Highland Heart Page 2

  “How do you know her?” Katya asked. Then, “Does mentoring work?”

  Dexter whacked up those enthusiasm levels. “Oh yeah. I was mentored at the start of my career. It’s super-useful, especially if you need a neutral outsider to talk to. Madeline mentored one of my marketing assistants and I’ve promoted her a coupla times since. Awesome, huh?”

  He forwarded Madeline’s email address before Katya said yes, but when the reply came back Madeline said she was specifically looking for a freelancer to mentor.

  “Freelancing creates its own particular challenges—not least the isolation. I started my recruitment business from scratch so I know how difficult it is to push yourself.”

  Too right.

  So far, Madeline had made lots of useful suggestions. She wasn’t able to speak on the phone or meet face to face—“too busy, so sorry”—but she was always at the end of an email. And she told Katya she wanted her to succeed. She had plenty of contacts too.

  Such as the talent and literary agency she suggested, a satellite office to a much bigger operation in the US. “Go see them! Edmund Morris & Co are awesome and well connected.”

  Two days later, Katya found herself at the agency—a glossy, glitzy place in the centre of London. Earlier that year, she’d ghost-written a celebrity self-help book. The first few chapters of it, anyway. The job fell through, mostly because the celebrity had no idea what she was talking about. CeCe had heard about it and loved the few chapters Katya had written.

  Could Katya do it for another client of theirs, so far unspecified? An American client this time.

  “Don’t you want a more experienced writer?” Katya asked. The world of celebrity ghost-writing was new to her. She wasn’t familiar with the ins and outs but practicalities suggested someone in the same country would be better placed to do the job.

  The woman—CeCe—shook her head. “Our client specified it had to be you.”

  Katya almost fell off her seat. “Me?” Did she have some parallel secret life where she befriended A-listers and if so, why did she still live in Great Yarmouth in a grotty flat-share, existing on packet noodles and beans on toast? In her secret life, was she part of Taylor Swift’s squad and the woman Justin Bieber called upon when he wanted to discuss the finer points of his lyrics and poetry?

  (He should. She’d improve them no end.)

  CeCe refused to tell her any more. Client confidentiality and all that. When she mentioned the fees for the project, Katya decided she didn’t care. She’d started copywriting and PR freelancing two years ago when she was made redundant from the firm she worked for. Since then, she’d never needed to bother the tax authorities with revenue as she’d yet to reach the heady threshold of earning £11,500 a year. If this project worked out, Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs would want words with her next year. She’d be able to buy her own flat—heck, maybe even move to Glasgow so that she and Dexter didn’t have to do the long-distance relationship thing.

  CeCe got to her feet and extended her hand. “Thank you so much. We’ll be in touch once we’ve drawn up your contract and then we can go into more detail about how the process will work.”

  Katya returned the handshake. Sure, and thanks ever so much for just offering me this opportunity, oh good grief this is amazing...

  CeCe saw her to the door where one of her minions escorted Katya out of the building. They appeared to distrust visitors’ ability to find the exit. Or perhaps they were worried she’d nick something on her way out. The office was jam-packed with expensive equipment and people wearing suits they didn’t buy in the Marks and Spencer’s sale. Unlike Katya’s. She left the place in a daze.

  Edmund Morris & Co’s offices were in Soho, and Katya made her way to Regent Street, as she had a few hours before she needed to get the train back home. London was always a shock to the system, its crowds and noise relentless, and she watched a death-wish cyclist zig-zagging his way through cars and buses as the drivers honked their horns at him.

  The bus that had just overtaken him featured a huge advert for the new Blissful Beauty shop in London that had opened that week. Curiosity stirred, so Katya made her way there. If she couldn’t be with Dexter in person, she might as well check out the company he worked so hard for.

  Once she reached one of the quieter streets, she decided to phone someone to tell them her good news. Lovely, shareable news didn’t happen often enough. Dexter’s number went straight to voicemail. As the UK’s marketing manager of a beauty brand planning a high-profile launch in another country, taking personal calls in the middle of the day had to be a no-no.

