Читать книгу: «Meet Me at Pebble Beach»

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Bella Osborne

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Regan knew it was going to be a bad day when she awoke to find she was using a half-eaten kebab as a pillow.

‘You’re going to be late again,’ said Jarvis, giving her shoulder a poke.

Regan opened a bleary eye and tried to focus it on the alarm clock. ‘I’ve got loads of time.’ She harrumphed and pulled the duvet over her head. The work do the previous night had been dull so she’d drunk more than she intended to.

‘But I thought you were taking Cleo to the airport?’

‘Shiiiiiiit!’ Regan got out of bed so fast she forgot to put her feet down, and instead tumbled to the floor face first. Jarvis guffawed. ‘Ow! That bloody hurt.’ She jumped up and thrust her face up to the mirror. ‘Shit. I’ve got a carpet burn on my nose.’ She gave it a rub and removed a piece of lettuce from her cheek.

‘Remember you’re picking Cleo up from her studio and not the apartment.’

‘I know.’ Regan hadn’t remembered this, but being reminded by Jarvis was a daily irritant. She began picking things up and flinging them in all directions. ‘Shittity shittington …’

‘Regan, please don’t leave the apartment in a state,’ said Jarvis, adjusting his tie. She was doing a passable impression of the Tasmanian Devil as she tried to decide what she needed to do first. ‘I hate coming home to a mess.’ He sighed deeply. ‘Perhaps we need to have another discussion about this later. Hmm?’ A bra sailed past his ear.

‘Pants,’ said Regan, decisively. Pants were always a good starting point. She began pulling underwear from her top drawer. ‘No, actually I need a wee first.’ And she dashed off to the bathroom, taking a clean pair of pants and yesterday’s clothes with her in the hope she could get dressed whilst sitting on the loo to save some time.

‘You really should allow more time,’ said Jarvis, with a tut. Regan gave him a sarcastic smile and shut the bathroom door. Jarvis was lovely, but he could be a pompous arse sometimes. It didn’t help that he was frequently correct.

Right now she needed to accomplish as many things simultaneously as possible. She could brush her teeth sitting down too. The Lean Methodology expert at work would be proud, she thought, as she snatched up her toothbrush.

‘Bye then. We’ll talk later, all right?’ Jarvis called through the bathroom door, his voice overflowing with exasperation.

‘Oh kweee,’ mumbled Regan. It was the best she could do with a mouthful of toothbrush and one leg in her pants.

She heard the front door bang shut and relaxed a little. It was like living with her dad rather than her boyfriend. She surveyed the bathroom floor, strewn with an assortment of her clothes, a couple of towels and the oozing toothpaste tube. She’d just have to make sure she was home before Jarvis. She couldn’t stand another lecture on her slovenly ways, but she didn’t have time to sort it out now.

A few minutes later she was hurtling across Brighton in her battered Fiesta shouting obscenities at anyone in her way, which was essentially everyone. A quick check in the rear-view mirror reminded her that she hadn’t brushed her hair – she resembled a one-colour version of Cruella De Vil.

There was nowhere to park at Cleo’s studio, as usual, so she abandoned the car in the middle of the road and sprinted up to the door. She banged hard until Cleo appeared. ‘Come in. I’ve been calling you,’ said Cleo, kissing her lightly on the cheek.

Regan frisked herself as she stepped inside. ‘Shit. I forgot my mobile. Sorry, Cleo.’

Cleo gave her a forgiving look. ‘It’s fine. I told you an hour earlier than I needed anyway because I knew you’d be late.’

Regan was going to protest, but a quick glance at where her watch should be, followed by a squint at the clock on the studio wall, told her Cleo was absolutely right to have done this. ‘Sneaky – but good call.’

Regan was notorious for being late. She tried not to be, but she had long ago resigned herself to the fact that timekeeping simply wasn’t one of her talents.

‘What have you done to your nose?’ asked Cleo, peering at Regan.

Regan’s hand automatically shot to her face. ‘Carpet burn. Still need to hurry you up because the car is blocking the road.’

Cleo raised an eyebrow. ‘Interesting. Let me just do one last check and we can go.’ Cleo swept away. She was dressed elegantly in clothes that adored being shown off on her willowy frame. Even the way she walked was sophisticated. She was the fashion opposite to Regan, who often looked like her wardrobe had vomited on her.

Regan stopped slouching. ‘Why did you want picking up from here and not your place?’ Cleo was an artist with a swish flat in Hove but this was her studio in Brighton, where she worked.

‘I stayed at The Downs Hotel last night. There was an exhibition at the racecourse, but I didn’t expect you to remember all that so the studio seemed easiest.’ Regan pursed her lips, but she wasn’t offended. Cleo was right; she wouldn’t even have remembered to come to the studio if Jarvis hadn’t said. ‘And anyway I’ve let out my flat. Daddy suggested it as I’m away for two months. It made financial sense.’

‘Of course,’ said Regan. Nothing made financial sense to her. Finance meant numbers, and she wasn’t good with numbers. Which explained the credit card juggling act she had to do at the end of each month. Although, thanks to Jarvis and his austerity measures, this was now more under control.

Regan scanned the small studio. It was filled with canvases: some blank, some finished and a couple somewhere in between. There was a high-arched window, which filled the space with light. It seemed to fall like a spotlight on Cleo’s latest work. Regan peered at the large brown mass in the picture, tilting her head at an uncomfortable angle. ‘I don’t know what you find so fascinating about—’

‘We’ve no time for any of that,’ said Cleo, pulling her Louis Vuitton case as if she too were on wheels and she shooed Regan backwards out of the studio. Cleo’s art baffled Regan; she wasn’t an arty sort. The two of them had met when Cleo had taken a part-time job as a waitress to impress her rich father with her work ethic. Regan had been working there with no other ambition than not to get fired before payday. They were an unlikely pairing, but curiosity on both sides had brought them together – that and a mutual love of coffee and tequila shots.

