Valentine's on Primrose Hill (A Short Story) Read online

  Valentine's on Primrose Hill

  Book 3 #LoveLondon Series

  NIKKI MOORE

  A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

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  HarperCollinsPublishers

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  First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2015

  Copyright © Nikki Moore 2015

  Cover images © Shutterstock.com

  Cover layout design © HarperColl‌insPublishers Ltd 2015

  Cover design by Steve Panton

  Nikki Moore asserts the moral right

  to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue record for this book is

  available from the British Library

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

  The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

  the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to

  actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

  entirely coincidental.

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  and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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  Ebook Edition © January 2015 ISBN: 9780008127237

  Version 2015-02-10

  For anyone who has ever been in love, or thought hope was lost and then found it, this is for you.

  To my sister Natasha, Happy Birthday / Valentine’s Day - surely the best day of the year to be born on.

  To Mark – our first together, Happy Valentine’s Day x

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  #LoveLondon Series

  Valentine’s on Primrose Hill

  Coming Soon from Nikki Moore…

  Also by Nikki Moore…

  Nikki Moore

  About HarperImpulse

  About the Publisher

  #LoveLondon Series

  Skating at Somerset House

  New Year at the Ritz

  Valentine’s on Primrose Hill

  Cocktails in Chelsea

  Strawberries at Wimbledon

  Picnics in Hyde Park

  Valentine’s on Primrose Hill

  Now

  Leo Miller still wasn’t sure how he’d ended up standing alone on Primrose Hill on the most romantic day of the year, both hoping and dreading his Valentine would show up. The girl he’d thought would be a friend but had turned out to be so much more. The girl he owed the truth to, instead of the version she thought she knew.

  If she came.

  He stood at the top of the panoramic park, the London skyline sandwiched between a bright blue sky and leafy trees. Rolling green grass flowed below him, intersected by numerous paths lined with Victorian-looking lamps. He could make out all the main landmarks in the distance, no longer needing the long, narrow metal plaque on the circular brow of the hill to read the city. He’d brought too many classes here over the last five years to show them the glorious sights of their capital. He knew this skyline off by heart.

  Left to right was the spire of St Mark’s Church, the high-rise, closely huddled towers of Canary Wharf, the dark curved outline of The Gherkin and lower, crouching St Paul’s Cathedral, the soaring sharp-edged Shard. Further over was the pinnacle of the BT Tower (plumper at the top), the rounded upper half of the London Eye wheel then over to Westminster and the Houses of Parliament, Crystal Palace Tower and smaller, tucked away on the edge, Westminster Cathedral.

  Shoving his freezing hands into his coat pockets, he shivered in the crisp February sunshine. It was a beautiful Saturday, though cold, and gusts of wind shook the last of the leaves that had somehow survived autumn and winter from the trees. Hard to believe it would be spring soon. Happy, noisy families with pushchairs and plump, eager toddlers on reins panted their way up the concrete paths, and dog walkers rambled across the amazingly healthy green grass, some of them throwing tennis balls for their canine friends. A couple wandered past hand in hand, bundled up in scarves and woolly hats but not looking like they felt the frigid temperature at all, too wrapped up in each other. Cars zipped past, making their way in and out of Camden Town. At the bottom of the hill was Primrose Hill Bridge, spanning Regent’s Canal. If she didn’t come he’d walk down there, take a tube to Oxford Street and distract himself by trekking around the shops.

  He checked his watch. Five to twelve. He’d asked to meet at noon, but had wanted to get here early.

  As bitter as the weather was, he’d prepared a mini-hamper filled with champagne and gourmet foods, had thought they could sit on one of the benches and share a feast and the view, the backdrop they’d met against. It was probably a crazy idea given the near sub-zero temperatures but he’d thought it would be romantic and had limited the madness by also bringing a rucksack stuffed with two blankets, some hand warmers, and two bobble hats as well as panda ear-muffs for comedy value. He’d once joked he’d need to wear them to block out her constant chatter, a tongue-in-cheek comment given how hard it could be to get her to open up. Still, with time and patience, he’d got to know her over the past four weeks.

  And when you dug under that shy, sometimes fragile exterior, once she forgot what had happened to her, how she now looked or thought she looked, her smile could light up the whole park. You could see shades of the intelligent, outgoing girl she’d been before and would be again. Since that first meeting he’d known what she needed, apart from a friend. To see and believe that although she might never be the same person as before the accident, she’d become someone stronger and more capable because of what she’d been through. And that whatever she might think or feel, she was still attractive to the opposite sex; love wasn’t something that was forever out of reach if she didn’t want it to be. Hopefully he’d been showing her those things over the last month. What he hadn’t realised until it was too late was that she’d been unwittingly showing him something along the way too. How to fall in love.

  Shit. Double Shit.

