Sleeping with the Soldier. Charlotte Phillips
running through a mental list of the hundred-plus things she needed to get done today. A full-length gilt-framed mirror had been delivered the previous day; it would provide the perfect vintage centrepiece for the small shop floor, and she needed to decide where best to put that too. Then there were garlands of silk flowers to hang and some tiny white pin lights to add to the girly atmosphere she wanted to achieve.
The torrent of water rinsing through her hair seemed to be losing its force. She opened one eye and squinted through the bubbles up at the shower head. Yep. The usual nice flow was definitely diminishing. And without the sound of the running water she was suddenly able to hear a monstrous clanking noise coming from behind the wall and above her head.
‘What the hell …?’ she said aloud as the water reduced to little more than a trickle. The clanking built to a crescendo.
Oh, just bloody perfect. Naked, covered in bubbles and with her hair a bird’s nest of shampoo, she climbed out of the shower unit and wrapped a towel around her. A quick twist of the sink tap gave a loud clanking spurt of water followed by nothing. She grabbed her kimono from the hook on the back of the bathroom door and shrugged it on as she took the few paces to the kitchen to check the water pressure there.
She didn’t make it as far as the sink. Horrified shock stopped her in her tracks as she took in the torrent of water pouring down the wall of the living room, pooling into a flood and soaking merrily into a pile of silk camisoles she’d left in a stack on the floor.
‘No-o-o!’ she squawked, dashing across the floor, picking up armfuls of her lovingly made garments and moving them to safety on the other side of the room. She kicked the metal clothes rail out of the way as she passed it, the few garments hanging at one end already splashed by the ensuing torrent of water.
She rushed to the cabinet under the sink, found the stopcock and turned off the water supply as she tried madly to rationalise what could have happened, then she stood, hand plastered to her forehead as her mind worked through the implications of all this. Some of her garments had been soaked through—there went hours of work down the drain. The water continued to spread across the floor in a slow-moving pool. She knew instinctively from the clanking in the pipes that this wasn’t going to be some five-minute do-it-yourself quick-fix job. The building was ancient. Behind the glossy makeover of the flat conversion was interlinked original pipework. That much was obvious from the racket they made when the love god upstairs was entertaining.
She had absolutely no money to spare for a plumber. She wondered if any of the rest of the building was affected. Surely it wasn’t just her? In a panic she opened the flat door with the intention of knocking on the door opposite and instead ran smack into Poppy, who was on her way up to her own flat with a chocolate croissant in one hand and a takeaway coffee in the other. Poppy’s mouth fell open at her insane appearance.
‘What the hell happened to you?’
‘My flat’s flooded,’ Lara gabbled. ‘It’s like the deck of the sodding Titanic in there. I’ve got a shedload of stock in the room, my shop launches next week and I’ve got no hot water.’
Poppy didn’t so much as flinch. She exuded utter calm. Maybe it was a side-effect of medical training that you simply became good in any crisis. Lara shifted from one foot to the other while she leaned around her to see into the living room.
‘Have you turned off the water?’
Lara nodded.
‘It seems to have stopped it getting any worse. But just look at the mess.’
Poppy walked into the room and put her coffee down on the trestle table.
‘I see what you mean,’ she said, peering at the enormous spreading puddle on the floor and the piles of silk and velvet clothing now strewn haphazardly on the other side of the room.
‘I need this room to work in and now I’ll be behind with my stock levels,’ Lara wailed.
The full implications of the situation began to sink in. She’d been running at her absolute limit to get the pop-up shop off the ground in so many ways, working all hours, hocked to the eyeballs financially, using her living accommodation as workspace. She had absolutely no back-up plan. Despair made her stomach churn sickly and she clutched at her hair in frustration. It felt matted and sticky from the puddle of shampoo she’d been unable to rinse out.
‘Not to mention the lack of running water,’ she added. ‘I’ll have to stick my head under the tap in the café toilets downstairs.’
‘You rent, don’t you?’ Poppy said, unruffled, crossing the room to look at the huge dark patch on the wallpaper. ‘Have you called the landlord?’
Lara sat down on the sofa and put her head in her hands. She’d been far too busy having a meltdown of major proportions to do anything as practical as that.
‘Not yet.’
‘It will be down to the landlord to get it sorted, not you. You don’t need to stress about cost.’
That was lucky, because cost was one thing she really couldn’t do any more of right now.
‘It isn’t just that,’ Lara said, pressing a hand to her forehead and trying to think rationally. Already there was a musty smell drifting from the soaked wood floor and bubbling wallpaper. ‘It stinks in here—it’ll permeate my stock. I’m hardly going to dominate the market with seductive lingerie that smells like a damp garden shed, am I? Not exactly alluring and sensuous, is it? And even if I could leave it here, there’ll be workmen traipsing through. I can’t risk any further damage. My back’s against the wall with the shop opening next week. And I can’t stay here anyway if there’s no running water.’
She could hear the upset nasal tone in her own voice and bit down hard on her lip to suppress it. She didn’t do emotional outbursts. That kind of thing elicited sympathy and she was far too self-reliant to want or need any of that. But she’d given her everything to this shop project and now it felt as if all her hard work had hit standstill in the space of ten minutes.
Poppy, who clearly didn’t know or care about the not-liking-sympathy thing, joined her on the sofa, put an arm around her shoulders and gave her an encouraging smile and a squeeze.
‘Come and stay with us for a few days, then, until it’s sorted out,’ she said. ‘The boxroom’s free—you’d be welcome to it. It’s pretty titchy, but at least it’s dry. And even better …’ she waited until Lara looked at her and threw her hands up triumphantly ‘… I have running water! Cheer up, it’ll all seem better when your hair doesn’t look like a ferret’s nest.’
Lara felt her lip twitch.
Poppy’s grin was warm and friendly. But still the shake of the head came automatically to her, like a tic or an ingrained stock reaction. Lara Connor didn’t take help or charity. She’d got where she was relying only on herself.
‘I couldn’t possibly impose on you like that,’ she said. ‘I’ll be perfectly fine. I’ll figure something out myself.’
Figuring something out herself had featured in a big way on her path in life. Taking offers of help didn’t come easily to Lara. Relying on other people was a sure-fire route to finding yourself let down.
‘You’ve got a headful of shampoo and no running water,’ Poppy pointed out.
Lara touched her hair lightly with one hand. It was beginning to itch now, and seemed to be drying to a hideous crispy cotton-wool kind of texture. She hesitated. Her back really was against the wall over the shop. She groped for some kind of alternative solution that she could handle on her own but none presented itself. Even if she had enough room at the pop-up shop to store all her extra stock, she couldn’t exactly move in and live there, could she? There was one tiny back room with a toilet, no furniture, no space, no chance.
‘Stop being ridiculous,’ Poppy said in a case-closed tone of voice. ‘It really is not such a big deal. It makes perfect sense. I’ve got a spare room and you’re stuck for a