wedding dress design was really any good. Not to mention the hours in bed spent on Amazon, trying to work out which sewing machine to buy. Knowing me I’d probably come on slap bang in the middle of one of the meetings in Paris.

I was looking forward to Paris but secretly wishing I could combine the trip with a romantic getaway for me and Anthony. It was too perfect that I was going to be in the city of love for two days and not take advantage of it. But when I put the idea to Anthony he’d said no. He had his painting.

‘You’ll have meetings, anyway,’ he’d said. ‘But my residency finishes in spring. How about a week away then?’

‘That would be wonderful,’ I’d said dreamy-eyed.

I’d keep the trip all business and I’d have a lovely romantic trip to look forward to with Anthony.

‘I turned off the sauce.’ Anthony was in the doorway of our bedroom. ‘It was bubbling over.’

‘Shall I put on the pasta?’ I looked up at him as I closed the phone.

‘Not yet.’ Anthony pulled my case off the bed, laying it on the floor. He took the scrunchie from his hair, wavy locks curtaining the sides of his face. He gave me a cheeky grin before slipping his T-shirt off over his head and tossing it to one side, and then pulling me onto him on the bed.

‘Glad to see you’ve stopped growling at me for five minutes,’ I said.

‘Five minutes? I think I can do better than that.’

I was going to miss Anthony for the next few days but I’d told myself that a Paris with Anthony in it would be a fabulous thing to look forward to.

When I saw the rain pouring down as we landed at Orly airport, and how grey and miserable the sky was, I was happy the trip was solely for business. The flight had been slightly delayed and I’d sat next to someone who kept slapping his lips every time he sipped coffee, which seemed to be non-stop. Of course, my case was the last one off the conveyor when I was desperate to get to my hotel and relax for the evening.

Finally, coming out of customs, I shrugged, heaped my man bag up onto my shoulder, and searched the last few people waiting at arrivals for my driver.

I saw my name written on a small piece of card and looked up at the face of the person holding it. It was a woman in her thirties with shiny, chestnut-coloured hair and liquid liner ticks at the sides of her eyes.

‘I’m Magenta Bright,’ I said, smiling.

She didn’t smile back. ‘And so we go,’ she said and marched towards the exit.

Hopping along after her and trying to lug my suitcase higher to stop it banging on my knees, I exited the airport. I followed my driver’s military march to the short-stay car park.

‘Boot?’ she said.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You are sorry? Sorry for what?’ she replied.

‘I mean, I’m sorry. What did you say?’

She patted the boot of the car. The expression on her face told me I was acting like an absolute imbecile.

‘Oh, yes,’ I spluttered. ‘Suitcase in the boot. Got you. Yes, please.’

She clicked the remote central locking on the key fob, grabbed my case from me, and dumped it into the boot of the car before stomping quickly round to the driver’s side. She bobbed her head at the rear door and I obediently jumped in.

I heard skidding, the beep of a car horn beside our car, and then my ears went blocked. My driver had zoomed off, going from zero to eighty miles per hour at warp speed, screeching to a halt at the exit barrier and then racing out of the car park onto a roundabout. I was pinned to the back seat. The landscape surrounding Orly airport went by in a flash. Parisian suburbia crashed past the window in a blur, my cheeks flapping with the sheer velocity, and I wished I had a religion. Only prayer could stop us crashing. We hurtled towards the southern Arrondissements of Paris. I began to pray to every god I knew to deliver me to heaven if I didn’t make it out of the car alive.

I couldn’t really be sure how quickly we got to the hotel. I’d closed my eyes and had tried to block everything out. All I knew was that my driver hit the brakes and I was flung forward into the back of the seat in front of me and thrown back again so that my neck whipped half off my neck with a crack. I nodded several times, involuntarily, before my head rocked back into place. I rubbed the back of my neck, picking my man bag up off the floor.

‘Boot,’ she declared and leapt out.

This time she opened the door for me to get out. I tried to catch her eye as I tentatively stepped onto the forecourt outside my hotel, hoping I could at least give her a dirty look. As I tried to straighten my coat and adjust my bag over my shoulder I noticed she was smiling as she got out my suitcase. Well her teeth were showing – she could have been in pain.

‘Enjoy your hotel,’ she said. She held up my suitcase. I took it and she dropped the weight of it into my hand so that I toppled forward.

‘Er,’ I stuttered. ‘You’ll be here at nine tomorrow morning?’ I had a breakfast meeting with my first designer.

‘For sure,’ she said.

In my heart of hearts I wished she’d said: There’s been a big mistake and I should have picked up the other Magenta Bright. Your proper driver will be here in the morning. But no, this Lewis Hamilton wannabe would be there the next day.

I limped to the reception and checked in. I called Riley, hoping she’d still be at the office. Maybe she could arrange a new driver in time.

‘Oh, hey, Riley,’ I said.

‘Magenta, hi, how’s your hotel?’

‘All good but I was wondering if you could sort a new driver for me.’

‘Is he no good?’

‘She. She seems like a lovely person but she must have broken every speed limit from the airport to the hotel. I’m seriously frightened for my life. Could you sort it out?’

‘Of course I will. Leave it to me.’

My fingers were crossed; in fact everything was crossed when I went to bed that night, hoping Riley could be relied on to put this right. I didn’t sleep a wink.

Chapter 6

The Bag

I showered in tepid water to try to revive myself for the impending meeting with my first women’s handbag designer. I hoped Riley had come good on the chauffeur swap and had found me someone less Sandra Bullock in Speed and a bit more Driving Miss Daisy. But my heart sank as I left the hotel and spotted the same driver from yesterday. Her eyes were bright and she looked eager. I took a deep breath.

‘Good morning,’ I said in a shaky voice. ‘I mean bonjour.’

She showed her teeth and reached for the passenger door. ‘Bonjour. Allons-y?’

‘Um, yes. Let’s get going.’ I hadn’t climbed in yet. ‘I didn’t get your name yesterday,’ I said to her, offering my hand. She looked surprised but gave my hand a tightly gripped shake.

