Playing for Keeps: A fun, flirty romantic comedy perfect for summer reading. Rosa Temple
had watched Anthony looking over the menu, smiling at the way his lips were moving as he read. His dark hair was cut short now; he’d become annoyed by the cloying heat that came with the unusually long summer us Brits were having. Never being able to find one of my scrunchies to put his hair up when he was working on a painting, he took himself off to a local barber and got them to do the deed. His chocolate-brown eyes looked tired behind his glasses and his clothes were characteristically splashed with paint.
Every Saturday we took time out to have brunch at our favourite café bar. The intention was for us to catch up on our week. I know I spent a lot of the meal yawning and I also knew that, straight after we ate, Anthony would be back in his studio and wouldn’t surface until the evening.
On our walk to Rhythm ‘N’ Brews we had, however, started quite a serious conversation, only to have to stop it mid-sentence when we saw how busy the place was. Luckily someone was just about to vacate our favourite table and we’d made a beeline for it, giggling along the way and bumping into a chair. Once we’d ordered and settled down I got back to the conversation.
‘I’m not saying you shouldn’t go, Anthony. It’s just that the timing sucks. What if you’re not back in time for the Grand Opening of the shop?’
‘Of course I will be. I’m only going for a month and the money I make on this commission could buy me the art gallery I’ve been thinking about opening.’
‘I never knew you were thinking about opening a gallery.’ I was amazed. ‘Since when?’
‘I’m sure I’ve talked about it before. I know you’ve been preoccupied with opening; maybe it slipped by you.’ He stared out of the window at my empty shop. So did I. Yes, I had been preoccupied. I remember him mentioning his studio closing in on him and that he was thinking about moving to a bigger space. I also remember saying it was a good idea, but I didn’t remember him bringing up either the studio or the gallery again after that one time. Were we drifting so far apart I was losing focus on what was happening with Anthony?
I heard our waiter at a nearby table. ‘Fats Waffle with maple syrup and Nat King Corn Bread with Scrambled Eggs?’
‘Over here,’ I beckoned.
‘Don’t worry, Magenta,’ Anthony said as the food was placed in front of us. ‘Nothing will stop me being here for the opening. And as far as the art gallery idea goes, it is only an idea at the moment… Magenta? You still with me?’
‘I… er…’
She was there again, the woman with the super-tanned skin and long hair. This time she was dressed all in black. Weird for a warm day. Maybe she was a witch after all. After seeing her pass the shop when I was with the architect, Jack, so much had happened I’d almost forgotten about her. I’d had a big response to the adverts for a shop manager and sales assistant, I’d found a builder who was due to start work in a few days and made some headway in my designer baby-change bags. Also in that time Anthony had announced his intention to fly out to Italy again to complete another art commission for a rich lawyer who’d seen the paintings he’d been working on for an Italian film producer when Anthony and I first got together.
But it was the strange woman who occupied my thoughts just then. If I thought back, I did remember seeing her again after that first time. It was the day I’d met with the builders. Yes, she had been there and I wondered then if she came on regular visits to the empty shop. I had put the idea out of my head, reasoning it was just coincidence. But not this time.
‘It’s her,’ I said to Anthony.
‘Her who?’
‘The one I told you about. The witch who’s come to put a curse on me.’
Anthony looked up from his large brunch plate and over at the shop on the opposite corner.
‘She does look a bit like a witch. Is that an incantation she’s murmuring under her breath?’ Anthony said before shovelling in a mouthful of food.
I peered closer, almost leaning an elbow into my waffle. Her lips weren’t moving at all. ‘Stop teasing me, Anthony. Do you think I should go over there and ask her what she wants?’
‘She’s probably just curious. Maybe she was a fan of Veronique’s and wants to know who’s taking over.’
‘Probably. But can’t she just wait like everyone else?’
The tanned woman turned to walk away, facing our direction and then looking from left to right before crossing.
‘Do you think she sees me?’ I asked moving back from the window.
‘Well, if she does, and she was there looking for you, then maybe she’ll come in.’
We both turned to the door but she crossed the road and walked straight past the café bar. I watched her leave, screwing up my brow, racking my brain to try to remember if and when I’d ever met her before but drawing a blank. Besides which, had she been looking for me or thought she knew me, wouldn’t she just have come in and introduced herself that first time? She’d had a second opportunity when she saw me with the builders. Even today she could have put a note through the letterbox at the bottom of the door. I was baffled and still not convinced she wasn’t a witch.
The following week I went with Anya to the hospital for her scan. She’d ignored the letter inviting her for this eighteen-week scan and, at approximately twenty-five weeks pregnant, even I felt sheepish walking into the private hospital on Brompton Road with her. Anya, though, marched through the automatic doors into reception and demanded to know where they did scans these days.
‘What department is doing your scan?’ the receptionist asked.
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Anya glared across the reception desk with green eyes blazing at the now-cowering man on the desk.
‘Er, n… not really,’ he blundered, losing confidence by the second.
‘We need maternity,’ I said, because I could feel Anya was about to demand to see the owner of the establishment in her usual Anya way when she wasn’t happy with the service.
‘D… down the corridor,’ he signalled. ‘Follow the red line to the end, t… take a left and you’ll see the sign.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, pulling Anya by the arm. Her large eyes trailed behind, shooting evils at the receptionist until he was out of her view.
‘Look,’ she said. ‘If this is how they treat their customers then maybe I’ll give this a miss.’
I continued to link her arm as we followed the red line.
‘Anya, don’t flake out on me. You need antenatal care. You don’t expect me to deliver this baby, do you?’ She looked at me, hopeful. ‘Anya! All I’m going to do when you go into labour is hold your hand and fetch ice. The professionals will be taking care of you.’
‘But I trust you, Madge. These places give me the creeps, you know that.’
‘I know, but I’ve got your back, darling. You don’t have to be scared.’
‘Who said anything about being scared? And anyvay, it’s probably better to have a C-section. Victoria Beckham has had about nine of them now and she looks great.’
‘Caesarians are major operations. Natural childbirth is best.’
‘Fuck that,’ she said.
‘We’re here, Anya. And you’ll have to stop swearing – the baby can pick up on it.’
‘And fuck you too, Madge.’
I pushed Anya to the counter where a skinny nurse in a dark-blue uniform beamed a massive smile at her. I could tell she recognised Anya but the staff must have been trained to act cool; a very famous and very rich