Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
The thought thrills me. Picking out fabrics, coming up with designs, creating good-quality, affordable pieces. Fashion moves too fast for women to spend a fortune on the latest trend. “Just a dress for Saffron’s twenty-fifth-birthday party.” I grab my purse from my bag. “And some fabric I picked up in Camden that I want you to look at. It’ll make an amazing dress.” I have the design in my head already, and I just know Heather’s dress-making skills will do it justice. “Iced tea?”
“Please.” She’s riffling through my bags before I make it into the café. Still feeling the strain of my overindulgence on Tuesday night, my skin less radiant and soft, I grab a bottle of water to accompany my iced tea and chug it down before I make it to the counter. I need hydration and maybe a facial. Jesus, I’m twenty-five, and I already feel like I’m past it where the social life in London is concerned. “I’ll have a regular iced tea and a regular lemon iced tea. Thank you,” I say to the girl across the counter as I go to my purse and pull out a tenner. “Oh, and the water.”
“Oh my God!” she gasps, knocking me back a few paces. “You’re Camille Logan, aren’t you?”
I feel my cheeks flush, and I cast my eyes up to her, seeing a face riddled with awe. It’s both flattering and embarrassing. “Yes,” I confirm, hoping she doesn’t go on to make a big deal of it.
“You’re even more perfect in the flesh!”
“Thank you.”
“I’m so jealous! Your life is perfect! I love you!”
My smile now is forced. Perfect. Yes, of course it is. She must be seventeen, if that. She has no idea. No one has any idea about the constant battle to keep my mind focused on my future and not my past, the overbearing father who tries to control my life, or the challenge I face almost daily in London’s social scene that’s driven by cocaine and champagne. These are private battles that will remain private. Too many of my struggles have already been broadcast to the world…and my father. “You’re very sweet.” I strain my sincerity, despite the fact that she is, actually, very sweet. Naive, but sweet. “I have a friend waiting outside. Would you mind?” I nod to the machine behind her, hoping my subtle hint will snap her out of her starstruck moment.
“Oh God, yes!” She flies into action, all in a fluster, and has my order ready in record time. Handing my drinks over, her face proud, she leans in a little. “I’m going to pay for these. Then I can say I bought Camille Logan a drink!”
“Oh, no, you really shouldn’t.” I shake my head, point blank refusing to accept her kind gesture. “I’m paying for the drinks, but thank you anyway.”
“No!” She places them down and steps back, out of reach so my tenner just floats in the middle of us over the counter. She adamantly folds her arms over her chest, a cheeky glint in her eye.
I’m not going to win this one with convincing words, so I take the only other option. I go to my purse and pull out another tenner, then place them both on the counter, before scooping up my drinks and making a run for it. “Now you can tell people that Camille Logan bought you a drink!” I just hear her squeal of delight as I land on the pavement outside, only just upright in my wedges. Heather has the reams of the fabulous material I found in her grasp, her hand paused mid-stroke of the velvety fabric as she watches me drop into my chair.
“All right?” she asks, folding it back up.
“A lively one.” I hand over her iced tea as she laughs, craning her neck to see inside the café.
“Bless!” Heather coos, taking a long slurp of her tea. “Love the material!”
“Fab, isn’t it?” I poke the ice down with my straw and rest back in the metal chair, my skin soaking up the sunrays. “I’m thinking clinched-in waist—”
“Full skirt.” Heather finishes for me, grinning.
“Yes!” This is why I love her and why we’re such perfect business partners. We’re so in sync with our thoughts and ideas. “I’ll have a drawing to you by the end of the week.”
“I’ll get straight to it.”
“Perfect. And we need to make arrangements to visit that fabric supplier you were telling me about.” I grab my diary and flick through the pages. “Next week?”
“Sure. It’s not like I’m busy in a day job anymore.”
I laugh. She sounds devastated. “I’ll let you arrange that, then.” Glancing down at my tea, I note the ice melting rapidly. I take a long draw on the straw before slipping on my glasses. “What are you wearing for Saffron’s party?”