  She tried Gaby, and the same happened. Less explainable. Gaby was a graphic designer, and she lived and worked in Lochalshie, a tiny village in the Highlands. Her phone was always next to her iMac, and she loved any excuse to stop working. “I have news,” Katya messaged her—usually persuasion enough for a work break—and walked to Regent Street.

  Blissful Beauty’s only UK shop—it was an online company in the main—was on one of the side streets off the main road. Thanks to girlfriend privileges, she needed nothing, but it would be interesting to see how busy the place was. It sat between an achingly hip bar and a sandwich shop that promised everything from gluten-free to vegan and every special dietary requirement in between.

  The shop came as a surprise as it was smaller than she’d imagined. No mistaking the branding, though—pink and silver stars ran riot, and a queue of overexcited teenagers and twenty-somethings waited outside. A bouncer guarded the front door, arms folded and expression dour. When the queue surged forward every time someone left the shop, he extended an arm and barked at them to wait. Katya got in line, resigned to extended downtime. The two women in front turned to face her.

  “What are you after?” one said, eyeing her speculatively. Working out what she needed, Katya guessed. Concealer, glow serum?

  “I just want to see what it’s like,” she said, and then, because she couldn’t resist the one-upmanship, she threw in, “I met her earlier this year. Caitlin, I mean.”

  Suddenly, they were all over her. What was she like? What does she look like in real life? Is she the best ever? Did she have any pictures she took with her, and if so, did she think if they flashed the photos on her phone at the bouncer he would let them queue jump?

  A movement caught Katya’s eye—a figure coming out of the front door and the bouncer moving aside letting no one else in.

  Dexter.

  The man too busy to see her because of (his words) super-important marketing meetings.

  The jolt she got when she'd spotted him rapidly turned from sending her heart to the skies to plunging it to the ground. Did standing outside the shop like a groupie make her look too keen or desperate—or probably both? It was too late to do anything now. He turned right; heading straight for her.

  “Katya!” Dexter the enthusiasm machine. He said her name now the same way he did whenever they met up. And yet. Something flitted across his face the second he caught sight of her, and she didn’t think it was delight—more, Yikes, I’m gonna have to think up a good excuse for this one.

  Katya’s two new friends stared, and she introduced them. Dexter earned their lifelong friendship by offering to move them to the front of the queue. Job done, he returned to her and asked if she wanted to see the shop.

  She shook her head. “No. I didn’t realise...”

  “It’s so amazing to bump into you!” It was said so quickly, she guessed he’d used the time he took those two women to the front of the queue to rehearse the words in his head so they sounded sincere. “Um, did we arrange to get together?”

  Ah. The polite bit of him wondering if he’d forgotten to cancel, and the thought horrifying him. Mortifying.

  “No, no!” she said, overdoing the fake bonhomie. “You’re busy. I was in London for a meeting about a potential writing job and thought I’d take a look at the shop.”

  She deciphered a brain mulling over everything she’d said, trying to
work out the good and the bad. The queue moved around them, delighted customers surging forward as the bouncer generously allowed two more people in.

  “The meeting!” Dexter exclaimed, reaching for her hand. “Yes, of course. Edmund Morris & Co. Great guys. Do you wanna go for a drink?”

  Why not? The ‘so amazing to see you’ line still sounded lame, but they were here now and two hours in London was two hours in London. He suggested the achingly hip bar next door that turned out to be attached to a boutique hotel—the Staffordshire. Questions swirled in her mind as they headed in, but she kept quiet and Dexter said nothing either.

  The doorman tipped his hat at them, and Dexter’s preoccupied air vanished. Inside, he turned and flung his arms around her. She surrendered to the bliss of a man’s heartfelt squeeze. London hotels and bars, used to endless meetings, didn’t mind two people hugging. The groups of people coming and going moved around them seamlessly, reinforcing the moment’s bubble feeling.

