Just Say Yes
Copyright © 2012, 2008 by Phillipa Ashley
Cover and internal design © 2012 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Georgia Morrissey
Cover images ZenShui/Rafal Strzechowski © Getty Images
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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Originally published in Great Britain in 2008 by Little Black Dress, an imprint of Headline Publishing Group.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Ashley, Phillipa.
Just say yes / by Phillipa Ashley.
p. cm.
1. Single women—Fiction. 2. Cornwall (England : County)—Fiction.
I. Title.
PR6101.S547J87 2012
823’.92—dc23
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
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
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
For Valerie and John Sizer
Prologue
“Well, are they there?”
“Fiona, is the pope Catholic? Of course they’re here.”
The phone subsided into silence as Lucy Gibson did a left into the anonymous north London street. She could have sworn she heard actual cogs whirring in Fiona’s mind before her cell phone crackled into life again.
“OK. This calls for guerilla tactics,” said Fiona as Lucy narrowly avoided a nun on a bicycle. “Have you got a paper bag in the car?”
“I think there’s an old shopping bag in the trunk. But I’m driving right now and besides, what should I do with it? Cut holes for eyes and wear it over my head? I think I’ve got my manicure set in the glove box and—”
“Actually, I was thinking you could breathe into it to stop you from hyperventilating.”
“I—am—not—hyperventilating!” said Lucy as the nun wobbled precariously along the gutter.
“No. Of course not. Stupid of me to detect a slight hint of apprehension. I’ll go away.”
“Fi, I know you’re trying to help. Stay on the line until I get to the flat. I’m nearly there now and—Oh. My. God.”
“What?”
“Fiona, there are hundreds of them.”
“You mean actual hundreds or about seven?”
“Ten. At least.”
There was another silence, but this time no cogs whirred, from which Lucy concluded that Fiona must think the situation was hopeless.
“Lucy, are you sure you’re OK? Chin up. Maybe this won’t be as bad as you expect.”
Lucy suspected it more likely that Elvis was alive and well and working as a manicurist in Shepherd’s Bush but she thought the better of telling Fiona, because right now, her best friend appeared to be one of the few people on the planet who didn’t want to cut out her heart with a rusty knife.
“Maybe. Thanks for being here,” she said.
“No problem, hon.”
As Lucy pulled into the space in front of her flat, she knew that Elvis was well and truly dead and that it was going to be at least as bad as she expected. A pack of long-range lenses and furry microphones all swung in her direction like the velociraptors in Jurassic Park. As she reached for the door handle, a thought struck her. She had another choice: she didn’t have to get out of the car at all. She could head straight down the street and right out of London as far as a tank of unleaded would take her. If she wanted to, she could run away from all of this right now.
But she wouldn’t run away because she was still convinced, despite what seven million people had said, that she hadn’t done anything wrong and that, actually, she had done the right thing and one day, maybe when she was pushing up daisies or had been recycled into mulch, everyone (including Nick) would realize it and forgive her.
Before she could change her mind, she flicked the lock, took a deep breath, and pushed open the door.
“Lucy!”
“Miss Gibson!”
“Over here, love!”
“Let’s have a big smile for The Sport!”
“Can you just give me a moment?” she asked, barely able to hear herself above the shouting and whirr of camera drives.
“Is it true you’re in talks with Max Clifford?” shouted a man.
“Er… no, I don’t think so.”
A girl in a huge scarf thrust a microphone under her nose and Lucy had a horrible feeling she was going to sneeze. She hoped not; it always made her eyes water and she didn’t want them to think she was crying.
“Are you seeing someone else? Is that why you did it?” shrieked a woman in a pink beret.
“There’s no one else,” said Lucy, head down, making for the steps that led up to her flat.
“Did you know Nick Laurentis has checked into rehab?”
Lucy ground to a halt in the middle of the pavement.
Nick was in rehab? Surely she hadn’t driven him to drink and drugs in just one week? She knew he was terribly hurt, shattered even, but in therapy? It couldn’t be true.
“Your mum’s said to be devastated by your decision, Lucy. How does that make you feel?”
Lucy was sure her mum definitely wouldn’t have said anything of the sort, not in public, anyway. “No comment,” she said firmly, lifting her chin and focusing on her navy blue front door. The crowd gathered ahead of her, barring her way. “Can you let me get to my front door, please? I’ve got a hungry Siamese kitten in need of its dinner,” she said.
It wasn’t quite true, but close enough. Fiona was coming round later with Hengist who was slightly larger than a kitten but always starving. Yet even that went against the grain. Lucy had A Thing about lying.
