Читать книгу Her Moment in the Spotlight - Нина Харрингтон - Страница 8

MIMI reached across and tugged at the pristine linen tablecloth so that the edge was perfectly aligned along the length of her old family breakfast table.

As her fingers ran along the fine fabric, she was taken back to a warm summer evening when both of her parents had been alive. They had decided over a stunning Italian al fresco dinner on the patio to embroider a full set of table linen with bright flowers and yellow swallowtail butterflies so that they could enjoy a taste of summer over a cold, grey London winter.

Mimi had offered to help with the tablecloth as a diversion from her university design-work. In the end her mother had given in because they were so busy in the shop that the napkins would be easier for them to work in the few spare minutes between customers.

Four napkins—four. That was all her mother had managed to complete before the telephone call that had summoned her back to Milan and the Fiorini family. And after that? Somehow there had seemed little point. The joy had left their lives.

Yet it seemed so right to bring out this tablecloth to help celebrate her mother’s birthday. Celebrating her birthday every year was just one of the many promises by Mimi that her mother had insisted on in her lucid moments, such as making sure that she kept the knitting shop solvent—and taking every chance she could to prove that she was a professional fashion designer who could stand on her own two feet and make her designs a success without using the Fiorini name to do it.

Small promises Mimi had made with every intention of keeping them.

At the time.

But it was so hard now that she was alone.

Her eyes closed and just for a second she gave into her desperate need to sit back in her chair and steal an hour or two of wonderful, refreshing sleep in the early-morning calm before the storm of the day ahead of her.

Working late was nothing new, but she had become so desperate to make sure that her work was the very best it could be for this showcase that working until two or three in the morning had started to become the norm over the past few weeks since Poppy had agreed to stage the show.

Her designs were good—she knew that—but even in these last few days she was still looking for ways to improve. She could feel the strain of the pressure of continually altering and reshaping the garments, pushing herself harder than she had ever pushed herself before. There was so much work she could still do. It was not surprising that she felt so stretched out, beyond tired and pushed to the limit.

And so very much alone.

She envied Poppy so much; at least she had a brother who was willing to drop everything to come and help when she needed him.

Sniffing away the wave of sleep-deprived grief that threatened to overwhelm her, Mimi forced herself onto her feet with a sigh and drew open the full-length glazed patio doors which led to the flight of stairs linking her flat to the shop below, and the paved area which was both her delivery bay and what served as her small private garden.

Through this open door she looked out onto the gardens of the family homes on the other side of the small lane that separated the shops from the residential area around them.

She had been looking at the same view every morning for as long as she could remember.

Seasons were measured through the changes in the tall mature trees which towered over the lane from her neighbours’ gardens: the fresh green leaves of beech and lime blossom in the spring; lilacs and apple blossom; a silver birch with its silvery leaves and shiny bark.

And her favourite: a mature cherry tree which had to be at least forty feet tall. Soft pink-and-white blossom had been replaced now with young cherries, much to the delight of the wild birds that spent much of their day in the tall branches.

These trees and gardens were such a part of her life now that she could not imagine eating breakfast without that view to enjoy. But the risk was very real. Without extra income she was in serious danger of losing the shop she had inherited from her parents, her chance of making a living and her home. The only home she had ever known—or ever wanted.

She had often wondered what it would be like to be a traveler, rootless and wandering, without a fixed place to call home.

Someone like Hal Langdon, for example.

Perhaps that was the reason he was so very, very fascinating. As a person, as a professional and very much as a man.

He was a mystery, a muscular, handsome, unshaven and challenging enigma. He was a man used to being completely spontaneous in his life and his work. Used to making decisions on the run.

But if anything that made her worry all the more.

Poppy knew her brother, and clearly must trust him well enough to leave him in charge of the charity project, but what if Hal had his own ideas for the show? Poppy Langdon had spent most of her working life either as a professional fashion model or in the trade. But what about her brother? All Mimi knew was that he was an adventurer, photographer and had once worked with Poppy when they were getting the events company off the ground—but that had been years ago.