After she’d set an alarm and checked the door, Cleo poured herself gracefully into Regan’s car. ‘Got everything?’ asked Regan.

‘Because I’m the one who forgets things,’ said Cleo, playfully arching a perfect eyebrow. ‘Here,’ she said, handing Regan her keys. ‘Alarm code fourteen fifty-two. The year Leonardo da Vinci was born.’

‘Why do I need to know that?’ Regan was instantly uncomfortable with the responsibility.

‘Because there’s an issue with the boiler and the landlord is sending a workman over …’ Cleo was speaking slowly as if Regan was remedial.

‘And you need me to be here tomorrow to let him in. I hadn’t forgotten,’ she lied. She tried to repeat the number silently in her head so she’d remember it. She wished she hadn’t forgotten her phone – putting a reminder on there would have been useful.

‘I’ll send you a text,’ said Cleo, pulling out her mobile. She gave her friend an indulgent smile.

Regan noticed Cleo twang the hair bobble on her wrist. She kept it there to help with stressful situations. ‘You okay?’

‘Not looking forward to the flight … or being away for so long.’

Regan set off; she was now far more relaxed knowing she had a little time to spare and she also stood half a chance of not being late into work. ‘Remind me again where you’re off to this time?’

‘Dubai, Hong Kong, Japan and Taiwan,’ said Cleo, without a hint of any enthusiasm.

‘Wowsers.’ Regan had always wanted to travel. The furthest she’d strayed in recent years was the Isle of Wight – Jarvis’s favourite holiday destination. She couldn’t complain, because he usually paid the lion’s share due to her cash flow issues. ‘You’ll have the best time. Post loads on social media so I can live vicariously.’ She didn’t really need to ask because Cleo lived her life on whatever social media platforms were the hottest. Her timeline was filled with photographs of beautiful people in amazing places, and she had a gazillion followers on Instagram. Whereas, Regan had eighty-four, and an alarming number of those claimed to be single males very high up in the American armed services, which everyone knew was code for fraudster.

Cleo raised a perfect eyebrow. ‘It is work. It’s not a holiday.’

‘Still,’ said Regan, braking hard for a bus that pulled out at the same time as it indicated. ‘It’ll be five-star hotels, cocktails, à la carte dining and comfy beds all the way.’ She gave a small sigh. She wouldn’t have to think very hard before trading places with Cleo.

‘How’s your job?’

‘Still duller than a black-and-white party political broadcast. But like Jarvis says, it’s secure and it pays the bills.’ There must be more to life than that, thought Regan.

‘You should try staring at a blank canvas for hours. That’s dull too.’

‘I guess.’ Regan knew Cleo was just trying to make her feel better. As an artist, Cleo’s life was two extremes: she spent a large part of her time alone in the studio painting, but then she also travelled the world to attend exclusive exhibitions of her work, as well as being invited to all the trendy star-studded parties because she was very much part of the art scene glitterati. Regan loved hearing all about Cleo’s glamorous life, even if it made hers look crappier by comparison.

They pulled into the airport shuttle drop off zone and Regan hopped out to get Cleo’s case from the boot. ‘Have an amazing time …’ said Regan, and she could see Cleo was about to interrupt her, ‘… at work. But remember to have fun too. Love you.’

‘And you,’ said Cleo, kissing her cheek and giving her a tight hug that went on a fraction longer than usual.

Regan held her at arm’s length. ‘You okay?’ She could sense there was something not quite right.

Cleo’s face was deadpan for a moment and then a smile appeared. ‘Of course. It’s just that two months is quite a long time. I’m really going to miss you.’

‘No, you won’t,’ said Regan, passing her the case handle. ‘You’ll be far too busy with work cocktails and work parties and other wonderful worky type things.’ Cleo looked skywards. ‘FaceTime me tomorrow.’

‘Of course. And please remember the boiler man. Saturday. Ten o’clock,’ called Cleo over her slender shoulder and she sashayed into departures.

Regan watched her go. She wished she were going too. She needed a break, and some sunshine would be lovely. There was nothing she’d miss for two months – with the possible exception of her dad – but he was all loved-up these days, so she rarely saw him anyway.

Beep, beep, BEEP!

The blast of a horn brought her back from her daydream. She gave a sickly-sweet smile to the large shuttle bus trying to get in behind her, whilst in her mind she was sticking her tongue out at him.

She had time to stop for petrol on her way into work, which was unheard of, so she treated herself to a Mars bar. The person in front of her in the queue asked for a lottery ticket. Regan couldn’t remember the last time she’d bought a lottery ticket. Jarvis had decreed that she needed to cut out all extraneous spending in order to repay her credit cards; her lottery and online bingo habits were the first to go. Jarvis called the Lotto a ‘fool’s tax’ because only stupid people played something with odds of forty-five million to one.

‘Which pump?’ asked the man behind the counter.

Regan had to check. ‘Two, please, and this,’ she said, passing him the Mars bar. Jarvis wouldn’t be impressed with her having chocolate for breakfast either. He was cutting down their sugar intake. ‘And a Lotto lucky dip for Saturday night, please,’ she said, feeling a tiny bit rebellious.

‘Good luck, love,’ said the man on the till.

‘Thanks,’ said Regan, putting the ticket in her purse.

It was a short drive into town. Regan waved as she entered her usual coffee shop, the Hug In A Mug, and Penny behind the counter did a double take. Regan braced herself for the sarcastic comments about her being earlier than usual. ‘You been evicted?’ asked Penny, chuckling whilst she made Regan’s usual order. ‘Wet the bed then?’

