The Chic Boutique On Baker Street. Rachel Dove
to the door of the shop and smiled tightly at Agatha.
‘Good morning, Mrs Mayweather.’
Agatha smiled tightly in return, trying not to stare at the girl’s shocking pink hair, which today was piled on top of her head like a solid structure of candy floss. The youth of today, she thought to herself. Tracy moved closer to Ben, taking the dog leads, attached to the very bouncy Maisie and Buster, from his grasp. Agatha caught a flash of colour from the shop window next door, and discreetly turned her gaze. The girl from the shop was now furtively staring at Ben as he chatted to Taylor, and her gaze flitted from Ben to Tracy, and back again. Did she think these two were together? Agatha’s interest was peaked. The look on the girl’s face was one she had seen before. It was how her husband used to look at her during their courting days, and how the young Evans lad had been looking at the girl only minutes before. The cogs started turning in Agatha’s quick mind, and a seed of a plan began to form.
As Taylor said their goodbyes, closing the door near Agatha and moving to his own, he looked at his long-term employer and suppressed a smile. I know that look, he thought to himself, that woman is plotting again …
Had Agatha noticed Taylor watching her through the rear-view mirror as she straightened her already immaculate suit on the leather upholstery of the back seat, she would have seen his amused look, and another, very different look in his eyes. But Mrs Mayweather was lost in thought, planning her strategy on her next pet project, and, as everyone knew, what Agatha Mayweather wanted, she generally got, sooner rather than later.
Four months earlier
London
Stepping down onto the platform, Amanda juggled her leather briefcase, black wool coat and Grande Caramel Macchiato. She felt grotty, despite the flesh-grating power shower she had subjected her skin to only hours before. The fetid stench of the rat race seemingly clung to her clothes. The memory of the sweaty bloke’s armpit she’d travelled pressed up against on the train was still fresh in her memory, and the smell still lingered in her nostrils. She took a gulp of her strong caffeine and sugar fix and fumbled for her ticket, swiping it as she went past the ticket barrier, a single body in the herd of office workers walking stridently towards the various workplaces in the city centre. Feeling a buzz from her handbag, she tapped on her Bluetooth earpiece, barking, ‘Perry!’ into the busy atmosphere.
‘Miss Perry, it’s Elaine. I just wanted to go over your schedule for today. You haven’t left any time for lunch again. Do you want me to rearrange anything?’
Angela rolled her eyes, almost tipping her coffee over herself as she flicked her wrist to check her watch. ‘No, Elaine, it’s fine. I will send out for something, and have a working lunch.’ She walked out of the station, click-clacking in her high heels along the pavement towards her office, law firm Stokes Partners at Law. She could hear her long-suffering assistant sighing down the line.
‘No problem, Miss Perry, shall I ring Antony’s?’ Antony’s was the deli round the corner from the office, and they delivered. Pasta, salads, breads and cheeses to die for. Amanda’s stomach growled, betraying the yoghurt and blueberries she had gulped down this morning. Amanda smiled at her assistant’s fussy care of her.
‘Yes, please, Elaine, my usual. Thanks, I’ll be there in ten.’
Elaine said goodbye and the line clicked off. Passing the newsagent stand, Amanda’s eye was distracted from her fast walk to the office when she spied the latest craft magazines on the stands. Striding up, she smiled at the stallholder, then picked up half a dozen of her coveted magazines and passed the armful to him.
‘Wrap them up please, Terry,’ she said, handing over the cash.
‘I know, I know, can’t have those fancy lawyers knowing about your secret knitting habit, eh?’ he teased, as he wrapped up the magazines in brown paper and then sheathed them into a large carrier bag.
Amanda laughed. ‘Something like that, Terry.’
Moments later, she entered her office on the fourth floor, coffee still warm in her hand, fired up her computer and walked over to her filing cabinet. Opening the bottom drawer with a small key from her bag, she stashed the package of magazines inside, relocked the cabinet and double-checked it was locked. Relieved to have once again smuggled them in undetected, she walked across the plush grey carpet, her tiny stiletto heels leaving small dents in the thick floor covering. At the large low window, she reached across with a manicured hand and drew back the fabric blinds, letting the early morning London sun dance across her workspace. Amanda loved her office, with its stark white walls, huge cherry-red desk and a small seating area, complete with table and elegant carved chairs. Although the decor was a little too bland for her personal tastes, it was perfect for meeting clients in comfort. She preferred to work this way, rather than using the impersonal and imposing meeting rooms on the first floor. In fact, other than being in court, Amanda would be quite happy to spend all of her working hours in her office. She liked the logical side of the law, seeing through a project from start to finish, undertaking each stage, piece by piece, layering the work needed to be done in neat piles, all in colour-coded trays on top of the large mahogany surface she slaved at. The cut-throat side of the business always left her cold. She was tough, and fierce in the courtroom, but she had no passion for it. She always felt like her mother when she turned on the ball-breaker side of herself, and her grandma’s voice would ring in her head: You are not like them, my little duck, their world is not for you. She still wondered from time to time whether her grandmother was right. There must be more to life than feeling the need to conceal half of your personality every day. Did anyone know the real her? Didn’t anyone notice how conflicted she was? She sighed to herself. They don’t know, because you don’t show them. She knew what they thought of her.
Amanda was well liked in the office; in fact she was pretty much considered a maverick in the law firm of Stokes Partners at Law. She was a shark; an organised, keen-eyed, methodical-minded shark and her billable hours were always stellar, month on month. Even when she had been knocked down with the flu, she had worked from her couch, sending in dictation via email to her disbelieving PA Elaine.
The partners were considering a new addition to the partnership in the next few months, as Mr Ford, one of the oldest and most senior members of the firm, was retiring, much to his neglected (and at the moment, very insistent) wife’s delight.
Amanda, as oblivious as she was to such things as office gossip and the buzz around the water cooler, was the clear front-runner, and tipped to be the first ever female partner at the firm. The other contenders were few and far between, and it was widely accepted that the partnership spot was between Amanda and Marcus Beresford, a guy with more years at the firm under his designer belt.
Amanda wasn’t even sure how she felt about the partnership. After all, what was the point of more money if you never left the office to spend it? And who would she spend it with? Other than her work colleagues, she didn’t even speak to anyone, let alone socialise. Last Saturday night, whilst her colleagues were all with their families, or knocking back overpriced drinks in loud sweaty clubs, she had been sat in her flat, knocking back wine, flicking through Plenty of Fish for a possible date and screening calls from her parents, both eager to give her pep talks about ‘the last push for partner’. Her mother had even taken to sending her daily emails, suggesting ways of clinching the partnership, whilst simultaneously disparaging her for not cutting her hair short or returning their calls.
As though summoned by Amanda’s mind, Elaine buzzed through.
‘Miss Perry, I have your mother on line one.’
Amanda rolled her eyes, groaning.
‘Tell her I am in a meeting please, Elaine.’
‘Er …’ Elaine’s hesistant voice came through the speaker. ‘I have told her that excuse the last five times, and she says if you don’t speak to her