  He would never forgive himself if the challenge his friends had set for him – to find a date for Valentine’s Day and finally get a love life – had ruined what little self-confidence she’d built, as well as their friendship. Because if being friends was the only thing he could have of her, he would accept it in a heartbeat.

  Swivelling around, searching the numerous paths for her tall figure, he blew out a long, slow breath. He was the only single person here without a dog. On Valentine’s Day. Talk about sad. Ironic too. All those years with no-one he’d wanted to spend it with, so wasn’t bothered by covering for colleagues who wanted to leave early, and now there was someone, and the day cupid was famous for was actually on a weekend…and she wasn’t here.

  The question was, would she be? A few more minutes and he would know.

  Before

  Georgiana Dunn yelped as a wrigg
ling weight landed on her chest, wrenching her from the foggy doze she’d been having cocooned in her duvet. Instinctively bringing both hands up to protect her face, her fingers encountered the scarring around what used to be her right eye. She flinched, placing her hands against the covers instead.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she muttered to herself. ‘You should be used to it by now.’ It wasn’t as if the damage could be forgotten during the day either because the itchy, annoying eye patch she wore dug lines into her forehead and cheekbone. It also did a crap job of covering the scar running from her cheekbone down towards her mouth.

  Something sharp pressed into her shoulder and thudded on her stomach, driving the air from her lungs.

  ‘Eurgh, oof’ she grunted, pushing upwards against the duvet in search of escape. What had been a comfortable nest a moment before now felt like a hot, suffocating tomb. Flexing her legs, the muscle in her upper right thigh protested, the one under the wound that always felt hot and achy even though it’d been four months since the accident and should have healed completely by now.

  Accident. Disaster. Trauma. That’s what the doctors, nurses, surgeons and physiotherapists had taken turns calling it. To her it would always just be the worst day of her life. Who would have thought that someone else’s unexpected heart attack at the wheel could change her world so radically?

  Feet drumming against the mattress, lifting her head, her long plait somehow wrapped around her neck. She sucked in a panicky breath and with a grunt of effort managed to flip down the duvet, freeing herself from the hair noose at the same time.

  ‘Thank God!’ Her relieved exclamation muffled a thud somewhere near the end of the bed. Fresh air and sunlight hit her and she winced, turning toward the wall. Then she bolted upright, wondering what had been on top of her. She twisted her head back and forth to see as much as the bed as possible, but there was nothing there other than a rumpled purple throw.

  ‘Good morning, darling,’ her mum sang brightly.

  ‘Jeez!’ George jumped, hand clutching her chest as she swung her head around to a spot a few feet from her bed. ‘You almost gave me a heart attack. Why are you on the floor? Praying for patience?’ she joked, sweeping aside the covers and swinging her feet down to the thick dark grey carpet. It reminded her of brewing storm clouds, the complete opposite of the sunny wooden laminate floor in her childhood bedroom, which they’d left two weeks before. However hesitant she’d been about moving initially, she had to admit that although she missed their old place, the en-suite bathroom here was fab because there was no need to stumble to the other end of the house in the middle of the night.

  ‘Well? What are you doing?’ George prompted her mum. ‘It’s not like you to be so quiet.’ She smiled to take the edge off the comment.

  ‘As much as I may soon have to pray for patience,’ Stella said, sinking back on her knees, ‘if you insist on staying in so much, no, that’s not my current activity.’ She fussed with some kind of round, quilted cushion. ‘I was leaving you a gift.’

  ‘Another one?’ George sighed. ‘Mum, you don’t have to keep bringing me things. I’ll be fine. I just need more time, that’s all. It’s sweet, but presents aren’t going to miraculously cheer me up.’ It made her feel cared for, but didn’t change how she felt about herself. She didn’t know if anything ever would. The new therapist kept telling her she needed more time, and to focus on the positives. She was trying her best, she really was, but it wasn’t just the physical scars she had to contend with. There were emotional ones too.

  ‘Mmmmm.’ Stella made a non-committal sound and dropped her head to plump up the cushion.

  George knew she’d hurt her mum, and bit her lip. Well, at least she hadn’t shouted like in the weeks after first being released from hospital. Those had been dark days, and she’d been to some dark places. She’d just been so unbelievably angry all the time at the unfairness of it all. Some days that rage still surfaced, but she’d learned to get a better handle on her emotions, to stop striking out at those around her.

  She smiled sadly. It wasn’t that long ago she’d attended lectures and gone out shopping with friends to blow her student loan.

  It was Saturday today. On a Saturday at uni she’d have studied in the library in the morning and worked in the bar from lunchtime onwards before dancing and drinking the night away in a club, tossing her hair over her shoulder before turning to see how many guys were checking her out.

  That might be only a handful of months past, but in reality it felt like forever since she’d laughed and grinned and had fun like a normal twenty-one year old. But she wasn’t normal any more, nothing was. The injury in her thigh made her limp when it was cold or rainy (which was most of the time given it was winter in Britain), her right eye was gone and her face was scarred.