It wasn’t that she was against it, per se, not if it was to spare someone’s feelings or avoid a parking ticket. She just wasn’t very good at it. While some people had fibbing down to a fine art, Lucy turned scarlet, got flustered, and protest
ed even more suspiciously than Lady Macbeth.
One of the reporters frantically scribbled in her notebook. “Is there one s or two in Siamese?”
“Three,” said a photographer with a purple Mohican hairstyle. “Do you own this flat, then, Miss Gibson? How much is it worth? Did your boyfriend pay for it?”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Have you split up for good, then?” the pack bayed in unison and Lucy finally gave up.
“Do you think it’s because of your cellulite?”
“Is that a Prada handbag or Primark?”
“Miss Gibson, is it true that you’ve had sex with a warlock?”
“Excuse me!” she declared, lowering her head and pushing people out of the way with her handbag (FCUK, actually, not that it was any of their business). As she reached the steps, there was a clatter followed by a shriek and then some scuffling.
“Who left that bleedin’ trash bin there?”
“Mind my camera, you dickhead! That lens cost over a grand.”
She took her chance as the reporters scrambled over a pile of used diapers and takeout cartons spilling out of the bin. One guy was wiping something nasty from his hand and cursing. Racing up the steps, she shoved her key in the lock with shaking fingers. It jiggled a bit, clicked, then opened. The dark and dingy hall that led to her flat looked like the opening to a magic cavern. Behind her, the press was still arguing and cursing around the bin. Excellent. Served them right.
“Ha-ooof.”
The breath whooshed from her chest and the welcome mat rushed up to meet her face. Someone had moved the hedgehog boot scraper in front of the door.
“Oh yes, there is a God!”
“Quick! We’ll make a bloody mint out of this one.”
“Get off, you oaf! Don’t you know who I am?”
A hairy hand, poking out of a black sleeve, reached down for hers and pulled her roughly to her feet. “Quick. Get in here.”
Then she was safe inside, her back to the door.
“OK?”
“Yes. Thanks,” she panted, brushing some dirt from her knees. When she looked up, her rescuer was smiling benignly down at her from behind his neat little goatee. “Charlie. Forgive me for asking, but why are you wearing a nun’s habit?”
“Oh—this. I’ll explain later. Now, I need to lock my bike up before that pack of wolves nicks it.”
Suddenly, Lucy had an insane urge to giggle. She knew it must be nerves and adrenaline and the shock of having been chased into her flat and rescued by her neighbor, a six-foot-tall nun. She also knew that if she didn’t laugh, she might cry because only a week ago, she’d been able to walk into her own front door without running the gauntlet. Just a few months ago, life had been normal but that was before a tall, dark, handsome stranger had chased her down the street with a bagel.
Chapter 1
It had been a murky November day, six months before, when Lucy had first joined the queue at Love Bites, the sandwich bar around the corner from Able & Lawson, the City law firm where she worked as a marketing assistant. She’d offered to get Letitia, the senior partner, a hummus pita because Letitia was not only very nice but also very pregnant.
As soon as she walked into Love Bites that day, Lucy noticed that it had a new attraction beyond its collection of home-baked muffins, tarte aux fraises, and sticky brownies. There was a new guy behind the counter who was busy creating a bagel sandwich for the girl who worked in the travel agents on the floor below. It was a beautiful bagel, oozing relish and overflowing with red salami and creamy mozzarella. Lucy eyed the bagel with envy, and then checked out its maker: a mouthwatering proposition himself.
He was tall and broad-shouldered with a definite touch of the Mediterranean about him. Everything from his olive-green apron to his caramel skin was edible. His hands were tanned and strong, yet the way they handled that bagel, he might have been a sculptor. Not that she’d ever known any sculptors but that was how she imagined the hands of an artist might be: long, slender, and very gifted. His badge said, “Hi, I’m Nick and I’m ready to serve you,” which, she had to admit, was less romantic.
“And what can I do you for, lovely laydee?” she half expected him to say, but of course he hadn’t. What he actually said was, “Next, please.”
“A hummus and salad on whole wheat pita, no cucumber,” she replied, snapping out of her fantasy and trying to act cool. Nick stood by patiently, his hands poised over the chopping board as she scanned the menu behind the counter. “And a chicken salad on whole grain, please, no butter or mayonnaise,” she added.
“You don’t need to diet.” OK, he hadn’t said that either, but nodded, smiled, and murmured “Coming up, madam” without a trace of irony.
The next time she’d wanted a sandwich, she’d been strangely drawn to Love Bites, even though, to be honest, the prices were cheaper and the choice wider at the usual office haunt. And so, she found herself queuing again, as Nick “Ready to Serve Her” chopped and spread and filled and stuffed.