‘Nadia,’ she said.

‘I wonder, Nadia, if you could drive a little slower this morning. I’m nice and early and I don’t think we’re too far from my meeting.’

‘Slower?’ Nadia’s brow was twisted into several deep lines. I could tell this didn’t compute.

‘Yes, don’t drive too fast. I’m a bit of a nervous passenger so go slower.’ I made a gesture with my hands, moving my palms slowly up and down towards the ground.

‘Drive too fast?’ she said. ‘I will.’

‘No, I mean don’t drive fast.’ I shook my head side to side. ‘No fast. Slow.’ I hated it when Brits spoke like Tarzan to foreigners but my life was at risk and I wanted to see my family again.

‘So,’ said Nadia, ‘my instruction from the boss was drive very fast; the client like the speed to be quickly, non?’

‘Non!’ I shook my head. And then the penny dropped. Riley. She told me she spoke fluent French. What on earth had she told the chauffeur company I needed from a driver when my instructions were I needed to be timely? I dreaded to think.

I grasped at what little French I could muster to try to make Nadia understand that I didn’t need to be anywhere at breakneck speed and that being on time was good enough.

‘Non, rapidement, aujourd’hui. Ce matin, conduire lentement, s’il vous plait.’ That small amount of French really hurt my head. At sixteen, I’d spent most of my French conversation classes in the toilet smoking Gauloises. Now my biggest regret.

Nadia lifted her head in a slow nod, clenching her lips together, and I hoped she understood that I wanted her to slow down. To be on the safe side, when I got into the car I buckled up tight.

Down the curved drive in front of the hotel Nadia pushed as gently onto the accelerator as I imagined she knew how. She signalled – I hadn’t noticed her use any other controls in the car except gas and brakes before then – and we pulled out onto the fairly busy road. At a speed at which I was able to lip-read full conversations by passing pedestrians, Nadia poodled along the road for approximately five minutes and gently stopped at a restaurant bar just metres from the hotel.

‘Here is your meeting,’ she said in a drawn-out voice.

I looked out, quizzically. According to Google Earth, my breakfast meeting should have been further away. I checked the address on the schedule on my iPad. Nadia was quite right, Bar Bonne Amie. I could just as well have walked. Having completely lost faith in French chauffeurs and my ability to read Google maps, I gathered my man bag and got out.

‘Thank you,’ I said to Nadia. I leaned over and peered into the passenger side window. Nadia lowered it. ‘As my next appointment isn’t until this afternoon, I’ll meet you back at the hotel at three o’clock.’

‘Certainly,’ she said. Then she drove off like a normal person, observing the speed limit and making appropriate signals. I shook my head.

After adjusting the front of my coat I pushed open the door to Bar Bonne Amie and went in.

My appointment that morning was with Clara Marchand, a young designer of leather accessories whose workspace was not too far from the café bar but who obviously wanted to charm me with the food and win me over. She chose the right place. The aromas coming from the kitchen were making my mouth water. So much so I was looking at the counter of pastries and chocolates and, at first, didn’t notice Clara waving to me from the far corner.

‘Magenta?’ she called and I peeled my gaze away from the display counter.

‘Oh, hello! Yes. You must be Clara Marchand.’

Clara was a short woman in large dungarees over a red sweater. Her fair hair was mostly hidden by a bandanna, tied in a triangle on her head and knotted at the front. We shook hands and she walked me to a window seat in the corner. On top of the small round table was a large, leather-bound portfolio. An enormous cardboard box was tucked underneath.

‘If you don’t mind,’ said Clara, ‘I’ve ordered coffee, hot chocolate, and a platter of croissant and bread with butter and preserves. I didn’t know which you would prefer.’ She nodded to the waitress at the counter.

‘I really don’t mind that at all.’

As we settled in and exchanged pleasantries about the flight and the weather the waitress appeared with two carafes: one of coffee and one of hot chocolate. Which to choose? Very closely behind the drinks came the platter. I was in continental breakfast heaven for the next hour or so. Clara didn’t hold back. She grabbed the pain au raisin I had my eye on. With crumbs down our clothes and the chocolate moustache Clara had acquired after her first sip of the creamy drink, we began the meeting.

Clara opened out her portfolio and I was stunned into silence. These designs were better than the ones I’d seen on her website. She’d enticed me with some designs in an email but must have kept the main event for the meeting. Her designs of women’s handbags, shoulder bags, purses, and more were enough to convince me that this was a woman I could work with. Between the pages of her leather-bound portfolio was the promise of designs that would suit the Shearman brand very nicely.

A platter of croissant crumbs later and so much caffeine I was seeing double, I had more or less asked Clara to sign on the dotted line. I welcomed her as a new designer to Shearman.

‘I’m so excited about these, Clara. Your drawings are incredible.’ I flicked through the pages again. ‘I’m thinking I ought to do something more significant than just having an announcement about the new women’s bags,’ I enthused. ‘I’m thinking rebrand or something really exciting like that. A relaunch. Something big. I’d have to speak to my marketing consultants first, though. I’ll do that as soon as I’m back.’

‘Thank you, Magenta. You don’t know how happy I am to have my designs under your label,’ said Clara. ‘I wasn’t going to say this but you’re my idol. I’ve read every interview you’ve ever done and I can’t wait to start working with you.’

‘Me too, Clara. I’ll have my solicitor draw up a contract. Maybe for a period of six months to start? I’ll have to look closer at the work involved and decide on an appropriate number of designs that I’d need from you over that length of time. I don’t want to tie you to an overly long contract, if that’s okay.’

‘Right now I’d sign my life away.’ Clara had a beautiful smile. It lit up her already playful face and I couldn’t wait to start planning a Shearman rebranding party.

From beneath the table Clara drew out the cardboard box.