Well, she would find out soon enough.

He had called late the previous evening to tell her that Poppy had arrived safely in Florence and to arrange to meet at the studio the next morning to talk through the plans. She had explained that she would be at a student exhibition most of the day but that had not seemed to deter him in the least.

Mimi suddenly felt the need to sit down as the enormity of what she had taken on threatened to overwhelm her.

The last time she had trusted a photographer with her work had been at her first-ever photo shoot. He had been a well-known fashion photographer who had agreed to work with some of the top fashion-school graduates as part of a newspaper feature on new British talent. Her tutors adored him, the other students had sung his praises and she had been green enough to trust him with the theme for her graduation show. He’d even brought his own stylists.

It had been a complete and utter disaster, beginning to end. She had never been so humiliated in her life. Being laughed at and mocked was not fun. How did she know that Hal was not going to be the same? And now he had taken over from Poppy at Langdon Events, which effectively meant that he was the boss—whether she liked it or not.

Yet she knew that she had no choice. She had committed to supplying the clothing; she had to go through with this.

It would be so wonderful to spend the whole weekend working on the show, but her normal salary paying life had to come first.

Saturday was the busiest day in the shop for the knitting classes she had started, so she had asked her friend Helena to help out in the shop and run the classes. Helena was one of her best customers and a natural saleswoman.

Apart from the shop, there were going to be six of her fashion-design students crammed into her studio for most of the morning—the ones who had left their hand-knitting course work to the very last minute—and they would all need help to complete their projects and get them to the gallery for their end-of-year exhibition before noon.

She exhaled loudly. The students needed to make the grades for their course work and it gave them a showcase for their work. She could not let them down now, especially when some of them had helped make the clothes for her collection.

And now Hal Langdon was going to turn up in person and add even more stress!

No pressure, then. None at all. Whimper.

She was exhilarated, exhausted and more excited than she had been for months.

Her mind kept wandering all by itself to

Hal Langdon. The sexy way his amazing eyes creased around the edges as he smiled. That sensuous mouth.

It totally infuriated her that he had wormed his way into her brain like that.

It all went to prove one thing: she really should get out more!

But not now. Not when she was so close to achieving her dream.

Birdsong from the cherry trees rang out clear, sweet and invigorating through the open window and Mimi looked out into the faint sunshine and smiled.

In the same way that the trees broke out from their winter hibernation into fresh green buds of new growth, she needed to move forward to a new season in her life.

Poppy Landon might have given her a chance, but now it was her turn to prove that she knew what she was doing.

She was going to show Hal Langdon that she was capable of handling any challenge that he could throw at her. They both wanted a great show and that was what they were going to create. She would listen; she would give her suggestions, help him understand how important elegance and sophistication were to her designs, and everything was going to be fine.

She was going to have to trust him. Because one thing was becoming so very clear: whether she was prepared to say it out loud or not, there were simply not enough hours in the day to do everything she needed to make this show a success. She needed Hal and Poppy even more than ever.

She had promised her mother that she would prove to the world that Mimi Ryan was as fine a designer as any other member of the Fiorini family.

But she was not just doing this for her mother. No. This was for her. She needed this boost to break her out of the past six months of painful grief and save her business.

Mimi turned to face a silver-framed photograph of a stunningly pretty dark-haired woman which was propped up by a cushion on the table, and raised her glass of orange juice in a toast.

‘Happy birthday, Mum,’ Mimi said. ‘What do you think I should wear today? Any ideas?’

Hal Langdon steadied himself on his left crutch and raked the fingers of his right hand back over his scalp, pushing his hair away from his forehead. Maybe one of Poppy’s stylist pals could give him a haircut after the show.

If they were not too exhausted by then.

