Page 3 of Paper Roses

I turn to see Ingrid my receptionist at the door taking her jacket off. She’s wearing a plum-coloured shift dress, and her long, dark hair has been coiled into a neat chignon. She looks demure, which is the perfect camouflage for her wicked nature.

“Morning.” I smile at her. “How was the theatre last night?”

She rolls her eyes. “People emoting loudly about their problems. I might as well have stayed at work.”

I chuckle, and she gives me her wide, gamine grin. It’s full of charm and explains how she knows more gossip than any reporter who works atThe Sun. “Coffee?” she asks.

“Please.” I turn to walk into my office and stop dead. “Where’s Artie?”

He’s usually here, a quiet presence at his desk managing the emotions of the office like a puppeteer pulling strings.

“Oh, he’ll be in later.” Ingrid looks at her phone. “He said he tried to get hold of you, but your phone was off.”

“Shit. I forgot to charge it.”

She raises her eyebrow. Knowing Ingrid, she’s guessing exactly what I got up to last night. “Well, he said he has something urgent to do and he’ll be in later.”

She goes to walk away but stops when I say urgently, “What’s the matter with him?”

Both of her eyebrows rise. “I don’t know. He didn’t say.”

“How did he sound?”

Her head tilts as she scans my features slowly, perhaps looking for signs I’ve lost my mind. She wouldn’t be far wrong.

“Erm, fine. A bit rushed, but he sounded okay.”

I bite my lip and attempt to shrug back into my normal persona. It’s harder than usual. “Okay then, that’s great. Isn’t thatgreat?”

“What is?” She continues to stare at me.

I hesitate. “That everything is okay?”

“Hmm.” She finally gives up. “I’ll get you a coffee.”

“Thank you,” I say with feeling and scurry into my office.

The large space has big windows that look out over the back, narrow garden. It had been the original house’s kitchen. After Mick inherited the property, he’d converted the ground floor into the Confetti Hitched offices, and put his flat on the upper two storeys.

This room is one of my favourite places in the building. It has two walls of floor-to-ceiling bookcases painted a blue green that echoes the oriental wallpaper. A cavernous fireplace is on another wall. It’s currently filled with a flower arrangement that lends a delicate scent to the room.

The huge oak desk belonged to Mick’s great-great-grandad who’d accrued a fortune in shipping and cashiered that into a title from a grateful monarch to whom he’d loaned money. The wood is scratched in places, and sometimes when I’m thinking, I find myself tracing the marks and marvelling at the family history. The old guy was by all accounts a huge snob, so he’s probably rolling in his grave at the idea of a commoner like me sitting at his desk.

I sit down, swinging the chair slightly so I can see the edge of Artie’s desk. My assistant came to work for me when he was eighteen, but even at that age, he had the calm wisdom ofan owl. I’d quickly grown to trust his inner compass, as he’d demonstrated time and again that he’d known the right thing to do. He’s the sweet centre of the business and anticipates my moods and makes everything calm in my head.

He’s never steered me wrong. And in all the years I’ve known him, there’s never been anything urgent that’s stopped him from being here. Even when he broke his arm outside the office one morning, he still came into work that afternoon.

Ingrid sails into the office, carrying my coffee. “You alright?”

“Of course. Why?”

She sets my cup down. “No reason.” She follows the direction of my gaze towards Artie’s desk.

“Oh, I’m just thinking of redecorating,” I say quickly, feeling my face flush. “Time for a new broom, you know.”

“Not really. I don’t use the old broom at home.” Her lip twitches. “And you’re starting your plans with Artie’s desk. Howinteresting.”

“Go away, Ingrid,” I say firmly, hearing her snort with laughter.

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