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Chapter One

If Ellie Baker could have one current wish, it would be for five minutes of peace and quiet. That was a superficial wish, obviously she’d wish for world peace or something if given slightly longer to think about it. Not that wishes existed or she for one second believed that the universe gave anything without demanding payment in return. And not that that stopped her from occasionally wishing for a lottery win. Or even a dropped twenty pound note on the pavement.

“It’s something about her face,” Carys was saying, feet propped up on the corner of Mo’s desk.

“Yeah, that she’s hot,” said Mo.

“No, that’s not what I meant, I meant she’s… I don’t know. Funny looking.”

Ellie gritted her teeth and stared at her own computer screen, where the final guest list for Rachel Cohen’s Bat Mitzvah looked a lot longer than it had half an hour ago.

“Funny looking?” Mo screeched. “Funny looking?”

And… Ellie gave up. “Who?” she demanded. “Who exactly is funny looking?”

“I’m not even sure I should tell you,” said Mo.

“For God’s sake, you can’t just sit there arguing at a hundred decibels and then not tell me what the hell is going on.”

“Well, if you’d been paying attention from the start,” Carys began.

Ellie growled.

“Fine, fine,” said Mo. “Greta Garbo.”

“Greta Garbo?” Ellie breathed in through her nose and then slowly out again. “Greta Garbo. You’ve spent the last ten minutes arguing about someone who’s been dead for a hundred years?”

“Thirty years,” Mo put in. Their grasp of ancient Hollywood history was unmatched. Ask Mo who the current Prime Minister was though, and they’d struggle.

“Thirty years,” Ellie said, shaking her head. “You do know this is a place of business, right?” She turned to Carys, who was sticking her tongue out. “And you have your own office. It’s right next door. A whole set of rooms that you pay rent for and everything.”

“You know, you should just move in here,” Mo said to Carys conversationally.

“No!” said Ellie.

She sighed. Carys was a graphic designer who rented the office space next door. Mo was, ostensibly, Ellie’s assistant. Though at this point they did far more than just assist.

Ellie suspected that Mo, with their glittery eye makeup and penchant for flouncy skirts with boots, had been more attracted to the idea of planning parties than the reality of it. But they’d proven themselves to be more than up to the task, and most days, Ellie didn’t know what she’d do without them.

“It’s nicer in here,” Carys was saying. “My office doesn’t have Mo in it.” She darted her eyes at Ellie. “Or you,” she said, waggling her eyebrows.

“Flirting, or attempting to, will get you nowhere,” Ellie said immediately.

“Spoilsport,” pouted Carys, her lilting Welsh accent making the word sound friendlier. She sniffed. “Anyway, I’m not exactly swimming in business.”

“Neither are we,” Mo said, sympathetically.

“We’re doing okay,” said Ellie, slightly stung. The business was hers. All hers. She’d worked her backside off to start this little company and, well, okay, she wasn’t rich. But the bills weregetting paid. Just.

“You’ve got your cranky pants on this morning,” Carys said, swinging her legs down to the ground with a resounding thump. Her Doc Martens had extra thick soles.

“She’s had them on all week,” Mo said, shuffling their desk chair around the edge of the desk.

“So, want to tell Auntie Carys what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Ellie said immediately. She didn’t believe in the superstitious, really she didn’t. But she also didn’t want to run any risk at all that she might jinx things.

Mo rolled their eyes. “She responded to a tender,” they said. “Something swish and posh.”