‘Had to take a friend to the airport,’ Regan said, with a giant yawn. ‘Actually can I have an extra shot in mine today, please?’

‘Sure thing,’ said Penny. She put it through the till and Regan paid with the joint account card. She liked contactless payments on the joint account because it wasn’t like real money. The only price she had to pay was Jarvis tutting over the statements.

There was a bang on the window of the coffee shop, followed by the cringe-making sound of nails on glass moving slowly down the pane. Penny and Regan winced and turned quickly to look. A large dog was standing on its back legs with its giant front paws on the window. It was the height of an average human.

‘Christ, what is that?’ asked Penny. They both watched, mesmerised by its large fangs and open slathering jaw.

‘Ah, that is Kevin’s new friend. I met him yesterday. Some bloke tied him up and left him, according to Kevin.’

‘Poor thing,’ said Penny, and they watched it lick the glass with its huge pink tongue. ‘What sort of dog is it?’

‘I think it’s a werewolf,’ said Regan. It certainly looked the right size. She grabbed some sugar sachets, slung them on the cardboard tray and headed for the door, calling ‘Bye!’ as she left.

Outside, the giant mutt was waiting for Regan, but thankfully, so was Kevin. Kevin was homeless. Regan had walked past him every day since she’d started her job at BHB Healthcare and he always told her carpe diem, which was Latin for ‘seize the day’ – she’d looked it up. He never asked for money, which had been what had triggered her to start getting him a coffee each morning, and the smile she got from Kevin when she handed it over kept her going for hours.

‘Hey Kevin. You might want to keep your dog off the glass. Don’t want him getting into any trouble.’ She gave Kevin his coffee and he beamed at her. The dog sniffed her groin and retreated. She couldn’t blame him – she hoped her lack of a shower didn’t have the same effect on her work colleagues. She made a mental note to spray herself liberally with perfume when she got there.

‘Thank you. Carpe diem,’ said Kevin, cupping his coffee reverently. Regan tried not to stare at the scars lacing their way across Kevin’s hands.

‘I will.’ She turned to walk away and then spun around. ‘Oh, has your dog got a name yet?’

‘I’ve called him Elvis,’ said Kevin proudly.

‘Because he’s in the ghetto?’ asked Regan.

Kevin looked baffled. ‘No,’ he replied, ‘because he’s a hound dog.’

‘Genius!’ said Regan, and it kept her laughing most of the way to work.

Chapter Two

Regan waltzed into the office with a whole twenty minutes to spare. She worked in a small team, which dealt with late invoices. The only break from the unrelenting tedium of doing the same thing every day was her mate Alex. He had a sense of humour, which made him infinitely more likeable than anyone else in the office.

‘Blimey, did they put the clocks back?’ asked Alex, pulling his coffee from the cardboard tray Regan offered him, then picking up the sugar sachets and a stirrer.

‘Your stand-up routine needs work,’ said Regan, taking her seat and switching on her computer. ‘I need to leave early tonight.’

‘What, because of the extra eighteen minutes you’ve put in this morning?’

‘No, because I left in a hurry and basically trashed the place.’ She needed to make it back to the flat, or ‘apartment’, as Jarvis liked to call it, to have a quick tidy-up before Jarvis got in.

‘Jarvis won’t like that.’ Alex tutted in an uncannily Jarvis-like manner.

‘Precisely why I need to get home before him.’

‘Why so early if you were in a rush?’ Alex was screwing up his face.

‘I dropped my friend Cleo at the airport.’

‘Artist. Posh sort?’

‘Yep, that’s the one. She’s jetting off for two months to Dubai, Japan and some other awesome places.’ Regan flopped back in her seat. ‘I wish I was going with her. She has the best life.’ She turned her head towards Alex. ‘Would you like to travel?’

‘I do travel.’ He looked affronted. ‘I go to Skegness every year.’

‘Hmm. Not quite the same.’

Alex gave a twitch. ‘Japan may have the edge on Skeggy.’ They both sighed together.

‘Ooh,’ said Regan, pulling her purse from her bag. ‘Look what I got.’ She held up the lottery ticket and gave it a wave. ‘It’s a rollover on Saturday. Ten million quid. Think what you could do with that.’

They both paused for a moment, lost in thought, until their boss, Nigel, tapped on his glass office door and they both quickly got back to work.

Regan liked Alex. There was no romantic pull on her part, but she knew he was quite fond of her thanks to some slurred words after too much tequila at the Christmas party. In any case, he made the day go quicker: they kept the tedium at bay by winding each other up on a regular basis. Nothing major; just the usual office pranks like hiding each other’s mouse, changing chair adjustments and unplugging equipment. It was quite childish, but it made work marginally more entertaining.

Most of the day was uneventful. In the afternoon, Regan found herself dozing off in a very dull meeting about discounting and promotions. Alex gave her a nudge and she turned what she feared was a snore into a cough. A few heads spun in her direction.

‘Terrible hay fever,’ she muttered, pulling a tissue from her pocket. Alex shook his head at her.

She could see he was furiously scribbling things down on his pad; she eyed him with suspicion. Alex was like her in a lot of ways; neither of them usually put in any particular effort at work, although Alex still fancied himself for a promotion. Regan couldn’t really see the point. She’d get paid very little extra at the end of the month, but have a load more responsibility. No, she was all right just doing what she needed to and no more. She understood why sales people worked harder for a bonus, or people who ran their own company, but it totally foxed her why an ordinary employee would do any more than the minimum required.

She leaned over and tapped a finger on Alex’s pad. He tilted it for her to see. The title at the top jumped out at her: ‘Lottery Rollover – What I’d do if I won’.

‘You don’t even have a ticket,’ she whispered.

He shrugged. ‘I’ve got loads of time to get one.’

She pulled the notepad from his grasp and had a read. It was fairly standard stuff. She handed it back and began jotting down her own. Regan chewed the end of her pen and made some crossings out as her imagination soared.