‘I was so carried away I forgot about the samples,’ she said. ‘I wanted you to have something to take home with you. I had prototypes made up but they’re not the best quality leather. Money and time, you know? Anyway these are for you.’

She took out six designer bags one by one and laid them either on the table or over my shoulder.

When I got up to pay for breakfast I got confused about which bag I came with. I fumbled around in my Shearman man bag to find my wallet. The wallet was well hidden in the vast pocket of the man bag among all my junk and I wished it was more easily accessible because the girl on the till was becoming impatient. Eventually I found my wallet and paid the bill.

‘Thank you, again,’ Clara said.

‘I’ll call you as soon as I’m back,’ I told her.

She gave me a kiss on each cheek and a customary extra one before I left.

With a satisfying meeting under my belt and just two more to go, I headed off to satisfy a niggling feeling I’d had since packing the day before. While rummaging in my bag at the café I’d noticed, again, the unopened box of tampons.

I looked at my watch. I had plenty of time before the next meeting to find a pharmacy, buy a pregnancy test (no biggie since I was sure it would be negative), then jump on the Metro, have a quick walk around the city centre, take in some sights, pick up a souvenir for Riley, and be back at the hotel for Nadia to pick me up at three. Perfect.

I walked for a few minutes following the signs for the nearest station. Just before the Metro I spotted the green cross over the door of a Pharmacie.

After a good search in a somewhat cluttered store I found a shelf of pregnancy kits. I thought I’d take the test at the hotel after my next meeting. Once I could satisfy myself I wasn’t pregnant I could then relax and have a period. I hadn’t worried Anthony with any of this; I didn’t see the point. It’s not that I wouldn’t want to have a baby with Anthony one day, but this wasn’t the time.

The man behind the counter rang up the price. I was flustered as I reached into my man bag because I’d asked him several times, in English, how much it cost and he didn’t understand. As I rummaged for my credit card one of the bags Clara had given to me dropped on the floor. I went to pick it up and another fell off my shoulder. This happened a few more times as if I was in a Seventies’ comedy sketch.

‘Tienes,’ a voice from behind me said. A young guy was holding up the last bag I’d dropped. He placed it over my shoulder.

‘Oh, thank you,’ I said and went about trying to find my wallet again. From my bag I pulled out tissues, a compact, and my phone before the wallet came into view.

‘Take your time,’ the pharmacist said in perfect English. With his huge smile and chubby cheeks he was looking at me as if I was already pregnant by about eight months and struggling to cope.

‘Here.’ I handed him my Visa card and secured all the bags around my person. Having second thoughts about lugging multiple bags up the Eiffel Tower and down the Champs-Élysées, I decided to drop them off at the hotel first. If I was quick I could take that test right away and still have time for some sightseeing.

I left the shop, tucking my purchase into my bag, my footsteps slow and heavy because, now that it was imminent, I was afraid to take the test on my own. I should just wait until I was back in London, talk to Anthony. That was the sensible thing to do. But just a few metres from the pharmacy I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around. It was the young man from before who had been so helpful. He pushed a black leather courier-style bag at me.

‘You dropped this,’ he said and ran off.

Before I could even say thank you, but this isn’t mine, he was gone, crossing the road at speed while the traffic honked and swerved to avoid hitting him. I waved at him. He’d never hear me call out so I hooked the bag onto my shoulder, thinking I could catch him up. Just as I stepped towards the kerb a black car screeched to a halt in front of me, its front wheel mounting the pavement just at my feet.

There were gasps all around me from onlookers on what was a fairly busy street. My first instinct was that Nadia hadn’t understood my earlier instructions and wanted to whisk me off to my next appointment at warp speed, hours in advance. But when I saw two large men in long black coats lurch themselves out of the car I staggered backwards to get out of their way.

Looking around I tried to see who they were trying to catch in the act of doing something dreadful when, all of a sudden, they had me pinned against the shop front of a hair salon.

‘What the –?’ I tried to stand my ground but the two men started yanking all my bags away. ‘Wait! Do you mind telling me wh –?’

There was no time to finish the sentence. A crowd of gasping people gathered in a semi-circle around me and the two men. One had his hand on my chest, securing me against the window; the other was looking inside each of the bags coming off my shoulders. The traffic had come to a standstill.

‘Est-ce votre sac?’ one of the men bellowed into my face, holding up one of the bags.

‘Sack?’ I asked him.

‘Oui, votre sac. Est-ceci?’

I shook my head and shrugged. He proceeded to search the bag and when I saw that there were items in there I didn’t recognize, I realized it was the courier bag the young man had just given to me by mistake. I tried to pull free from the man who was holding me against the window.

‘Look, wait a minute,’ I gasped. ‘I can explain. I know what I did.’

‘Of course you do,’ the man searching the bag said.

A policewoman appeared from the back of the black car and gathered up all the bags from the ground. One of the men in black held up the courier bag as if he was exhibiting it to the crowd then both men pulled and pushed me to the car.

In a wave of horror I began to shake. My legs gave way as they forced me into the back seat. It happened so fast. All at once the car was in motion. Next to me the policewoman was staring straight ahead, not blinking once. I was in a state of shock, though I did notice what gorgeous cheekbones she had – she would age well. I also noticed her gun. I swallowed hard.

‘I don’t know anything,’ I said to her. ‘Je ne … je suis … non … s’il vous plaît?’ I was out of French. I’d never learned how to say “not guilty” and I was pretty sure that little phrase was going to come in handy. I was being arrested although no one had read me my rights. Or maybe they had and I didn’t know they had because my French just wasn’t good enough.

‘I need to make a call,’ I announced to the policewoman. ‘I have rights. I’m a British citizen.’

Nothing I said worked. I was completely ignored by all three officers for the whole journey to the police station. I was strong-armed into the building and shoved into a cell before my feet could touch the ground. I asked over and over what it was they thought I’d done. Obviously they thought I’d stolen that bag but they wouldn’t give me a chance to explain.

