Page 19 of Falling for You

Annie

I tap my foot and glance at my watch, trying my best to stay calm and not obsess over the amount of time Jade, the shop owner, is taking to find the fabric I’ve requested.

Twelve minutes. I have twelve minutes to do an eleven-minute walk to my next house viewing and meet a new client. And Jade isn’t even back with my fabric yet.

I pull my eyes away from my wrist and look out of the window. London is particularly beautiful today. We’re in the first few days of November, and as we slowly edge towards December, the Christmas spirit is lingering around the corner, but we’re not quite there yet.

Instead, we’re in the blissful in-between time where everything feels a little bit still.

The trees are bare, finally free of the colourful coats they’ve boasted all autumn.

Now they stand skinny and spiky, branching up into the sky in jagged, naked shapes.

But you can still find the ambers and golds of their leaves scattered over the London parks and hidden patches of greenery.

The air has turned crisp and fresh, the sort that shocks your lungs every time you take in a long breath, and Londoners now walk down the streets wrapped up in oversized scarves.

It’s like we’re hibernating, saving our energy before reappearing in our full glory as soon as December arrives, when everyone is expected to roll their bodies in glitter and don a set of novelty earrings.

Shit. I’ve just wasted two minutes thinking about how beautiful London is. I’ve lived here for ten years; you’d think I’d have got over it by now.

I got a call late last night from Mum, saying that we’ve had an order come through for a gremlin costume for an eighteenth birthday party.

Apparently it’s a fancy-dress theme with everyone dressing in an outfit beginning with the letter G (for birthday boy, George).

Even though I was half asleep when she called, as soon as Mum started talking I felt my mind spark awake with ideas.

I could see the costume twisting together in front of my eyes and knew I had to get to the fabric shop as soon as I could or I wouldn’t be able to concentrate at work.

I knew my favourite Camden fabric shop would have what I had painted in my mind.

Sure enough, almost as soon as I walked in, I spotted a sample of a metal-grey, shimmery fabric with midnight-black and aubergine-purple scales glistening under the light.

I snatched it up immediately and ran to the till.

Although Jade is lovely, she’s unbelievably slow and always likes to have a chat. Usually I love this, but I have a meeting in … oh God, seven minutes.

‘Here we are!’ I hold my breath as Jade reappears.

‘Thanks, Jade,’ I say. ‘Sorry, I’m in a bit of a hurry.’

‘No bother,’ she says happily, carefully folding the fabric and wrapping it in tissue paper.

I hold my card out, ready to jab it into the card reader, when I hear the bell ring behind me as someone else walks into the shop.

‘Hello, Stevie,’ Jade says. ‘How are you?’

Oh God, please don’t start talking to this person before I’ve paid. I cannot politely listen to small talk right now. I’ll explode.

‘Sorry,’ I gabble. ‘Jade, can I just …’

‘Oh!’ She laughs and taps a button on the till. ‘Yes, of course. Thirty pounds, please, love.’

I tap my card and grab the bag of fabric. I turn to charge out of the shop, almost crashing straight into the tall blonde man behind me.

‘Shit, sorry!’ I call over my shoulder, as I leap out of the door and onto the pavement.

Six minutes to do an eleven-minute walk. Thank God I’m wearing trainers and a good bra.

Ten minutes later and I’m charging around the corner to Spitfield Street, my feet burning and the back of my neck damp as I place silent curses on every slow walker I’ve been trapped behind.

In particular, the couple who refused to stop holding hands and took up the entire pavement, too distracted being all in love and unbearable.

I take a deep breath as I spot Katie, my favourite estate agent. As we tend to deal with fairly affluent clients, they almost always come with a high price point for their new homes. This means that we generally use up-market estate agents, which is fun.

Katie is smiley and always just as giddy as I am about walking into these grand houses. Not that either of us ever let on. Also, she’d never bat an eyelid at me for being late.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I gush as I reach her. ‘I had a nightmare getting here.’

Katie smiles. ‘No worries. Your client isn’t here yet.’

‘Thank God.’ I unwrap my scarf as quickly as possible, my face burning.

‘So, do you want a quick debrief?’

‘Yes, please.’ I dig around in my bag for some perfume. ‘I am listening, just making myself smell less gross.’

Katie flicks open her folder and starts going through the notes.

‘Oh,’ I say, ‘before I forget, was there an interior designer on this one?’

Katie gives me a knowing look. ‘Of course. Thomas Tyrrell.’