 Live in a big huge awesome home

  Help Dad out

  Get a pedigree puppy

 Save the tiger whale some important animal

  Run my own successful company

  Bask on a deserted island and drink cocktails served to me by bare-chested waiters

  Go out and enjoy myself

She had another scan of Alex’s list. He’d put down ‘Hook up with celebrity females’. Regan snorted and Alex turned his pad away. She studied her own list. Where did Jarvis feature? After how he’d annoyed her that morning, did he feature in her lottery fantasy life? She added an extra item to the list. It was only a laugh after all.

  Get new hot boyfriend who doesn’t nag or wear button-up pyjamas

‘Regan?’ asked Nigel, their manager, who was standing at the front, his expression one of knotted puzzlement. Alex gave Regan a nudge and knocked her pen from her hand, making her jolt upright.

‘Er, yes. Sorry. I was concentrating on my notes,’ she said, reaching down and scrabbling on the floor for her wayward pen. Alex kicked it and it disappeared. She glared at him.

‘How many queries do we get relating to errors in discounting?’ Nigel repeated.

‘Um,’ she scratched her head, ‘Alex?’ She looked pleadingly at him.

He grinned. ‘Regan is the data guru on this.’

Thanks for nothing, she thought. She’d definitely get him back later. ‘A couple a week. Maybe.’ She didn’t really record them like she was supposed to, so it was a complete guess.

‘When I last checked the figures, they were much higher than that,’ said Nigel.

Regan wondered if that was the column on the end that she added lots of ticks to at the end of the week. ‘It’s quite variable,’ she said. ‘Peaks and troughs.’ Nigel nodded and she relaxed. She needed to pay more attention, but it was hard when meetings were this boring.

Back at their desks, Alex was still tittering about Regan’s questioning in the meeting. Regan started plotting her revenge. It needed to be something hilarious. She zoned out trying to come up with a suitable penance for Alex while she did some data input. When he went off to a meeting she put a sticky note over the sensor of his mouse so it wouldn’t work and flipped his login screen upside down. They were only temporary measures, but they would at least put him off the scent that she was planning something bigger.

Regan paperclipped her lottery ticket to the wish list she’d drawn up.

‘Predictable,’ said Alex, returning to his desk and flipping his screen back. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked, nodding at the lottery ticket.

‘I’m not giving Jarvis any additional excuses to moan about me spending money. And if I win it’s probably safer here.’ She stopped short of adding that replacing Jarvis was an item on her wish list.

Alex made a grab for it. ‘Do the numbers mean something?’

‘Nope. It’s a lucky dip. Statistics show you’re likely to win more money with a lucky dip.’

Alex looked momentarily impressed. He pulled out his phone and took a snap of the ticket. ‘Hey,’ she said snatching it back. ‘What are you doing that for?’

‘So I’ll know if you’re lying when you ring me on Monday and tell me you’re on a beach in Barbados.’

‘As long as you don’t buy a ticket with the same numbers. I don’t want to share with you.’ She put the ticket and wish list safely in her desk drawer and locked it.

Alex stuck his tongue out at her. ‘Remember we’ve got a director’s visit tomorrow. Don’t be late.’

Regan pulled an unimpressed face. She didn’t like anyone telling her what to do and just because Alex was slightly older and squarer than her still did not give him that right.

‘Ah yes, it’s your big opportunity to impress,’ said Regan. Alex had been chosen to meet the visiting director and she hadn’t. Not that she was bothered – she wasn’t. But Alex was clearly making plans to improve his career prospects.

‘He’s meeting everyone,’ said Alex, breaking eye contact and chucking his stuff into his desk drawer.

‘Yeah, but you’re special.’ He glared at her. She did her best solemn Confucius impression. ‘Just remember the higher the monkey goes up the tree, the more it shows its bum.’ He took a swipe at her and she ran for the door.

Regan was still plotting her revenge on Alex as she walked through the market place en route to her car, which she had parked in the cheapest car park possible. The market traders were packing up for the day and she was astonished by the amount of waste she saw as the grocery stallholder piled up the veg he couldn’t sell next to the bins. He caught her staring at the racks of tomatoes a little past their best.

‘Help yourself, love,’ he called to her. She thanked him but declined. Jarvis would not be impressed if she took home a crate of dodgy tomatoes, but it did seem like a terrible waste.

As soon as she opened the front door she could hear Jarvis tutting. He’d beaten her home. She went to check her watch and for the umpteenth time that day cursed that she’d left home without it. She didn’t know exactly what time it was, but she guessed he must have left work earlier than usual, probably just so he could beat her home and have something to moan about. She took a deep breath and prepared herself for some grovelling.

‘Hiya, you’re home early. I need to get straight on with the tidying,’ called Regan, scooting through the flat. She met Jarvis in the kitchen already shaking his head.

‘Regan, you promised you’d not leave my apartment in a state. And what did I come home to?’ It irritated her that he always managed to highlight that it was his place.

‘I was going to tidy up before you got back, but you’re early.’ She was trying to keep her cool, but the condescending look on his face was seriously annoying. ‘I’ll do it now.’

‘But it’s too late. I couldn’t bear it a moment longer, so I’ve tidied up your mess.’

This was the bit where he expected her to thank him. She wasn’t going to. ‘You didn’t have to. You could have come home at your usual time and there wouldn’t have been a mess.’

‘We both know that was never going to happen.’

‘Er, yes it was. Because I’m home now and that would have given me …’ she looked at her bare wrist again, ‘… shitting hell …’ she checked the kitchen clock, ‘… twenty-three minutes. I could easily have tidied up in twenty-three minutes, but as you chose to do it, I don’t need to. So we’re all good.’ She responded to his confused expression with a cheesy grin and went to have a shower. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could stand living with Jarvis and his endless irritating lectures. In the initial flush of a new relationship she’d ignored his quirks, but now they just seemed to grate on her.