I wasn’t sure how much time went by as I waited in the cell. I assumed they needed to find a translator and I tried not to panic. Sitting on the hard bench, eyes up to the ceiling, willing myself not to cry in case it made me look guilty, I thought of Anthony and wondered if he’d wait for me if I was wrongfully charged and sent to prison for a crime I didn’t commit.

Chapter 7

The Interrogation

I was cold and I was hungry. More time had passed and I didn’t know how much because the police had taken everything: my bag, my watch, and my shoes. I looked at the unsavoury throw on the rock-hard bench in my cell but I wasn’t tempted to put it around my shoulders. I had to keep getting off the bench and rubbing my bum because it was going numb from sitting for so long. No one had pushed a plate under a little hatch in the door (there was no hatch, actually) and no one had offered me a chance to make a call.

This was police brutality at its worst. Completely unnecessary because this was all some great big misunderstanding. Surely I had rights. I pictured Anthony, happy and grumpy in his studio, and I had never missed him more. In fact, I missed home; I missed work, my family, and friends; and I missed my caffè macchiato from Jimmy’s.

I heard a key in the lock and stopped rubbing my bottom.

‘At last,’ I said. ‘Have you sorted out the mix-up?’

The guard at the door simply jerked his head towards the corridor and said, ‘Allez!’

I knew what that meant. Was I free to go? I certainly hoped so and I’d be calling my lawyer to sue every last member of the French police.

‘Where do I get my things?’ I asked.

Just outside the door was the policewoman from earlier. She hooked my elbow with a clamp-like hand and started pushing me along the corridor and up a flight of stairs. Along the dark corridor on the upper floor was a series of closed doors and at the very end, a fire escape. She opened a door. The room looked ominously like the interview room in NCIS. I looked at the fire escape just before entering and thought I could make a break for it. It was obvious I wasn’t about to be released; they wanted to interrogate me about the bag. But at least I would get the chance to explain.

The policewoman gestured for me to go in with a hard shove. Her hand went to her gun. I got nervous and went into panic mode.

‘Look,’ I said, swiftly backing into the room. ‘I didn’t do anything. Whatever it is you think I’ve done, I’m innocent. Well no one is completely innocent. I mean, who is right?’ She jerked me into a chair at a metal desk. I fell into it. ‘But this, whatever this is about, I’m completely innocent.’

‘You just said no one is completely innocent.’ A voice came from the doorway. I turned to see a tall, thin man entering the room. Closely cropped hair and a receding hairline. He pulled up a chair and sat opposite me. The policewoman sat beside him and looked me up and down. She hadn’t said a single word so I tried to appeal to this new officer’s kind-looking eyes. They were deep blue and his slim face was unshaven. He rubbed his chin as he flicked open a file he’d brought in.

‘Magenta Bright, you say? From London?’ he said.

‘That’s right. You can confirm this. Just call anyone –’

He put up a hand to shush me. I shushed.

Looking at me but not saying a word he began to lay photographs out in front of me on the desk. ‘I am Inspecteur Martin.’ He tapped loudly with his forefinger at a photograph. ‘You know this man?’

I looked from his kind eyes to the photo. He pushed it closer. I shook my head.

‘Never seen him before,’ I said. ‘But he wasn’t the one who gave me the bag. That guy was a lot younger.’

‘His name?’

‘I never knew his name. He just passed me the bag.’

‘And you just took it?’

‘Well, yes, I had lots of bags, you see. I was confused. I thought it was one of mine but then I realized that –’

‘Look at the photos. Tell me the names of all the people you recognize.’ His voice wasn’t unpleasant. If anything he sounded tired and uninterested.

I looked at each photograph, shaking my head with as much confidence as I could muster.

‘I don’t know a single one,’ I declared.

The inspector and the policewoman looked at each other and the atmosphere in the room changed. It got decidedly heavier and I knew that my arrest had nothing to do with anything as simple as a case of a stolen bag. He gathered the photos and put them back into the file. He then whipped out a sheet of paper. On it was a list of names.

‘All I want you to do is look at the list and tell me which one of them is your contact.’

I mouthed the words ‘my contact’, because I was too nervous to use actual words. I blinked vigorously so I could read the list through the tears welling up in my eyes.

I shook my head after carefully going down the list. I cleared my throat and pointed at a name.

‘Yes?’ Inspector Martin said. He and the police officer leaned forward on their elbows.

‘W-well,’ I stuttered. ‘I think this one won an Emmy at the awards recently.’

‘Very funny.’ He snatched the list away and got up, scraping the chair on the floor. ‘This interview is terminated.’

I stood and the policewoman got up, too. Inspector Martin was at the door.

‘Wait,’ I said. ‘This interview is not terminated.’

‘You have something to confess?’ he said.

‘No, I don’t. I want to go home. I know my rights. You should at least let me make a telephone call. At least one. I know the law.’

Inspector Martin looked at the policewoman with the gun. She shot a look at the chair I’d got out of so abruptly, implying I should sit. I did so, my eyes on her weapon, and gulped. Inspector Martin left and the policewoman plugged in a phone, which appeared from a shelf I hadn’t noticed before.

‘I’m calling London,’ I said, haughtily.

Anthony would be at the art gallery or on his way home if I was right about the time. His phone started ringing. Please pick up, please pick up, I kept saying under my breath. The second I heard Anthony’s voice I inhaled deeply and burst into tears.

‘Magenta, slow down. I don’t understand a single word. Did you say arrested?’ Anthony sounded as desperate as I was.

‘Well, I think so. No one said that thing, you know: “You have the right to remain silent” or whatever it is. Or if they did, they said it in French and I missed it. If I’m not arrested can’t I just walk out? Only they’ve got my shoes.’

‘Magenta, I’m coming out there straight away. Ask for a translator. In fact, don’t say anything until I get you a lawyer.’