“How can I ’elp you, babe?” said Marvin, the shop owner, as Lucy stood dreamily by the counter. Nick seemed to have disappeared into the kitchen. Perhaps he’s fetching some more baguettes, she thought, trying to hide her disappointment.
“Philadelphia and grapes on whole grain, please,” she muttered, her cheeks reddening. Minutes later, clutching her lunch, she rushed out of the shop, not even bothering to take her fifty-pence change.
She really wouldn’t have gone into Love Bites again, but Letitia had begged her to fetch a slice of carrot cake with frosting that “simply couldn’t be had anywhere else in London.”
“I do hope you don’t mind, Lucy,” Letitia had said, rubbing her back as she hovered by the water cooler in the office. “I know it’s my hormones and I really should not be eating for two, but the thought of anything else makes me want to throw up.”
“It’s fine,” said Lucy, crossing her fingers behind her back. “I was going in there anyway. Their bagel sandwiches are irresistible.”
She managed to stroll out of the office, before reaching the pavement and almost skipping down the street and around the corner. It was Friday and there was already a queue snaking out of the door and in front of the window. Lucy joined it, hoping to catch a glimpse of Nick. There, through the clear spots left by the o and v of the etched logo, she thought she could see him assembling a sub roll. What seemed like hours later, she was inside the shop, mentally tossing a coin to see whether it would be Nick or Marvin who made up her lunch.
“Next!” called Marvin as she got to the front of the queue.
“Um… er…”
“Difficult decision?” offered Nick, already splitting a roll for the customer behind her.
“Yes, I’m dithering a bit, aren’t I?”
“Yeah. You are,” grunted a bloke in the queue.
“You have my turn,” she said, in what she considered to be a flash of spontaneous genius. The man tutted in exasperation and stepped in front as she hung out by the cooler, pretending to study the menu. When Nick had finished the roll, he smiled and invited her to take her turn.
“Carrot cake, please,” she said, feeling strangely shy. “And a bagel sandwich.”
“Large or extra large?”
“Do you do medium?” she asked daringly.
He winked. “For you, yes.”
A few minutes later, she’d paid her money and hurried out of the shop, already wondering what on earth had possessed a sane, intelligent woman to hang around a bagel bar specifically in the hope of having her lunch made up by a complete stranger. She’d almost reached the office when she heard a shout behind her.
“Hey!”
She knew better than to turn round when people shouted in the street. You always felt such a plonker when you realized it wasn’t you.
“Hey you! Bagel Girl!”
Bagel Girl? Still she kept her eyes forward. It was lunchtime, lots of girls must have bagels right now and she didn’t want to draw
attention to herself.
“Oi! Bagel sandwich and carrot cake fan. Stop this minute!”
She had no choice. Not after he’d been so specific. If she didn’t turn round and answer, he’d be telling everyone she didn’t want mayo or butter and then the whole street would know she was watching her weight. Well, they could have spotted that anyway but—
“You… forgot… your… bagel…” panted Nick, stopping a few feet away and holding out a paper bag.
Her face was glowing like a beefsteak tomato. “Have I dragged you away from your work?”
He smiled. “That’s OK. Anything to get out into the fresh air. Marvin told me to come after you. He can spot a potential regular when he sees one.”
“Right. Of course.” Her heart began to sink. So, Nick had been ordered by his boss to chase her down the street. Perhaps Marvin was thinking of launching a loyalty card scheme.
“You work for Able & Lawson, the lawyers, don’t you?” he asked.
“Yes, but how do you know that?”
“Marvin saw you when he dropped off some menus last week. He said you were watering a big plant in reception.”
“Someone has to do it. No one else in our office seems to have an affinity with foliage.”
“So you’re the plant-care consultant, are you? Very high-powered.”
Lucy saw the twinkle in his eyes and grinned. “Yes, that’s me. Also tea maker, sandwich jockey, and in my spare time, marketing assistant.”
He gave a low whistle. “Sounds important. Especially the sandwich jockey.”
“Oh, it’s vital. Able & Lawson simply couldn’t manage without me.” Even as she joked, she felt the irony of her words. She was sure that, come the next round of belt-tightening, Able & Lawson could manage without her. No amount of late nights, watering plants, or being helpful could stop that. Times were tough and marketing assistants, while very useful, did not bring in the massive contracts required to keep afloat a City law firm.
“I won’t be working in a sandwich shop forever, you know,” said Nick suddenly.
“But I may be working at Able & Lawson forever,” she said. Then added, “It doesn’t matter if you do work in a sandwich shop. We all need to eat.”