Next morning, the sound of a car horn made Regan stir. She opened one eye. Jarvis wasn’t in bed. She stretched out and was dropping off again when a stab of conscience made her turn over and check the time. She blinked at the clock. ‘Shittity shittington!’ That couldn’t be right. She was seriously late for work and shitting Jarvis must have known and left her to her fate. Regan scrambled out of bed, keen not to repeat the carpet burn of yesterday. It would be another day without a morning shower, she thought, grabbing up her clothes from their floordrobe and dashing for the bathroom, tripping over Jarvis’s precious rug in the process. Bloody thing.

Despite her lateness, Regan never missed getting a coffee. It was the only breakfast she had, and she justified her coffee purchase because it was also a commitment she had made to Kevin. And, more importantly, she couldn’t face a day of terminal tedium at work without a decent shot of caffeine. She flew into the little coffee shop and found Penny was already on the case. Within minutes Regan had swiped her card, grabbed her tray of coffees and was heading for the sugar sachets.

‘New process,’ said Penny. ‘No more sugar in little packets because some buggers keep nicking them. There’s a sugar dispenser on the side.’

Regan was thrown by the new process. Trust Alex to have sodding sugar in his. She wrenched off the lid of his cup, tipped some in and quickly replaced the lid.

Kevin was outside, his hair and beard wet as they often were in the morning. She puzzled over why that was; she had no idea where he would go for a shower. The irony that he had had a shower and she hadn’t wasn’t lost on her.

‘Morning, Kevin,’ trilled Regan, her pace virtually a jog. ‘Morning, Elvis.’

Elvis barked his reply. The sound was loud enough to loosen her fillings and she very nearly threw the tray of coffees in the air. Kevin grabbed his quickly. ‘Thank you. Carpe diem.’

‘And you, Kevin,’ she called over her shoulder and she speed-walked in the direction of the office.

When she arrived, Alex was hovering by their desks wearing a smart white shirt, dark tie and khaki chinos. Regan smirked at his outfit. He was definitely trying to impress the management. She could see he was looking flustered as she approached. ‘I’m sorry. Jarvis is playing games. The shit let me sleep in.’

‘You could set an alarm clock,’ said Alex, pulling his coffee from the tray.

‘I don’t like—’ but Regan didn’t get to finish her sentence. Alex pulled the coffee from the tray and it got a few centimetres from the desk before the lid parted company with the cup. The cup bounced on the desk and, in spectacular fashion, doused the front of Alex’s trousers with hot coffee. Alex gulped in air, making a noise like a train braking. Regan tried hard to stifle her laughter, but it was too funny.

Chapter Three

Alex stared at the stain spreading across his trousers.

‘They’re very absorbent,’ said Regan, grabbing a box of tissues from the desk opposite. ‘At least it missed your keyboard.’

‘You utter cow.’ Alex’s voice was a low grumble.

Regan’s grin slid from her face. ‘What did I do?’

He pointed at his coffee-stained groin. ‘You did this on purpose.’

‘No, you did that all by yourself, pal.’ She shook her head. She understood he was cross, but she wasn’t taking the flack for something that wasn’t her fault.

‘You loosened the bloody lid!’

‘No, I di …’ Regan thought back to the new sugar process. ‘Ah, no. You see the sugar isn’t in the little packets any more—’

But Alex wasn’t listening. ‘Just because I kicked your pen in that meeting. You do this?’

She wished he’d stop pointing at his groin. Regan did feel a sense of responsibility, but she didn’t like his assumption that she was this vindictive.

‘It was an accident, Alex. You need to calm down.’

He opened his mouth to speak, but an office door opened at the other side of the room. Managers and the visiting director spilled out. ‘You’ll need to take my place. But then I’m sure that’s exactly what you planned.’

‘Shit. No. I’m not taking your place. Man up and say you spilled your coffee. I don’t want to go to some dull meeting,’ said Regan, throwing the soggy tissues in the bin.

Alex quickly sat down and wheeled himself under the desk to hide the large coffee stain. It was a smart move. He then leaned on his mouse mat and froze. Regan glanced in his direction. ‘What?’

Alex slowly lifted his arm to show that his once-pristine crisp white shirtsleeve now had a soggy brown coffee patch. ‘Whoops,’ said Regan, cringing. ‘Think I missed a bit.’

‘You are unbelievable,’ said Alex.

The herd of management made their way over. Thankfully, someone more ambitious than Regan led the discussion. Alex was quiet; he kept his lower half under his desk and intermittently scowled at Regan. She shrugged. It was unfortunate, but she couldn’t feel too guilty about it. It was only a meeting – it wasn’t like he’d missed the last lifeboat.

‘And Alex will be joining us to give an overview of the challenges he and his colleagues are facing with invoicing,’ said Nigel, with a confident nod in Alex’s direction. He seemed puzzled as to why Alex was facing the wrong way.

Alex twisted in his seat. ‘I, um …’ He frowned hard. ‘I think Regan should attend instead of me. She knows the department and its challenges as well as I do.’

‘Oh, well. Regan. Um. That’s …’ Nigel appeared to have developed a facial tic. Regan’s mouth lifted at the side. He was clearly dreading the thought of her being let loose in a meeting with the grown-ups.

The director tipped his head. ‘Regan is an unusual name. From Shakespeare, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Regan, surprised that he recognised it. Most people assumed it was her surname. ‘It’s from King Lear.’ Her mother had had ideas well above her station so had saddled her with a name she felt was interesting and unusual. For Regan it was pretentious and annoying, but something she was lumbered with because she was too lazy to change it.