  She was slowly accepting that none of those things were insurmountable, that it could have been a lot worse, but a lot had changed. Now one of her most prized possessions, rather than her extensive clothes collection, was the large round spa-bath in the en-suite. She could hide her new, strange body under a layer of bubbles in a bath, rather than being confronted by her scars in a shower. Getting naked was definitely on her list of least favourite things to do these days. Still, at least a month ago she’d been able to take attending physio off the list. They’d said it was up to her now, and she’d been doing her daily stretching and muscle strengthening exercises like a good girl.

  ‘Mum?’ she said softly, focusing her thoughts, ‘Please stop buying me things. You really don’t need to.’

  ‘But they can’t hurt, can they?’ Stella replied. There was something in her tone that made George wonder if it made her mum feel better to buy presents for her. ‘Especially this one,’ Stella added. Making a funny clucking noise under her breath, she lifted something and shifted nearer on her knees, before depositing it in her daughter’s tartan pyjama-clad lap.

  George peered down one-eyed at the warm, furry body wriggling around on her thighs. A yipping sound was directed at her face. She closed her eye, groaning. ‘Please Mum, please say you didn’t get me a guide dog after everything I said?’ Leaning over, she carefully deposited the small black and white splotched puppy on the floor. It immediately rolled onto its back and started squirming around on the carpet, paws pumping blissfully in the air.

  Stella smoothed her low ponytail down. ‘Yes, he’s yours,’ she glanced down at the puppy. ‘He could be useful to you, but-,’

  ‘Yes, if I want to look like even more of a freak,’ George replied in an undertone, watching as the animal abandoned its army manoeuvres and started chasing its tail, spinning in tireless circles.

  ‘You’re not a freak.’ Her mum’s cheeks went pink. ‘And he’s not a guide dog. They’re usually different breeds, about a year old and fully trained. He’s just a normal Springer Spaniel puppy because you made it clear you wouldn’t accept a guide dog.’ She smoothed her ponytail again. ‘You can train him yourself. They’re usually quick to learn, and enthusiastic. It’ll give you something to do now you’re on the road to recovery but not back at uni. Walking him will keep you fit and get some fresh air into you. Besides, he’ll keep you company when I start my new teaching job next week. Spaniels like to be around people. They’re social dogs.’

  ‘I’m glad someone feels social.’ George responded, but despite her best intentions found herself sinking down to the floor to stroke the puppy’s downy neck. She smiled. Who could resist? Puppies were so cute. They had such big soulful eyes and little pink tongues. And a lot about her might have changed, but she could feel her heart melting already.

  ‘I know you’d rather be left alone to hide away from the world.’ Stella said. ‘But it’s not good for you.’

  ‘Hang on. I’ve come a long way since those weeks when I was holed up in bed all day.’ She switched to stroking the puppy's back, smiling when he turned to lick her hand. The arguments between them had been heated, especially since she’d refused to shower for days on end, or com
e out of her room to eat with her parents, or see friends or family. It’d taken her dad intervening and suggesting they move to London to make a fresh start to pull her out of herself. Normally taciturn and unwilling to get between his wife and daughter, it was like his daughter’s crisis had finally given him words. ‘I’ve been out since we moved here, Mum,’ she defended, uncurling her legs to stretch her leg out, ‘trying to learn the streets.’

  ‘Twice,’ Stella answered, ‘barely qualifies.’

  George flushed. So what if she mostly stayed in watching TV or, when she got bored of that, watching passers-by from the living room window? It was perfectly normal to look at people sweeping up and down the leafy London street or dashing to bus-stops, and wonder who they were and where they were going. Wasn’t it? And it wasn’t creepy at all that she had a favourite; a tall guy with shaggy brown hair who was always smiling, no matter what the time of day was, no matter what the horrible weather was doing. He looked nice. Open and relaxed. She wished she felt how he looked. It had been pretty embarrassing though when he’d glanced sideways one evening and caught her gawping. He’d grinned wickedly and she’d let out a squeak and slid to the floor under the window. From then on she hid behind the net curtains when she dared to people-watch.

  ‘Once a week isn’t enough, darling,’ her mum interrupted her musings.

  ‘It’s hard. Everyone stares,’ George admitted reluctantly. Initially she’d been scared of moving to London; scared at the thought of leaving everything and everyone she knew behind, at the familiar becoming unfamiliar, but in the end realised that being back home in her old life wasn’t helping. That in a funny way, starting over might make things easier. But it was more difficult than she’d expected.

  ‘I’m sure not everybody does. Besides, London is a very big place; there are a lot of faces in it with their own stories.’

  ‘You’re probably right. But it’s still hard. Give me some credit for leaving the house, especially when you know how I feel about this,’ George pointed to her face.