‘Call Indigo,’ I said. ‘She’ll know what to do.’ My sister specialized in business and corporate law. In truth, I probably needed a criminal lawyer but I was hoping it wouldn’t come to that. Besides which, Indigo’s French was fairly fluent. ‘I’m scared, Anthony. I can’t make them see that there’s been a mistake. I have no idea what I’m supposed to have done.’

‘It’s okay. Sit tight. I’ll get the first flight. Don’t worry about anything, I’ll take care of it all.’ Anthony sounded confident, probably only for my benefit. I had to put my faith in him but I wouldn’t be reassured until he was there in front of me with my sister, Indigo, and a French phrase book.

I was reluctant to get off the phone but the sooner I could, the sooner Anthony would arrive. I was escorted back to the cell. It was colder than I’d remembered and before I knew it my teeth had begun to chatter and I couldn’t control them. I placed the dusty-looking throw over my shoulders and curled up in a ball on the bench and closed my eyes.

I couldn’t sleep, of course. I was just trying to block out my surroundings. I felt sure that once Anthony arrived he’d get me out of that hellhole. That was what I kept telling myself. All I had to do was think positive thoughts and the nightmare would eventually end.

With my eyes closed I retraced my day, from my successful meeting with Clara to the visit to the pharmacist. I hadn’t forgotten about my pregnancy scare. If it turned out to be positive I hoped I wouldn’t have to give birth in prison. I shook the image from my head. Of course I wouldn’t. Anyway, I wasn’t pregnant … was I?

Chapter 8

The Dealer

The rattling of keys in the door scared me awake. I sat upright, wide-eyed, looking hopefully at the man at the door.

‘Allez!’ he said. Immediately my hopes plummeted. I’d heard that word before and it hadn’t got me anywhere. I got up and tried to straighten my hair and clothes. Stepping out into the corridor I saw that the armed policewoman wasn’t there this time. The guard nodded me in the opposite direction to the one we’d taken earlier. We passed a window as we mounted a flight of stairs. It was dark outside and I wondered how long I’d been in that cell.

At the top of the stairs I saw the desk I’d stood at while the arresting officers took all my property away. The guard pointed at the exit and I noticed Anthony for the first time. I rushed to him with my arms outstretched and fell against his chest. He hugged me tightly.

‘Ssh, it’s okay,’ he told me as I cried like a helpless maiden into his jacket.

‘When did you get here?’ I asked.

‘About an hour ago. Indigo is in with the inspector giving him a proper talking-to. I don’t think anyone charged you with anything. There wasn’t a formal arrest and you weren’t given any opportunity to ask for a translator or a lawyer were you?’

I shook my head.

‘I have no idea why they think I stole a bag,’ I said. ‘If that’s what this is all about. I mean I must have looked suspicious carrying all the bag samples the designer gave me but they didn’t even give me a chance to explain. I might be many things but I’m no thief.’

‘Magenta.’ Anthony held my face in his hands. ‘This isn’t about a stolen bag. The bag you were given contained a truck load of drugs in the lining. Cocaine. They suspected you of drug trafficking.’

My mouth dropped open. I looked over my shoulder at the officers at the desk.

‘You bloody bastards.’ I slammed my hands on the desk. ‘A bloody drug dealer! Really?’

Anthony pulled me away. ‘Indigo did all that. She said you’d press charges against them. Do you want to?’

I blew out a long breath, shook my head. ‘I just want to get out of here. Get a bath and go home.’

‘Let’s get your stuff … and Indigo if we can pull her off the inspector.’

It was then I heard my sister’s voice, bellowing from an office somewhere in half English and half French. She would probably have the whole constabulary on charges before the night was through but all I wanted to do was get as far away from that place as possible.

‘Mademoiselle?’ The officer on the desk plopped a massive, clear bag on the counter. I picked it up, pulling it open when I recognized it as my man bag and all of its contents on display. Next came my coat and shoes, which I hurriedly put on because I was freezing.

I began repacking my bag: make-up, tissues, phone, notebook, pregnancy kit …

‘Wait,’ said Anthony. ‘What’s this? Is this? Are you? Are we?’

‘I have no idea, Anthony. Get me to the hotel and we’ll find out.’

Just then Indigo emerged, Inspector Martin on her heels with a look of apology on his face. He went to shake my hand but Indigo slapped his hand away.

‘You’ll be hearing from me,’ she shouted and grabbed me into a hug. The officer on the desk produced another two larger plastic bags. They contained all the bag samples Clara had given me. I signed a form and we all left, silently.

‘Did that just happen?’ I asked them when we were outside.

‘That guy who gave you the drugs, Magenta,’ Indigo said. ‘He’s been under surveillance for months. He recognized a plain-clothed officer hanging around, knew he was from the drug squad, and had to shake him off. He was trying to pass his supplies on to you.’

I shook my head. ‘But I don’t even look like a drug lord,’ I whimpered, glancing down at my carefully chosen outfit.

‘Well,’ said Indigo. ‘Maybe in Paris, the dealer wears Prada.’

‘The shoes are Gucci,’ I said under my breath.

Anthony hugged me as we left the grounds of the station. ‘Don’t worry about anything. You weren’t to know what was going on but it’s well and truly over now.’

‘I’ll sue every last one of their arses,’ said Indigo. In her middle-class way the threat didn’t sound at all menacing.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Anthony is right. It’s over now. Let’s just go home.’

‘We got three plane tickets for tomorrow morning,’ said Indigo. ‘I didn’t think you’d want to stay any longer than that, not even for meetings.’

‘You got that right. I’ll call Riley, get her to make my apologies.’ I felt Anthony’s arm tighten around my shoulder and pull me in closer.

‘Let’s get you some food,’ Indigo said. ‘Anthony and I are both booked into your hotel. Let’s go.’

‘Please.’

***

Riley was grief-stricken when I gave her the news.

‘I’ve been in a complete state,’ she sobbed. ‘I’ve been calling the whole of France.’ Riley had only just got home after having spent the afternoon on the phone to the chauffeur hire company who had reported that I’d not showed up at the front of the hotel as arranged. The only problem was the driver hadn’t called in straight away about it and had gone on to the afternoon appointment, assuming that I had found my own way there.