‘Excellent,’ he said. Nigel gave an uncertain smile of agreement. ‘We’ll see you later then, Regan.’

‘Can’t wait,’ she said, holding her smile in place as they filtered away. Once they were safely in the lift, she turned to Alex. ‘Ugh, thanks for that. I don’t …’ she began, but Alex got up and stormed off.

She decided she’d buy him a doughnut at lunchtime. That usually cheered him up. She’d get Kevin one too.

Her phone – which she’d remembered today – buzzed into life. It was Cleo on FaceTime. Without thinking, Regan answered it. ‘Hi.’

Despite hours on a flight, Cleo still looked perfectly coiffured. After a few minutes on the Isle of Wight ferry, Regan usually looked like she’d been mauled by hyenas.

‘This is the hotel,’ said Cleo, scanning the phone around a room about the same size as Jarvis’s entire flat.

‘What country?’

‘Dubai.’

‘Is that a bath in the bedroom?’ asked Regan, catching a glimpse as the camera moved past.

‘Jacuzzi bath. So I can lie here and admire the view.’ Cleo turned the camera and Regan took in the vibrant blue sea. ‘I’m on what they call the Palm.’

‘It’s amazing,’ said Regan, trying to stop her mouth from falling open. ‘What was business class like? Did you get—’ But her questioning was interrupted by a cough behind her. Regan turned to see Nigel scowling at her and running his fingers down his tie. It was the same tie he wore every day; that, or he had a whole rack of the same one at home, but Regan doubted from the iffy stains on it that that was the case. Nigel poked a finger at her phone. That was the trouble with FaceTime; it was on loudspeaker, so it had obviously alerted everyone around her and now they all looked like meerkats on parade. If only she’d remembered her ear buds.

‘Sorry, got to go.’ Regan hurriedly ended the call.

‘Regan, we’ve spoken before about personal calls. Haven’t we?’

Regan wondered if Nigel went to the same school of condescending arses that Jarvis had studied at. ‘Sorry. Won’t happen again,’ she said, but they both knew it would.

‘If you’re not busy, perhaps you’d replenish the printer paper stocks and get me a coffee?’ He gave her a reptilian smile and she begrudgingly went to do as he’d asked. He wasn’t the worst manager she’d ever had, but he was quite picky, self-important and always seemed to be on Regan’s case, which – some of the time – wasn’t justified.

The meeting with the great and the terminally dull was a lot less taxing than she’d feared. Alex had handed over his notes and figures, so she simply reeled them off when asked, while everyone nodded and her boss gave a deep sigh of relief. Really, these people had no faith.

She nipped out at lunchtime and bought three exorbitantly priced doughnuts, but it was on the magic contactless joint account card so it was fine. She wanted to drop one off with Kevin, though he was trickier to find at lunchtime because he often got shooed away from the market during the day by the manager. Eventually, she managed to track him and Elvis down to the supermarket car park, where occasionally a benevolent shopper would give him something from their trolley.

There was a fancy concrete bench affair outside and they sat there to eat their doughnuts together. Regan liked Kevin. He was probably a similar age to her dad, but it was hard to tell with the beard. Unlike her dad, he had a calm way about him. Like he’d seen it all and done it all. She never liked to ask him too many questions, although it didn’t stop her being curious about his situation.

‘I haven’t had a doughnut for years. That was tasty, thanks,’ said Kevin, letting Elvis lick the sugar from his fingers. ‘It’s funny the things you miss.’

‘Like what?’ asked Regan, trying hard to avoid jam dripping down her top.

‘Eye contact,’ he said with a wan smile. He and Regan exchanged knowing looks. The homeless were somehow invisible to most people. Kevin tilted his head back. ‘I miss my mates, sofas … and those little chipped potato things …’

‘What, chips?’

‘No,’ said Kevin, with a chuckle. ‘Sort of cube shaped. I used to like those.’

‘What about your family?’

Kevin took a deep breath. ‘Goes without saying that I miss my folks, but …’

Regan felt compelled to fill the silence. ‘Families are complicated, right?’

Kevin turned his gaze towards her. ‘I couldn’t bear to disappoint mine again.’

Regan opened her mouth to speak and was surprised by the loud bark that erupted until she realised it was from Elvis, who had spotted someone with a tray of coffees walking past.

‘I best be off. Thanks again,’ said Kevin. ‘Carpe diem.’ And he made his way across the car park, Elvis lolloping after him.

She felt there was so much more to Kevin than just some homeless guy. Regan sighed to herself then looked at her watch. ‘Shitterama!’ Did someone fast-forward her life when she wasn’t looking?

Back in the office she waved the doughnut bag in front of Alex’s face. ‘By way of apology for the earlier accident.’

Alex’s shoulders slumped. ‘Okay. But that was over the line for a gag, Regan,’ he said, swiping the bag.

‘Not a bloody gag. Why won’t you believe me?’ She was getting irritated now.

Alex looked in the bag. ‘Ooh, chocolate dreamcake. You’re forgiven.’

‘Thanks,’ said Regan, a little reluctantly. She still didn’t like being falsely accused.

The rest of Friday was uneventful, with the exception of another lecture from Jarvis, but it was easier to take because she had a beer in her hand and a plateful of her favourite Chinese takeaway. Jarvis had also apologised for not waking her when he’d left, which had smoothed the waters somewhat. Despite his lectures, he wasn’t a bad person, and she knew he had her best interests at heart. Even with his slightly obsessive need to keep the flat immaculate at all times, she was very fond of him; and nobody was perfect. It was yin and yang – she was spontaneous, he was a planner; she wanted to have fun and be a Bond girl, he wanted quiet nights in and government bonds … whatever the hell they were. She vowed that when she got to work on Monday she’d cross the ‘get a new boyfriend’ task off her list, because that was unfair.