  Despite the city’s usual preference of disinterest, two women sat at the central bar sipping coffee from gold-rimmed china cups had spotted them. They nudged each other, exchanging whispers, their mouths rounded into ‘o’s of envy.

  Katya had grown used to it. Dexter often attracted stares, his height, dark hair, intense eyes and hollowed out cheeks making him model-like. He favoured skinny-fit suits, and the one he wore now was a three-piece cobalt-blue version moulded to his body. She didn’t blame the coffee drinkers. Dexter’s appearance often lit her up, making her body glow and her mind fast-forward to what might happen next.

  Could they, should they do that thing she’d always fantasised about, where they booked a hotel room for an hour, disappeared upstairs and tore each other’s clothes off, returning to the foyer afterwards to the smirks of the reception staff?

  “Just a quickie,” Dexter said, stepping back from her, “I’ve gotta go in twenty minutes—real sorry but I need to head out to LA to meet up with the international marketing team.”

  Ah. Dexter’s quickie wasn’t hers. Even if she pulled that ice-cube trick Dexter often said made him see stars, they might manage it in twenty minutes but she doubted the hotel would grant them a room for that tiny amount of time. She fanned her face, willing her libido back into its cave.

  He steered her towards two of the armchairs next to the windows and asked the waiter who hovered nearby for a glass of champagne to celebrate. The two women watching them ‘aah-ed!’ in further appreciation. The champagne arrived, tiny bubbles drifting to the top of creamy-yellow liquid in frosted crystal glasses. She took a sip and watched his eyes. They didn’t move from hers, and they were far and away her favourite part of Dexter. Yes, even more than that bit.

  He leant forward. “So, tell me more about that meeting. Did Edmund Morris & Co agree with me—you’re the most awesome, amazing, wonderful writer out there and they’d be insane to pass you up?”

  Woman number one, her mouth still rounded, sighed even more at his words. Dexter’s voice was liquid chocolate, the silk of it wrapped around you in blissful, comforting warmth.

  “I got the job,” she said, and whispered the ballpark figure they’d suggested, the figures still unreal-sounding.

  Dexter clinked his glass against hers. “Well done.”

  “But I can’t tell you the company name, what I’m doing, what I’m writing, when I start or anything. And I think it...”

  Something struck her. “Oh God, you know the company name! So much for my discretion.”

  He touched his glass to hers again. “I won’t say a word. Here’s to you, anyway. It sounds like a super-awesome job. Have you signed the world’s scariest confidentiality papers?”

  “Too right. But as my friend Gaby always says, buried at the end of every non-disclosure agreement are the two sentences, ‘We expect you to tell your best friend stroke boyfriend. Just make sure they keep their gobs shut.’”

  He laughed, the sound causing further swoons from their audience, the women she’d nicknamed Beryl and Madge in her head. “Better not tell me any more,” he said. “And I’ve worked with your best friend. She’s an awesome graphic designer but I wouldn’t trust her to keep quiet about anything.”

  Katya opened her mouth to object and shut it. No, discretion wasn’t part of Gaby’s make-up.

  “When are you back in Glasgow?” she asked instead. Dexter had talked about a kick-off meeting to start the ‘Caitlin conquers South Korea’ campaign and then returning. This must be it.

  He took another sip from his glass and glanced up. Dark eyes didn’t give as much away as lighter ones. Gaby’s green eyes expressed so many emotions it was as if the words happy, sad, dismayed, angry or whatever popped up in a speech bubble above her head. Dexter’s eyes only changed when he hovered above her, hair hanging forward and beads of sweat running down his forehead. Then, they were magnificent—black intensity that felt almost frightening.

  “A few days’ time,” he said, “though it depends on what the LA team say. And Caitlin.”

  Of course it did. Caitlin Cartier, youngest member of the world’s most famous reality TV family and the creator of Blissful Beauty, though Katya doubted the twenty-one-year-old did much more than say, “Hey, should we have a light pink lipstick as well as a dark one?” while minions scurried around her and did all the real work. And unlike most people, Katya had met Caitlin—a teeny-tiny fizz-bomb of energy. Despite everything, she was likeable, despite her vast wealth and annoying, continuous social media presence.