After hearing that, Riley had called the designer I was supposed to be meeting every twenty minutes to ask if I’d arrived. When I didn’t she started calling the hotel. Following that she’d spoken to all the accident and emergency units and morgues in Paris to make sure I wasn’t dead.

When the panic had died down, when Anthony, Indigo, and I had eaten and spoken to Mother and Father to say I was safe, Anthony and I went up to our hotel room.

‘So, I know you wanted me to come to Paris with you, Magenta, but do you think you could have done something a little less dramatic to lure me over? Couldn’t wait until spring?’

I punched Anthony in his arm. ‘Don’t even joke about it,’ I said.

We were sitting on the bathroom floor; I was on my knees, leaning over the toilet, my pregnancy kit was on top of the closed lid. Anthony was on the floor beside me, leaning one arm over the bath. We were waiting for that all-telling minute to tick by.

I’d never known time to move more slowly. Then, in slow motion, the little window we’d been watching in earnest began to change. The white background seemed to turn a greyish white at one end and gradually, making its way across the greyish white, a horizontal blue line appeared. The line began to extend across the window, closely followed by another blue line that moved vertically down the centre of the window. That startlingly blue cross confirmed the inevitable. I was pregnant.

I looked at Anthony then back at the indicator stick, squinting at the small window. I was half wondering if the last few hours had just been a dream, a dream from which I still hadn’t awoken; I hadn’t been a suspected drug dealer and neither was I pregnant.

I reached for Anthony’s arm and squeezed it. He was real and he was there, not a dream at all. Anthony stared at me, wide-eyed, his lips trembling into a half-smile.

‘You-you look happy,’ I said. ‘Or are you about to lose it?’ I got to my feet. ‘Because I am, big time.’ I leaned my hands on the sink. Anthony got up and began to massage my shoulders. I looked up at him in the mirror above the sink. The weird grin had left his face. ‘Say something,’ I said.

‘I’m not really sure what to say,’ he said. ‘I’m kind of happy, though. Are you?’

I turned around. ‘What do you mean “kind of”?’ I asked him.

‘Well it isn’t something we talked about so I’m a little … shocked, I suppose. I mean today was just … I mean, are you happy?’ He held my shoulders.

‘I-I don’t know. I do want to have children, I just wasn’t thinking about having a baby right this minute. But …’

‘What?’

I couldn’t stop the smile beaming across my face. ‘I am happy, Anthony. I really, really am.’ And that’s how I genuinely felt once the initial shock had subsided. ‘I know we never even talked about having a baby but it’s-it’s wonderful.’ I hugged him around the waist and rested my head against his chest.

It was very late now and as exhausted and beaten up as I felt, I was well and truly, completely excited.

‘We won’t say anything to anyone – not just yet,’ Anthony said while I was still hugging him. I looked up, a little taken aback.

‘Obviously,’ I said with a crease forming in my brow. ‘I mean, I didn’t plan to, not just yet anyway.’

‘Just until we know for sure,’ said Anthony.

‘Well these kits are very accurate, you know? But you’re right – I will have to go the doctor.’

‘Yes,’ he said, pulling away. ‘We need to be sure about this. About everything.’

‘I don’t understand, Anthony.’ All of a sudden Anthony wasn’t sounding so positive. His mood had changed.

‘No, no it’s all right,’ he said with a weak kind of laugh. ‘It’s just I thought you shouldn’t tell people until the first scan.’

‘You seem to be very knowledgeable about these thing, Anthony.’ I picked up the kit and placed everything in the bin under the sink. ‘But you’re right. The right time will present itself. Until then, I won’t say a word. It’ll be our little, wonderful and brilliant secret.’

Anthony pulled me towards him. His smile had returned. I let out a sigh of relief. Half a second ago he’d looked like a bunny trapped in the headlights. He squeezed me tighter, gently rocking me and rubbing my back as if he want to burp me. I looked up at him.

‘You all right?’ I asked.

‘Yes, yes of course.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘A little shell-shocked, that’s all,’ he said.

‘Anyway, I’m exhausted. We should get some sleep. The flight is first thing.’

Anthony took my hand. We went back to the bedroom and got ready for bed. In the darkness of the hotel room, with just street lights glowing through the blinds I’d forgotten to close, Anthony lay on his side and faced away from me. I looked up into the shadowy room, just about able to make out the lampshade above me. I realized I had a huge smile on my face and that I was going through a list of children’s names. How crazy.

I finally closed my eyes. It really was happening.

Chapter 9

The Epiphany

At arrivals Riley was at the barrier wearing a yellow bobble hat and holding what looked like yards and yards of yellow ribbon. I spotted Mother and Father and ran to them.

‘I’m okay, I’m fine,’ I told them. Mother had tears in her eyes.

‘Thank goodness you’re home.’ She hugged me as did Father, making a Magenta sandwich out of me. Joining the group hug was Riley, wrapping us all in yellow ribbon and sobbing.

‘Free at last, thank God, you’re free at last,’ she said.

The group untangled itself.

‘Thank you for coming, Dr King,’ I said turning to Riley. ‘And I think yellow ribbon is for people who did time.’

‘I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t sleep all night worrying about you,’ said Riley.

I squeezed her arm. ‘It was lovely of you to come, Riley, but please tell me you were able to cover up for me with the two designers I didn’t get to meet with.’

‘Yes, all taken care of.’ She tapped the side of her nose and I didn’t dare ask what excuses she’d made for me.

‘I hope it wasn’t a completely wasted journey,’ Mother said as we all made our way to the exit.

‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘I did have one very successful meeting. There’s a designer I’m dying to work with but I’ll have to see if I can reschedule with the others.’

‘Have you ever thought of using your own designs?’ Mother said. She linked my arm as we walked.