As expected, on her arrival in Dubai, Cleo was liberally splashed across all social media platforms. Various pictures of her looking unspeakably glamorous accompanied by other beautiful people in stunning locations kept popping up on Regan’s phone, all accompanied with masses of hash tags (something Regan didn’t really understand). #LivingMyBestLife was one that kept popping up. Regan had to agree that Cleo really was living her best life. Work, my arse.

Jarvis left early for a golf match on Saturday, but not before he’d woken Regan with a strong coffee, enabling her to be at Cleo’s studio with five minutes to spare before the boiler man was due. Regan had wondered if Cleo had told her the wrong time again, so she’d taken a magazine with her in case she had an hour to kill. She stuck the key in the lock and opened the door. Instantly the alarm sounded; a shrieking noise that made her eardrums rattle. ‘Shi …’ She flipped the cover on the alarm – but what was the code? She’d not written it down. She quickly scrolled to Cleo’s last text message: Boiler man at Studio 10am Saturday – DON’T FORGET

No mention of the alarm code. Regan closed her eyes whilst the alarm echoed through her brain. Why couldn’t Cleo use her birthday like everyone else? Cleo had said something about the code being related to a famous person.

‘Good morning,’ said a cheery man in navy overalls, making Regan flinch – she hadn’t heard him approach thanks to the relentless racket of the alarm. ‘You got a problem?’

‘No, it’s my alarm clock. Of course I’ve got a problem!’ He pulled a face. ‘I’m sorry,’ she shouted over the alarm. ‘I can’t remember the code.’

‘Try 1234. It’s usually 1234.’

‘No, it’s something to do with a famous person. Leonardo …’

‘DiCaprio?’

‘No, the artist bloke.’ Her head was throbbing in time to the incessant alarm. A few people passing by were glaring. ‘Leonardo da Vinci!’ shouted Regan as recollection struck her.

‘Born fourteen fifty something and died fifteen something-or-other.’

Regan was stunned. She eyed the boiler man again – who’d have thought he’d know something like that? It was a reminder that she should never judge people on first impressions; although of course she absolutely did. She began inputting numbers and on the third attempt she struck gold – 1452 worked, and silence reigned. Hallelujah, she thought. And then: Oh poo, now I’m going to have to change the code AND think of a reason to tell Cleo why I’ve had to change it.

Her head continued to buzz, but she went inside and the boiler man followed. After a few minutes hunting for the boiler, she left him to it, while she raided the solitary cupboard for coffee. There was a tiny fridge but, sensibly, there was nothing in it apart from a half-used jar of pesto, so she made two black coffees and settled down in the only chair to read her magazine.

‘Is this what goes for art these days?’ asked the boiler man whilst unscrewing something.

Regan eyed the large canvas nearby. ‘Yep. She makes a mint.’

He paused. ‘Really? What are they?’ He tipped his head at the large pinkish brown circle on the canvas. ‘Abstract, is it?’

‘Nipples,’ said Regan and she disappeared behind her magazine.

The rest of Saturday was quite dull. Jarvis had insisted on having a bit of a spring clean, changing the bed linen and the towels, and it felt like that had taken up most of the day. When she’d finally flopped in a chair, Jarvis had hold of the TV remote and was flicking through the channels. The winning lottery numbers flashed up and she yelped.

‘What?’ he asked.

Regan realised she had no idea what her numbers were, and the ticket was safely locked in her drawer at work. Oh well; she’d have to wait until Monday to check them. ‘I thought the thing before looked interesting.’ She wasn’t going to let on that she’d bought a lottery ticket.

‘Wheeler Dealers? Okay,’ he said, changing the channel back. She sank into the chair in defeat.

Regan spent most of Sunday in the kitchen: half the time cooking, and the rest trying to keep on top of the mess she was creating. It was such a shame that society didn’t see her ability to make a mess as a talent, because she really was very good at it. Jarvis tapped on the door. ‘Dare I come in?’ he asked.

Regan scanned the room. ‘Mmm, okay but don’t freak out.’

‘Now I’m already freaking out,’ he said, pushing the door open a crack and peering cautiously inside. Apart from a few sticky patches on the worktop and some onion skins on the floor the kitchen was tidy.

‘Ta dah!’ she said, flailing out her arms and whacking a spoon resting in a saucepan of toffee, which sent a dramatic splatter up the wall. ‘Shit!’

‘And it was going so well,’ said Jarvis, cracking a smile as he grabbed a cloth from the sink.

‘It really was.’ Regan’s mouth turned downwards. It had taken a lot of effort to keep the mess at bay; she seemed to be able to make it multiply without any particular effort.

‘When’s dinner ready?’

‘Ah,’ said Regan, retrieving the gooey spoon from the floor and trying not to stand in the puddle of toffee it had left. ‘I’m not making dinner.’

‘But you’ve been in here ages.’ Jarvis rinsed the cloth and had another go at the toffee that now appeared to be firmly attached to the paintwork.

‘I’m making “special” toffee apples for Alex at work.’ She indicated a tray of four toffee-coated balls covered in chocolate sprinkles with lolly sticks sticking out of them.

‘Why special?’ he asked, frowning at the toffee patch, which wasn’t going anywhere.

‘They’re not apples. They’re onions.’ She did her ta-dah hands again and narrowly missed the toffee spoon, so she shoved her hands in her pockets for safety.

His eyebrows knitted together. ‘Why?’

‘Because he dropped me in it at a meeting and kicked my pen across the floor. Then blamed me for him spilling his coffee and made me go to a director’s meeting. It’s payback.’

‘It’s juvenile.’ He returned to trying to shift the toffee.

