Lost (Arielle Lockley Series Book 2) (5 page)

‘Pony... Pony, come on, you need to wake up.’

Irgh, what time is this? Why is Piers waking me up? If anything, I thought I’d be up before him and insisting that he gets out of bed so not to ruin his jet-lag recovery plan. I crank open my eyes. That’s painful. I squeeze them tightly shut again.

After Tabitha left us last night to hit the town with Ramone, we ended up going on to a club and got in very late. I open my eyes again and squint at the clock. It’s eight o’clock on a Sunday morning, and we went to bed four hours ago. Why is Piers so adamant that I need to get up?

‘No, thank you,’ I trill, pulling the duvet over my head.

He yanks it back down.

‘Hey! That’s cruel, Piers.’ I sit up, agitated, and yank the duvet back towards me. It’s February and it’s freezing – I do not need to be exposed to the elements like this. ‘Why did you do that?’

I am fully awake now, and fully pissed off. Wait, why does he look so worried?

‘What is it?’ I demand, all thoughts of tiredness and my hangover gone. 

He holds out his hands. ‘You need to come and see this.’

He leads me through to the kitchen, where the AGA is already warming up and a piece of lamb shoulder is on the side in a Le Creuset dish, fully prepped with garlic, rosemary and onions for what will be, no doubt, Piers’ epic eight-hour lamb. The TV is paused, which is unusual as Piers is more of a Radio 2 listener when he’s cooking. 

I yawn and stretch, shooting him a look. ‘Is this what’s so important? You wanted to show off your cooking skills? Could I not have gone to the loo first?’

And then I see what’s on the television, why he got me up.
Shit
. Shit, shit, shit! This can’t be happening, this can’t be real. I grab the remote and hit play.

‘Over one hundred firefighters were still battling the inferno at Camden Market in the early hours of this morning, after a blaze started at around seven o’clock last night. Flames reached as high as thirty metres, causing residents and revellers to be evacuated from the area.’

On screen it shows flames licking at the market, firefighters trying to bring the situation under control. Flames licking at my market, at my shop, at the London home of Arielle’s.

‘More than three hundred people who run stalls and shops at Camden Market may lose their livelihoods, and there are fears for the iconic Hawley Arms, celebrity hangout of Kate Moss, Pete Doherty, Noel Fielding and Kelly Osbourne. It’s unclear what started the fire, and investigations are under way.’

The footage flicks to a model walking down a catwalk in an outfit that is faintly ridiculous. She looks like a bumblebee mated with a T-Rex. 

‘Meanwhile, London Fashion Week kicks off today with the Prime Minister’s wife...’

I slump into a chair, trying to process what I’ve just seen. Piers crouches down next to me.

‘Go on then,’ I say thickly, desperate for a cup of coffee or something a bit stronger. ‘Tell me how it’s for the best, that I can now have a shop on the King’s Road.’

‘Hey,’ he protests, squeezing my hand. ‘None of that. I know you think that I was against Camden, but I wasn’t. I was against you rushing into making a decision which, let’s face it, you did do. If Felicity had said no then we’d have been stuck with that place for two years, and I’d have been the one paying for it.’

I resent that. OK, I would have needed Piers’ support to get started, but I would make a profit eventually, releasing Piers from helping me. Does he have no faith in me and think I couldn’t be a success without Felicity?

‘You can’t mix business and pleasure like you did,’ he continues, moving to sit down next to me on a chair. His knees crack as he stands up. ‘You invest business money into companies for a reason. You should never have risked our money like you did.’

‘Like I could have predicted that the market was going to burn down!’ I snap angrily.

I’m angry at myself though, not Piers. I’m angry because I know he’s right. I made a stupid decision using his credit card to secure the place, spurred on by the estate agent. There probably wasn’t another party interested in the shop; he wanted to make a quick buck and realised I was naive and gullible enough to believe his lies. I dismissed him as being a junior, but I was worse: I was a complete amateur.

And yes, I’m especially angry that I signed the shop for two years without a break clause in place. I just wanted to prove I can make something of myself, show that I’m not a waste of space who is only good for buying things and looking nice.

Piers shoots me a look.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean to snap. I’m just... I’m really sorry. I’ve messed up again, haven’t I?’

‘Well, it’s not ideal.’ Piers laughs. ‘But it’s a good insight into what the world of business can be like.’

How can he laugh? What’s remotely funny about this situation?

‘What will happen next?’ I ask.

‘In terms of what?’

‘Have I lost Felicity’s money?’

‘No, no. There’ll be insurance to cover all that, but what do you mean?’ He shoots me a puzzled look.

‘Well, we can’t launch there at the end of the month, and it looked pretty bad on the telly, didn’t it?’

‘It did,’ Piers agrees. ‘And you’re probably looking at six months, if not longer, before they reopen, though don’t count your chickens before they hatch. Phone the estate agents tomorrow and find out from them what’s going on, and then discuss with Felicity what you think you should do. Do you stick it out and wait, or get the deposit back and look elsewhere? Either way, you can’t do anything today.’

He’s right, but I’m itching to do something. I’ll go down there and start cleaning up the mess if it gets the market open quicker, though I’m fully aware that they aren’t going to let a random person contaminate a potential crime scene. I hate feeling powerless like this.