I pull a face. ‘Fancy!’

She laughs. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ She hands me the keys. ‘Just drop these back once you’re done. Also, I love your jumper.’

I look down and realise I’m wearing a jumper I made last spring. It’s tangerine orange, knitted in a thick wool with strands of hot pink woven through.

‘Oh, thanks!’

‘You’re going to tell me you made it, aren’t you?’ She grins and I laugh.

‘Yeah, I did, actually. But it’s—’

‘Don’t try and tell me that it’s rubbish or something ridiculous like that.’ Katie holds a hand up at me. ‘I like it, own the compliment. It’s cool.’

I press my lips together. ‘Thank you.’

She waves at someone behind me and I turn, noticing my client get out of a shimmering black Mercedes, slamming the door shut behind them. I haven’t met this woman before, but you can spot one of my clients a mile off.

They’re always immaculately dressed. The clothes are always plain and tailored, skimming across their bodies perfectly, but never with too much skin on show, and they always have glossy, expensive-looking hair.

The men have shiny shoes and glistening cufflinks, and the women are tilted in delicate high heels.

Basically, they’re the opposite to me, in my knitted jumper and Doc Martens. But I think that’s why they like me. I’m an ironic Brit. They absolutely love Pam.

‘Hi,’ I say, giving my most winning smile and holding out my hand. ‘Is it Michelle? I’m Annie.’

The woman shakes my hand and removes her sunglasses. ‘Hi, Annie,’ she says. ‘Thanks so much for showing me around.’

I smile, gesturing for her to follow me up the stone steps. ‘Not at all. Right this way.’

Michelle is head of HR at a global tech firm and is being sent to London for twelve months to work in the Bank office.

She has two children, both under four, a husband and her mother coming with her, and they move in five weeks.

This means I have to find them the perfect house, nursery for the children, and any other amenities they might need.

I use the word ‘need’ loosely. Nobody needs a private sauna and steam room. But that’s what I’m paid to do.

I click the front door open and can’t help but let out a gasp of delight. The walls are a crisp white, with wooden panelling and glistening, champagne-coloured lights. The chestnut wooden floor sparkles under the light, and the staircase curves upwards, wrapped within a thick, black banister.

I check myself as Michelle walks in behind me. Right, focus, Annie. You’re not moving into this house, and for good reason. One month’s rent in this place is a third of your annual salary.

‘I’ll leave you to have a look around,’ I say. ‘I’ll be waiting here if you have any questions. The place comes with all the furniture you see, but of course if you need anything that isn’t here but you’re interested in the house, let me know and we’ll be able to arrange that for you.’

Michelle nods, her eyes scanning the hallway as she wanders through to the kitchen. I lean back on the banister and pull out my phone as it starts to vibrate in my pocket. I see Mum’s name flash onto my screen.

‘Hey, Mum,’ I say, moving towards the window. ‘I’m just with a client. And I picked up the most amazing fabric earlier. I’ll start making the costume tonight. I have an idea in my head, so I’ll send you over a sketch to get your thoughts. Did they send over their measurements yet?’

‘Oh!’ Mum says, and I realise I’ve caught her off guard by my barrage of information. ‘Not yet. I’ll check.’

‘Great. I’d like to get started tonight.’

‘Sure. Listen, I was calling to see if you were still coming to Richie’s christening on Sunday?’

I pause. Richie is thirty-eight.

I frown, fighting off an unpleasant image of a hairy, burly Richie in a princess christening gown. ‘Richie’s christening?’

‘His daughter’s,’ Mum explains, reading my mind. ‘Arabella. Her christening. I did tell you about this.’

I have no memory of this.

‘Well, I’ve already RSVP’d on your behalf and said you’d come,’ Mum says, reading my silence and taking an uppity tone I don’t hear very often.

I roll my eyes, feeling like a teenager. ‘Right. So, really, you’re not ringing to ask me if I’m coming? You’re telling me I’m coming.’

‘Reminding you,’ she says sweetly. ‘Why don’t you come home tonight after work and have dinner with us? Then we can go together in the morning. I have a dress you can wear. I finished making it this week. You’ll love it.’

‘What colour is it?’

‘Purple.’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Dark purple! Like an aubergine colour.’

Hmmm. That does sound quite nice.

‘Okay, fine. Thanks, Mum.’

‘Message Dad with the time you’ll get into the station and he’ll pick you up.’ I can hear her smile and my heart warms. ‘We’re making stew.’