‘It’s funny,’ said Regan, feeling deflated. It had taken a few coats of toffee to disguise the white of the onion but they looked just like innocent toffee apples now. She smiled to herself. She was pleased with her subterfuge, and it would be hilarious in the office tomorrow when Alex bit into one. What did Jarvis know? Having fun was definitely not one of his talents.

Regan had set two alarms for Monday morning so that she didn’t have to rush with the toffee onions. She had carefully stowed them in a cake box because the thought of dropping them was too upsetting and most definitely something she was likely to do. In fact, dropping things was another of her many talents. Someone had once suggested she might be dyspraxic but she’d never bothered to investigate it further. She rested the box on the coffee shop counter while Penny fetched her usual order.

Her phone rang – it was Jarvis. ‘Regan, did you remember to put the washing on?’ he asked.

‘Good morning,’ said Regan, trying to think of an excuse.

‘You forgot, didn’t you?’

She’d been far too focused on the safe delivery of her toffee onions. ‘Yeah, sorry. I’ll put it on later.’

‘But you won’t,’ said Jarvis. ‘You say you will but you won’t. I’m fed up with everything being left to me. I do everything around the apartment. I cook, I clean and I do all the tidying up.’ Regan rolled her eyes. ‘I’m fed up with it. It’s like being a student again.’

Regan had loved being a student. ‘I’m sorry. All right?’ She was in a good mood bubble and he was the prick that was going to spoil it.

‘No, Regan, it’s not all right. Things need to change.’ And he put the phone down.

A bang on the glass made her jump and knock the cake box. ‘Shit, Elvis,’ she said, seeing the large hound with its feet up on the glass. ‘Actually Penny, can you do me a small warm milk for Elvis?’

‘Sure, on the house. But don’t tell the boss.’ She slotted the cups into the tray and passed them to Regan. ‘Is it your birthday?’ She pointed at the cake box.

Regan grinned. ‘No, it’s a surprise for a friend.’ She tried to hide her smugness as she placed the coffees on top of the box and went outside.

‘Morning, Kevin,’ said Regan, passing him his coffee.

‘Thank you. Carpe diem.’

‘Elvis, sit,’ said Regan, and the mutt’s butt hit the floor like a soldier under fire. ‘Good dog,’ she said, impressed with his response. She looked at the small cup of milk and then at the large, gaping jaws of Elvis. She hadn’t thought this through. ‘I got him some milk,’ she said lamely to Kevin.

‘Thank you,’ he said, pulling the small cup from the tray. He put down his own drink, took the top off Elvis’s milk and carefully tipped a little into the dog’s mouth. His tongue began working overtime even though it was fairly redundant because no lapping was required. The drink disappeared in seconds.

‘Kevin, that was brilliant,’ said Regan. Such a tender act of kindness. Elvis gazed adoringly at Kevin. They were a match made in heaven. ‘Take care,’ she said.

‘You too,’ called Kevin and Regan left with a spring in her step and a happy heart.

She took a moment before she walked into their office space because if she was grinning like a mad clown Alex would know there was something up. Once composed, she walked in with her shoulders back and her head high.

‘Good morning,’ she said to the back of his head. He jumped.

‘Regan, you’re early.’

‘Only a couple of minutes. Here.’ She passed him his coffee and then opened the cake box. ‘And I made you these because I still felt bad about the coffee accident.’ She emphasised the last word because she wasn’t apologising for it. She stepped back and tried to control her excitement.

‘Er, right. Thanks. But there’s something far more important.’ Regan puckered her eyebrows; her plan was getting derailed. ‘Did you check your lottery numbers?’

‘No. The ticket’s in my desk drawer.’

‘Open it, open it!’ said Alex, beginning to bounce about like a toddler on too many Haribos.

‘Why?’

‘Because I took a picture of your ticket and I’ve checked your numbers and … I think you’ve won.’ His words came out in an excited screech making Regan recoil.

‘What?’

‘I think you’ve won. But you need to check it. Check it now!’

‘What? A couple of quid?’ But she could tell from Alex’s body language that he was way too hyper for it to only be a few pounds.

Bubbles of excitement fizzed in her gut. She’d always secretly thought that one day she would win. Most people hoped they would, but she’d had a feeling that she couldn’t quite explain. A luxury lifestyle of parties and cocktails felt like her destiny far more than working in a dull office drinking coffee out of paper cups.

‘Open the bloody drawer!’ said Alex, pulling her from her thoughts. She fumbled in her bag and pulled out her desk key. Inside the drawer was her ticket paper-clipped to her wish list. She pulled the ticket free. ‘Here,’ said Alex, thrusting his mobile at her. ‘Here’s Saturday’s winning numbers.’

She tried to look at the ticket and back at the phone but the numbers kept dancing about. Her pulse was racing and she was starting to shake. She took a deep breath and checked the people around her. It was early and most hadn’t settled at their desks yet. Nobody was watching them. She splayed out her hands in a calming motion and took Alex’s phone. He continued to bob up and down beside her. Regan put her finger under the first number and checked it to Alex’s phone. It matched. The second one, the same – it matched. And the third, fourth and fifth. She could no longer control the shaking. With a trembling finger she checked the last number. It was a match. ‘I’ve won.’ It was like fireworks going off in her head. ‘I’ve bloody well won!’

‘I know!’ said Alex.

She threw her arm’s around him and he stiffened. She held him at arm’s length. ‘How awesome is this?’

‘Totally awesome,’ he said, through a broad grin.

‘Alex,’ called the finance manager. ‘Can I have a word?’

‘Sure,’ called back Alex. He turned to Regan. ‘Don’t do anything. I’ll be back in five minutes. Okay?’ he said, still grinning.

‘I’m not telling anyone.’ She certainly wasn’t going to share any of her winnings with the other office dwellers – most of whom looked down on her anyway. They wouldn’t be looking down on her any more. This was it. This was the turning point in her life. Everything was going to change.