He chuckled to himself at the thought of what he had just left behind in Poppy’s apartment. His little sister had assembled a top team to make sure there would be enough models available for all of the clothing in Mimi’s collection—namely her flatmates Lola and Fifi and their many friends who had agreed to give up a precious Saturday for a good cause.

This meant that his breakfast had been disturbed by an assortment of leggy fashion models bickering over yoghurt and cranberry juice while they planned their assault on the London shops in search of shoes, bags and luxury spa products—apparently all necessary preparation for a weekend of full-on pampering in advance of the big day.

Some men would have found being surrounded by gorgeous, leggy girls a sweet start to the day, but he had been through this process way too many times and the attraction had definitely worn off. There were only so many times you could tell a girl that her knees did not look fat in micro shorts—and the sound of excited females competing for attention while he was still in his boxers under a duvet on Poppy’s sofa had been exhausting. Especially when they had decided to tease him about the new grey hairs on his chest, forcing him to decline the offer of both eyebrow tweezers and a free waxing-session.

They would enjoy seeing him suffer far too much.

Back in France, he had forgotten a few essential details about his sister’s apartment—such as the fact that it was on the second floor and there was no lift. Oh, and that it only had two spare bedrooms and that both of them were fully occupied by girls who managed to make the rooms feel even smaller. Hence his very uncomfortable night on the sofa with his leg propped up on the scatter cushions while he’d fought the urge to be outside under wide skies, all the while knowing that was not an option.

Cramped living space and several flights of stairs he could just about cope with. But he had not been prepared for the constant reminders of his life working with Tom Harris which had assailed his senses throughout the flat.

Tom Harris and Hal Langdon had made a name for themselves filming in the most dangerous and adrenaline-inducing locations on earth. Their photographs of the high mountains and the people who lived to climb them had been published in magazines and newspapers all over the world, vivid, sometime stark but always exciting and dramatic. They had won awards and prizes on every continent. And they had loved every second of it.

They had been champions of the universe, indestructible and fearless, destined to succeed at everything they set their mind to do. And they had succeeded time and time again.

The evidence of that success was captured in those photographs, which were everywhere he looked in Poppy’s apartment.

She was so proud of her big brother and what he had achieved.

How could she know that now they only served as constant reminders that he had lost his best friend and probably his career at the same time? The doctors and specialists had made their prognosis quite clear—he had destroyed his ankle and broken his leg very badly. Even with ten surgical pins and two metal plates, the bones and supporting tendons and ligaments would never be the same again. His mountaineering days were over.

Every photograph and every image screamed out one message: failure. He had failed. Failed Tom, failed himself.

He had tossed and turned most of the night, and every time he had opened his eyes there was his best friend Tom grinning back at him from every wall, slim, rugged, happy and clever. A natural sportsman whose love of the high places and sense of humour had carried them through every hardship in supposedly inaccessible places photographers could not get to.

Their life had been a constant buzz of travel from one remote location to the next, until Tom had fallen in love with a supermodel who had brought him to his knees when she had returned his love. She’d even given up her career to show Tom what true happiness was like.

And then he had watched Tom die.

He was so angry with Tom. With himself. With the absurdity of life.

Lying on Poppy’s sofa in the cool light of a London dawn, the constant reminders of his failure and his guilt threatened to overwhelm his determination to see his friend’s legacy through to the end.

He had promised Poppy he would take care of the event and that was what he was going to do. Because if he didn’t …? There was a limit to the number of failures a man could take in his life.

His little sister had been devious enough to call him back to work on a project she knew full well he would not be able to refuse. It had occurred to him several times as he’d tossed and turned that perhaps this emergency trip to Florence was just a little too convenient. Poppy had always adored working in Italy when she’d been a model. He suspected she had always planned to spend a few fun days with her friend in total indulgent luxury, finalising the no-doubt amazing wedding they had planned together. Leaving him to hold the fort.