‘But, Mother –’

‘No, think about it, Magenta. For the past year you’ve done nothing but deal with designers for the man bags. You must have learned a thing or two by now. The same thing happened with me and the lingerie. You know I designed a few of our ranges back in the day? You get a feel for what people want and you, Magenta, are an artist. You know what looks good and you know what sells because you know handbags. Just look at your wardrobe: it speaks volumes. And look at how easily you did that design for my wedding dress.’

We were outside of the airport. Indigo was negotiating a couple of taxis and Riley was looking for a place to dump the yellow ribbon.

‘But that was just a rough drawing,’ I said. ‘I’ve been having to sit with a real dress designer to make it happen.’

‘So why can’t you do the same thing with a design of your own for a handbag?’

‘Mother, are you just saying this to distract me from my recent traumatic experience? You know this is likely to scar me for the rest of my life. I’ll never look at Prada in the same way and I’ll be looking over my shoulder every time I reach for the Aspirins in Boots.’

‘Not a distraction, just something I believe you would have decided to do yourself in time. For an artistic, fashion-conscious person such as you are, it’s a natural progression.’

As our taxis pulled up I stood and pondered the idea for a moment. It had never occurred to me to design a bag myself, not properly. I mean I’d noodled man bag ideas several times without thinking much about it so it wasn’t a completely absurd idea. Only yesterday I’d struggled to find my wallet when I went to pay at the café and at the pharmacy. On the flight out I couldn’t put my hand on my passport quickly enough, either. What if I were to design the perfect handbag, the handbag I would defy anyone to lose anything in again? Lipsticks, pens, Oyster cards, whatever. Maybe I could consult with a designer I already did business with. It wasn’t a bad idea at all.

‘I think you’ve hit on something, Mother,’ I said. ‘No seriously, I think I could come up with some designs. I’m going to sit with it. Thank you.’

‘Like I said, you would have thought of it sooner or later.’ Mother kissed my cheek and she, Father, and Indigo boarded the first taxi. ‘All you need is the confidence and you’ve got that in spades.’

I was almost tempted to tell Mother that I’d pass on all the great advice she ever gave me to my own children but Anthony and I had decided to wait before telling everyone the good news. Besides, it would be better if my brush with a life of crime died down a bit first. I had visions of becoming a person of interest for intelligence agencies across the globe and they’d stop and search my Babybjörn baby carrier whenever I was out walking in the park with Anthony junior.

Riley, Anthony, and I jumped into the second of the taxis and dropped Riley off so she could continue by tube back to the office. On the way home, I thought about the possibilities of sharpening my design skills as well as hiring a real-life Frank Farmer from The Bodyguard to protect me and the baby. But Mother was right: it was likely I’d want to get into the nitty-gritty of designing one day. That day had arrived.

I sat in the bath for ages when I got home. I’d been trying to eliminate the stench of my former jail cell from my pores and the water was going cold. I’d also been in planning mode, thinking about the rebranding idea and then about becoming a designer in my own right, whether that be for clothes or accessories. Or both.

As far as a rebranding went I had to make a big splash and I wanted to do it soon. I wondered if I could gather enough publicity to make everything happen before my parents’ wedding the following May. I was sure I could. I’d even create a unisex range – I often used our Shearman man bags myself.

Ideas began to flow. It had been a while since I organized a show and I was longing for a chance to do it again. It would be a year of celebrations. I looked at my tummy and smoothed my hand over it.

‘A rebranding, a wedding, and you’ll be celebration number three,’ I thought and did a quick calculation of when the birth might be. I’d get a doctor’s appointment and confirm my due date. I couldn’t wait.

The bubbles were melting away fast and the water had become too cool to sit in any more so I got out and got dry. Anthony was back at the gallery and I was too tired to go back into the office for the afternoon.

Still in my dressing gown, I went downstairs to find a pad of paper and a pencil. I began designing a new name for the company. I felt that Shearman was synonymous with man bags and that something ought to change in the name when the women’s line launched.

In a similar style to the Shearman logo I scrawled an ampersand beside the company name. Shearman and what? I asked myself. I wrote Shearman again but without adding an ampersand. Beside it I wrote Bright. Our two names together made perfect sense. A marriage of two brands just as one day Anthony and I might be married.

I giggled at the thought. In the same way we’d never spoken about children, neither had we discussed marriage. Maybe it was time.

By the evening I’d given in to my tired and soggy brain. I’d been in planning mode all day and before I knew it, it was dark outside and Anthony was back from Slater’s. He’d brought wine and a takeaway and I was happy to veg out on the sofa and tell him all about my plans. I showed him how I’d married our names together and he thought it was great.

That night I dreamt that he’d proposed to me. I would have said yes, easily if he’d proposed right after we’d taken the pregnancy test. He had been engaged once before so I knew he wasn’t averse to the idea of marriage. At least I hoped his ex hadn’t put him off.

Of course the city of love had been tainted in my book and I no longer wanted to return to Paris for a romantic getaway with Anthony in the spring. But had Anthony proposed to me straight after we’d seen the results of the test, Paris wouldn’t have seemed so bad.

Chapter 10

The Rebrand

Come Monday morning I was feeling ready for battle after the Paris fiasco. As Father had said when we parted at the airport, that kind of experience could either make you or break you.

Riley was standing in the hallway as I entered the Mayfair office. She was holding a cup of caffè macchiato.

‘I asked Jimmy about a delivery service,’ she said. ‘I said we could do with a constant supply throughout the day and that the station was a bit too far for us to go for the second fix of the day.’

‘Or we could just buy a Nespresso machine.’

Riley’s face dropped.

‘And what did he say about deliveries?’ I said smiling to myself.

Riley helped me off with my coat, fussing over me as if it were a state visit.

‘He said he would deliver them personally.’ Riley beamed.

‘I bet he did,’ I said heading for the stairs. Riley followed close behind carrying not only my coat but the leather handbag samples that Clara had given to me as well. I needed to get in touch with Clara to get the ball rolling. I had Shearman Bright – “The ReBrand” – on my mind and I was raring to go.