  Did Dexter sound evasive? There had been a pause before he said when he’d be back. A few days’ time was open to interpretation. She glanced at the clock, an oversized vintage skeleton model, its hands splayed at ten to two. They were already half-way through Dexter’s allotted twenty minutes, and she had run out of things to say. Dexter had too. Did words hover between them, one person wanting to say something the other had no wish to hear? This, the unexpected meeting, should have been brilliant. Katya half-wished he’d go. He hadn’t resorted to foot-tapping but Katya sensed someone else sneaking peeks at that oversized clock.

  “Can I have another glass of champagne, seeing as Blissful Beauty are picking up the tab?” She might as well make the most of it. Dexter’s expenses account was legendary. A measly bottle of booze, no matter the hefty mark-up smart hotels charge, only dipped in the ocean of what the world’s fastest-growing beauty and skincare company could afford.

  Dexter did that skilful, sexy thing, a soundless, commanding gesture that brought waiters all over the world running, and at the same time managed not to be patronising. The bartender materialised in front of them, white napkin neatly folded over one arm, and poured Katya another glass. He held up a strawberry, and she nodded a yes, watching him drop the berry in the glass, bubbles gathering at the top to surround it. She raised it in a mock salute to Beryl and Madge, who both grinned back, lifting their china cups.

  “Katya.” Dexter slid forward, placing his hands on the armchair either side of her. Looking at him this close up made her squirm. She only recognised that black intense gaze when it... no need to spell it out, eh? Here, in a bar in central London, its intensity bored into her brain. She shifted on the chair, trying to move back so that the laser beam wasn’t so focussed.

  “I think we need to talk.”

  Uh-oh. A sentence that never preceded good news. It must be serious too. He’d left off the awesomes and amazings. Despite Katya’s determination to play it cool, her eyes watered. Was this the ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ conversation? She blinked.

  “The next four or five months will be insane,” he said. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the LA meeting, but I only got the summons this morning. You and me, it’s—”

  “I know. Launches are a lot of work.” She moved her gaze away from his before he glanced upwards or showed any of those other tell-tale body language signs that signalled someone was saying words they knew would hurt, frustrate or anger. “And you need to go. Your twenty minutes are
up. That flight to LA can’t be kept waiting.”

  “But—”

  Speechless Dexter wasn’t someone she was familiar with. In his mind, did he whirl through and discard hundreds of sentences? “It’s not you, it’s me. You’re mind-blowingly lovely” (and she allowed the hyperbole here) “but I’ve gotta move on. C’mon, Katya—LA and South Korea versus Glasgow? No contest. Your average ambitious guy can’t say no.”

  She stood up. The ability to style out a bad situation came naturally to someone who had three younger, inclined-to-take-the-mickey sisters. “Good luck!” she said, the breezy voice a remarkable achievement. “Can’t wait to hear about all the exciting work you will be doing.”

  She managed not to make it sound sarcastic. Just.

  He grabbed her hand. “You’re gonna be busy with that new job too, huh? I’ll see you when I’m back, right? When I come to Great Yarmouth?”

  She said yes, and off he went, darting out of the hotel, arm held up ready to hail a taxi. Not a backward glance, either. Beryl and Madge mimed sadness, pouting after him and mouthing “Too sad, too sad!” at her. She hurried out of the hotel, preferring her love life not to have an audience.

  A day that had started brilliantly. “Think of the money, Katya! You are going up in the world.”

  But there was always next weekend when Dexter visited her in Great Yarmouth. What was eight or ten days in the scheme of things?

  Her phone beeped, a missed call from Gaby and a message too.

  “You have news. I HAVE NEWS!!!!! News you’ll want to hear!!!!! Phone me NOW. PS, sorry about all the exclamation marks.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  A week later and by some miracle, or rather bribery and the odd threat, Katya’s flatmates had cleared out for the night, which meant she and Dexter would have the place to themselves to celebrate his return from LA.