Clever; very clever. She had lured him back to work in the full knowledge that once he had committed to the project he would not allow it to fail.

It dared not fail.

A shiver ran down his neck and across his shoulders. Hal shuffled inside his leather jacket and shifted his crutch to a new position so that he could massage his right thigh muscle which had started to cramp.

He swallowed down the rush of intense resentment, pain and regret that had overwhelmed him so many times these last few months that they were starting to feel like familiar friends. The kind of friends it would be too easy to welcome inside so that they could all wallow and feel sorry for each other and drown in the anguish of painful memories.

Pain kept him alert, alive. Even if it had robbed him of his sleep.

He had spent most of the night putting together an action plan based on the notes Poppy had left him. By the time the girls had taken control of the bathroom that morning, he had made deals for equipment and props which would make this a show to remember.

Providing, of course, that the clothing was as stylish as Poppy had suggested. She did have excellent taste, but all he had seen so far were sketches and a few photographs. Could Mimi Ryan deliver on time? He had been impressed with her energy yesterday. Time to find out more about Studio Designs and exactly how much of a challenge he had just taken on.

If he could find the place!

He stared across at a small row of shops then double-checked the address Poppy had given him. This was the right street, only there was no sign of a warehouse or stylish boutique of any type.

Hobbling across the quiet London road, Hal quickly scanned the numbers above each of the shops. There had to be a mistake because Studio Designs should be at this address instead of a knitting shop called Etalia Yarns.

Well, that couldn’t be right.

Perhaps there was another street with the same name in another part of this area. London was a huge city; there was bound to be some duplication.

Or was it possible that Studio Designs was hidden away at the back of these shops?

It would make sense for him to enquire inside.

Hal sniffed, pulled his camera bag over his right shoulder and grasped his crutch more tightly as he stared at the front entrance of Etalia Yarns.

A knitting shop; this was going to be a new experience. Tom Harris had taught him to be an explorer and an observer in any new location, no matter where, and those skills still served him well. He liked the small things that told him a story about the people and the place.

It was the details he looked for as a photographer—the tiny body movement and individual characteristics that made one sportsman unique and could make or break an action photograph. It had become second nature for him to look for exactly those details in every shot.

Now he took the time to take a closer look at the shop itself—or rather what looked like a small house in a normal-looking street of family homes mixed with small shops: a dry cleaner, a hairdresser and Etalia Yarns.

The name had been etched out in a large cursive font along the top half of a large picture-window which would have been the bow window of the living room when this house had been a home. The bottom half was etched glass with a scrolling curling pattern.

The green-and-white paintwork was fresh and attractive. A large, circular brass doorknocker completed the look.

The only vaguely kitsch thing about the shop window was the tiny long-haired toy sheep which had been placed on the inside window-ledge so that it seemed to be looking out to face the street. A broad black smile in the shape of a half circle shone out in welcome.

So this was what an upmarket knitting-yarn shop looked like? He was clearly way out of date!

But where was Studio Designs?

The same minute that thought came into his head he spotted a small metal plaque which had been screwed into the door frame above his head: Studio Designs. At last!

Well, well. Mimi Ryan worked above, beyond or inside a knitting shop.

Who knew what strange new customs and traditions the inhabitants followed? He certainly had no clue what to expect.

Which was far more interesting and exciting—not that he would ever admit it—than he had expected.

Into the unknown.

Just as Hal shuffled forward towards the entrance, two teenage girls in denim trousers and bright T-shirts giggled their way past him and through the shop door, giving him sly glances as they did so. Each of them was carrying a bulging, oversized plastic bag and it made perfect sense for Hal to hold open the door and slip after them into the shop.

Or, rather, a gallery of rainbows.

Pale wooden storage-cubes were aligned along every available piece of wall space, and each cube was stuffed with yarn in a complete spectrum of rainbow colours from deepest purple through blues, greens and yellows, to reds and pinks and white and cream. It was as familiar to a photographer as his favourite camera. And it was twice as pleasurable to see the raw energy of colour softened by textures, shapes and sizes.

