Chapter 1
I never imagined I’d really do this. I never dared to consider leaving my mum behind in our small village of Helston, but after years of battling guilt and grief, I’ve finally made it here, to London, where I’ve always wanted to be. Maybe a few years too late and definitely under shitty circumstances, but I’ve made it.
Mum will be fine. It’s what I’ve told myself repeatedly since I boarded the train. Her bright smile felt forced, her wave seemed hesitant, and her voice was shaking with emotion when she held me tightly and told me to show London what I’m made of. But I’m not sure what I’m made of. I’m yet to find out.
Mum will be fine. Mum will be fine. Mum will be fine.
I’d probably be more certain if Dad was there with her.
My father was a very traditional man. He owned a small antiques store, most of the stock worth peanuts. He used to say that the monetary value was of little importance – that more opulent art and antiques were more trouble than they were worth. I didn’t agree with him, though I learned over the years not to get into a debate over that. Many called my father eccentric. They were right. He was a character for sure, spent all his time lost in the mountains of junk he called his treasure, his spectacles resting on the end of his nose as he inspected, polished, or restored whatever piece he’d recently acquired. Mum used to call his shop Steptoe’s Yard. I used to call it the office.
I certainly inherited my father’s fascination of all things old, although I have always been drawn to the richer and more historical end of the art and antiquing spectrum. The more rarefied and desirable pieces. The real treasures of this world, not the dilapidated junk my father seemed to find. I’d aced my A levels, was sailing through a history degree at university, and was all set to chase my dream . . . and then Dad passed away. A brain tumour was diagnosed one week, the next he was gone. There was nothing to be done. There was also no time to come to terms with it before he was confined to his bed where he rapidly deteriorated to nothing. He was skin and bones. Half the man we knew. Mum was devastated. I was in shock. Dad was gone.
And so it was. My future was sealed. I sacrificed my dreams of venturing off into the big, wide world to keep Dad’s memory alive and his precious store open. The natural progression, I guess you could call it. It didn’t feel very natural to me. While Dad’s treasure held a certain fondness in my heart, it wasn’t the level of history I dreamed of exploring. But Mum needed me.
Now he’s been gone five years. I’ve spent the best part of my twenties immersed in dust and struggling to keep my father’s business afloat, dreaming of history beyond my family legacy. Like Sotheby’s and fine antiques. Like auction houses and historical masters of art. Like the tons of books on treasure I’ve immersed myself in. It was all suddenly out of reach. Guilt, grief, and a heavy sense of responsibility kept me in Helston. I felt suffocated. Unfulfilled. Dad’s business struggled more each day, and my sense of purpose was crumbling with it. And then there was a breaking point. The point when I realised I was worth more than I was settling for – both professionally and personally. It was the moment when I walked in on my boyfriend and my best friend tearing each other’s clothes off.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t collapse to my knees in despair. My heart simply didn’t have the energy to beat faster. I turned and walked away, my mind focused on my next move, as David chased after me and Amy sloped off quietly. My next move didn’t involve either of them. In that moment, I realised that I owed it to myself to chase my dreams, and with Mum’s blessing and encouragement, I was ready to do exactly that.
So here I am in London, the busiest and most grand city within my reach. I can’t afford to go back to university to finish my degree, but I’m prepared to start at the bottom and work my way up. I need to get some money behind me and pick up where I left off all those years ago.
I can do this. I’m where I am supposed to be.
I look at the photograph in my hand, the one I always carry on me. It’s of me and Dad. His arm is draped loosely around my shoulders, my long, red hair tangled in his fingers, and my face is screwed up on a laugh from his fierce grip. He never liked letting go of me. ‘I’m in big, scary London, Dad,’ I say to the picture. ‘Wish me luck.’ I tuck it away in my purse and take a deep breath.
The sun is warm on my face, and I’m smiling as I scurry along with my fellow Londoners down Regent Street. I’m in the smartest clothes I could find in my wardrobe – a black skirt that I fear is on the short side for an interview, but it will have to do, a white blouse with a cute black and white polka-dot scarf, and a black mac. My toes are pinching in my high-heeled shoes, but I don’t care. I’m jobless, friendless, and I have a limited amount of cash. Surprisingly, none of these things are making me stressed, but it does mean nailing my interview today is essential. The job market is sparse. There are never many openings in the art and antiques world at the best of times, but the market is particularly dry at the moment. My only other option isn’t even an option yet – not until the agency confirms the rumours are true. There are whispers of a very appealing position coming to the market, but until those whispers are confirmed, the agency can’t tell me anything more. So I really do need to nail today’s interview. I can’t depend on an option that might not even be an option. I’ll only survive another month before the rent is due on my flat in south London. Flat? I smile to myself. Two rooms hardly qualify as a flat. Everything – the bedroom, the kitchen, the lounge, the dining area – is in one room. The other room is a poky bathroom. But it’s mine. It’s a start.
I reach the end of the street and stand by the side of the road, glancing around before looking down at my watch. I have fifteen minutes to find my way to the address I have noted down, and I’ve no clue which direction I should be heading in. I retrieve the directions I was sent, but they don’t make any sense, so I grab my phone and bring up Google Maps. Except I don’t have an internet connection, and it’s all I can do not to throw the damn thing at a wall when I realise why. I have no data allowance left.
‘Shit,’ I curse to myself, diving in front of a businessman. ‘Excuse me, could you tell me where Bond—’ I’m barged aside on a frustrated scowl without a word of apology as he steams past me. ‘Nice,’ I mutter, straightening myself. ‘Oh, could you help me, please?’ I intercept a smartly dressed lady, but she just waves a mobile phone in my face before taking it back to her ear and hurrying away. ‘Great.’ I assess the many people dodging my immobile state as I stand in the middle of the pavement like a clown. ‘Welcome to London,’ I sigh, my shoulders dropping.
I cross the road and cheer when I see a map on the corner. It takes me a few seconds to figure out where I am, another few to find my destination, and only a nanosecond to realise it’s going to take me more than fifteen minutes to walk it. Or hobble. My feet are throbbing. Today’s interview is for an amazing position – personal assistant to a curator at an auction house. It’s perfect. I can’t be late.