Along with everything she was carrying Riley was still able to push past me and open my office door.

Since becoming the owner of Shearman I had taken over the larger office that once belonged to my former boss, Anthony. He’d started out as a rather hopeless CEO. I never understood why his father had retired and left the running of his business to a son who was far more suited to painting Italian sunsets than he was to running a boardroom meeting.

It made me smile to think back to those days, glad that Anthony’s father did trust him with the business, otherwise we would never have met and I wouldn’t be walking around with the amazing secret that only Anthony and I knew about.

My new, improved office had undergone a complete makeover. The office was huge and only ever consisted of a large desk, a couple of office chairs, and a cabinet. Within a month of taking over Shearman I’d filled one corner with a two-seater sofa and matching armchair in a sexy shade of red. There was a low, mahogany coffee table between them with a vase on top. Riley replenished it with fresh flowers each week.

I’d replaced the old desk with a mahogany one from the same trendy furniture designer shop the coffee table came from. It was wide and deep and, as I mentioned before, covered with every project I was working on. Behind it was my big purple chair, so comfortable I could tuck my feet up and fall asleep in it.

One look at the desk and I knew I had to completely clear it and make space for my newest projects: wedding dress designing, handbag designing, planning the rebranding of the company, and my parents’ wedding. I had this; I knew it.

‘I need to sort this mess out, Riley. I need space for all these ideas I’ve been having.’

I filled Riley in on my plans and she helped me go through the piles on my desk and completely return it to the time I first redecorated. It looked like it belonged to the CEO of a thriving company.

When we’d finished I stood back and inspected the office.

‘If you’re going to be drawing and designing now I should order you a proper table,’ said Riley. ‘The office you used when you were the PA is just sitting there doing nothing.’

‘So I should use it as my design room,’ I enthused. ‘Riley, that’s perfect. Come on, let’s go and look at it.’

In just two weeks my former PA office had become an amazing design studio. My old desk and chair had been pushed aside to accommodate my drawing desk and chair. A new standing lamp and shade looked down over me as I drew into the night.

The weeks went by, the chilly autumn became an even chillier winter, and I had dedicated more hours than there were in each day to consulting on materials for bags, looking into fabric for Mother’s dress, and filling every sketch pad I had with drawings.

Of course, I felt very rusty and lacked confidence as a designer, binning lots and lots of my ideas and only showing them to Riley when I thought I had something decent. I’d spoken to Clara via Skype and she’d kindly agreed to walk me through some aspects of working with different grades of leather. I had never gone to ground level with my bag designs before.

My current designers, along with Clara in Paris, helped me to start from the very basics until I was gradually up to speed on what it took to produce a bag design that was ready to go to production. I knew I wasn’t perfect; I knew the professionals were making exceptions but I was learning all the time.

I was on a roll, excited about the company and excited about the secret piece of joy growing inside me. At home, I had started to accumulate a pile of pregnancy books. They sat beside my bedside table when they were piled too high to sit on the table itself. I read them as the weeks counted down to my first hospital appointment. I was exhausted a lot of the time and often fell asleep before I could finish a chapter. According to one of the many books I’d bought, the baby was approximately the size of a walnut.

So many times I wanted to break the news to everyone but I had my first antenatal appointment scheduled and I was saving the announcement for a better time. A time when my news wasn’t going to fade into the background for one thing. A lot was going on with everyone around me.

For example, my best friend, Anya, was out of the country again. She was in the middle of shooting another film. She had more lines compared to the role she’d had in last year’s shoot and although not the leading lady, her reputation alone was causing a storm of attention in the media and totally putting the movie’s female lead in the shadows.

From what I could tell, the trained actors resented singers or models who landed roles in films based on the popularity of a song or an appearance in a perfume commercial. I could imagine the resentment they felt but I saw Anya in the last film and she was talented as an actress.

Anya had a way of putting all the women she stood next to in the shade. Her tall, slender, and intimidatingly icy presence saw to that. If you didn’t know Anya you’d suspect she was made of ice. She rarely smiled (she feared the Botox needle), she never frowned (same reason as before), and I’d only ever known her to cry full-on tears once in the ten years we’d been friends. I loved Anya.

‘I can’t believe my best friend is a Hollywood star,’ I said to her on FaceTime one evening. I had been working late in my studio. Anya and I had spent the last two weeks just missing the other by nanoseconds.

‘It’s not so much of a big deal, Madge. You meet von film star, you’ve met them all. All self-absorbed and self-important. Not like models.’

I stifled a laugh because I was pretty sure Anya was being serious.

‘So when will you be back in London?’ I asked.

‘Vell, ve have finished rehearsal and filming for my scenes should be over in a month. Then I plan an extended holiday vith Henry. I feel as if I haven’t seen him in a long time.’

‘Maybe because you haven’t.’

Anya’s boyfriend was a lot older than she was, an ex-politician who left the government under a cloud of gossip and accusations, he had since returned to his original profession in law. He’d been busy setting up his own practice. I knew Anya was looking forward to moving into the new house they’d bought together.

‘Vell, I don’t feel as if I’ve seen you either,’ said Anya. ‘Not in the flesh anyvay and not since you led that ring of pushers into France vith their handbags.’

‘Don’t joke about. I still have nightmares.’

‘I’m not surprised, darling. I saw an episode of Orange is the New Black and I know I could never do prison.’

‘I know, right? You know they wear jumpsuits in prison? Those things never suited me. The cut isn’t right for my shape.’

Anya laughed and asked me what else was new in my life.

My hospital appointment was two days away, just forty-eight hours to the announcement of the century. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her the news but I had this overwhelming feeling that I wanted to give my friend the news in the flesh to properly see her reaction. Who knows, I might have been treated to a very rare – and therefore very valued – Anya hug.

So I told Anya all about the designs for my Every Woman handbag, as I was calling it, and that the designs were very close to going to the manufacturing team.

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