Natural light from two long windows filled the narrow space, helped by down-lighters of just the perfect intensity and spectrum to make the colours of the yarn pop in their display cubes.

Very clever.

Instead of stacks of yarn, the long narrow room had been split into two halves by a long antique pine dining-table with comfy chairs on each side. Two older women were selecting soft balls of tweedy stuff from wooden baskets piled high with yarn, while the teenagers laughed and giggled their way to the back of the room.

Their girlish laughter was shared with a tall woman with an amazing figure who was facing away from him, one arm around the shoulders of the youngest girl as they pulled out their creations from the plastic bags. He caught a glimpse of strands of yarn, what looked like string and a pair of enormous wooden knitting-needles that made his eyebrows lift.

Intrigued by the exhibits, and still in awe of the rainbow effect of the yarns around him, Hal slowly strolled down the room and smiled at the other customers, who seemed to be far too focused on the goods to pay him any attention. He was almost in the middle of the room when one of the teenagers spotted him and nudged the other, and the woman turned around to face him.

And every thought in his brain was frozen, mesmerised by the stunning woman he was looking at.

It was Mimi Ryan.

He should have recognised the hair, the creamy skin, the voluptuous figure which had only been hinted at in the street and later in Poppy’s office.

Forget hinting; this version of Mimi was full-on gorgeous.

The black trousers fitted her so perfectly that they must have been made to measure, but it was her coral-coloured knitted top that burnt a pattern in his retinas.

The soft, flowing fabric looked to have faint, pink, fine stripes with a cleverly constructed narrow lapel, fitted in at the waist so that there was no mistake that this lady was curvy—and meant business.

Light from a stained-glass panel in a side window fell onto one side of Mimi’s face highlighting her high cheekbones and delicate chin and features. The bow lips and warm smile seemed to illuminate her face as she turned around to face him and grinned.

With the coral top bringing a natural glow to her skin, Mimi Ryan was stunning.

If he was a receiver then Mimi Ryan was sending out just the right messages to flick on all of his switches. And it sent his brain into a spin.

Red warning-lights started flashing. This was the last thing he had been expecting and it shocked him to the core.

He could not allow himself to be attracted to a city girl like Mimi. Not now, not ever. He was not going down the same route that Tom had taken. He had to bury that telltale prickle of attraction as fast as possible.

This was probably why he found himself incapable of doing anything more than nodding when Mimi finished chatting to the girls and strolled over to him so that they were only inches apart.

Luckily for him, Mimi took the initiative and broke the tension he had not fully realised existed by speaking first. Her voice was light, warm and as welcoming as a faint breeze on a hot day. He revelled in the very sound of her voice.

She was captivating and he swallowed down a tinge of regret and resignation that he would never see her as anything more than a girl he had to work with over the next week to get the job done.

It was a pity his body had not received that message yet.

‘Good morning, Mr Langdon. I hope you slept well.’ Mimi smiled. ‘I wouldn’t want to wear you out on your first day back.’ Her mouth creased into a cheeky grin which was impossible to ignore.

Since speech was barely possible, he stretched out his right hand and wrapped his long fingers around hers. Her hand was soft, warm and surprisingly delicate, with fine bones, but she pulled away before he had a chance to decadently slide his fingers down the back of her hand.

‘Oh, I think I can manage,’ he stammered out and stood back to pretend to admire the room. ‘And please call me Hal. Are you ready to go? I thought we might make an early start. Is Studio Designs upstairs?’

Mimi looked at him with raised eyebrows for a second before biting her lower lip.

‘This is Studio Designs, Mr Langdon,’ she replied. ‘This is my knitting shop and my studio.’ Lifting both arms in the air, Mimi gestured gracefully around the room. ‘Welcome to my world.’