‘Look, how about you have a nice hot shower, I’ll cook some breakfast, and then we’ll talk about the wedding. It’s been four months since you said yes and I’m beginning to worry that you’ve changed your mind!’

I now feel even more guilty. I’ve been so caught up with everything else that I didn’t think how my lack of wedding planning might look to Piers.

‘That sounds lovely.’ I stand up and kiss him on the cheek. ‘I love you, Piers Bramley.’

He smiles at me. ‘I love you too, Arielle Lockley.’

At least one thing in my life is going right.

I drop my stack of magazines on the table, causing Piers to look up in alarm from his copy of the
Sunday Times
. He looks bemused when he clocks how many magazines I’ve bought.

‘Are all those really necessary, Pony?’

‘They are!’

OK, maybe fifteen bridal magazines is thirteen more than we need for just the two of us, but there are so many titles out there that I had a definite fear of missing out. I can’t believe I haven’t picked up any before now.

We’ve decamped to a pub round the corner from ours, and Piers has grabbed our favourite snug. I plonk myself down on the burgundy-striped high back armchair and rotate it round so that I’m facing the fire. It’s been ridiculously mild in London for this time of year, getting up to a crazy fifteen degrees Celsius yesterday, but I feel freezing despite this. I hope I haven’t finally succumbed to Piers’ germs. I clear my throat apprehensively. Did I just dislodge a tickle, or did I imagine that?

The pub has a square bar in the centre of the room with two snugs at one end, separated by a tall bookcase filled with battered Penguin Classics and charity shop finds. They don’t do Sunday lunch here, which is why Piers has managed to grab this spot, not that we need food. We left the house to the smell of heavenly roast lamb which is halfway through its eight hours of cooking time. If I was drooling at the four-hour mark, I’ll be inhaling it in one gulp when it’s ready to serve. If Piers ever wants to give up the day job, I reckon we could make a professional chef out of him. Maybe I should make him apply for
MasterChef
?

‘I got us a bottle of their house Sauvignon Blanc.’

For a house bottle of wine, it’s bloody lovely. Saying that though, for these parts it’s £30 for a bottle of house wine, so it needs to be. I wish London was a bit more like Florence or Rome where you can pick up a gorgeous litre of house wine for about a fiver.

I smile, even though my hangover makes me feel queasy at the thought of more alcohol. ‘Let’s toast to wedding planning,’ I suggest.

‘To wedding planning,’ Piers calls out. ‘And to us.’

We clink our glasses. Terribly uncouth, I know, but sod the silly rules.

‘Right,’ I say, all business-like, taking off my coat now I’ve warmed up a bit. I leave my gigantic knitted grey snood on. Snoods are going to be all the rage soon, mark my words.

Piers is dressed in some faded Diesel jeans and a casual checked red and navy shirt – his coat, scarf and jumper are discarded already. I’m more susceptible to feeling cold than he is, so I’m glad they’ve stoked the fire in here, though I shudder at the thought of the fire at the market. I’m so glad no one was hurt.

Piers raises his eyebrows in concern, and I nod quickly to indicate I’m OK. Today is about the wedding.

‘Take a magazine and start looking,’ I command.

‘Shouldn’t we have a plan?’

‘Nah, let’s just dive in and see what’s what.’

Within five minutes I’m seriously regretting my suggestion. ‘What were you saying about a plan?’ I ask.

Piers grins at this. ‘I thought you’d never ask, Pony!’

I swat him with my copy of
With this ring, I be wed
, which has to win the prize for most ridiculous title of any of the magazines I’ve bought;
To have, and to hold
comes in a close second.

He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small Moleskine notebook. I have a massive handbag with me, and I’m not nearly that organised. I didn’t even think to bring pens and paper. This is further proof that Piers and I are, in fact, the perfect match.

‘First things first,’ he says. ‘Date, venue and numbers.’

‘Doesn’t the date sort of depend on the venue’s availability?’ I stick my tongue out at him.

‘OK, Miss Smarty Pants. What sort of venue do you want to get married in? Church, registry office or other?’

A registry office feels kind of impersonal, and a church doesn’t fit our ways, so it has to be “other”.

‘Other.’

‘Like a hotel or a stately home?’ Piers suggests.

I nod.

‘Me, too.’ He writes that down. ‘Right, London, New Forest or other?’

‘How about abroad?’

A small romantic wedding on the beach could be nice, or maybe somewhere like Lake Como remembering Italy’s cheap wine. Definitely not Las Vegas though.

‘Do you want to get married abroad?’

‘I don’t know, but I definitely know that I don’t want to get married in central London or the New Forest.’

‘OK, near London?’

‘What do you think?’ I ask. ‘I mean, we don’t really want to inconvenience anyone by making them schlep around the country to get to our wedding, and we don’t really want to schlep around the country looking at places...’

I take a sip of my wine, and finally take off my snood.

‘OK, how many people should we invite?’ Piers asks.

‘Ummmm.’

‘Right, close your eyes.’

‘Piers!’

He leans over and grabs my hand. ‘Just close your eyes please.’

I do as he says, though I feel like a wally. Sitting in the pub with your eyes closed just looks weird, but at least there aren’t too many people in here. Most people prefer The Cracker Inn on a Sunday, which is just down the road; they do a scrumptious roast. 

‘What do you see?’ he asks.

I pause, and think for a moment. ‘I see you in your wedding suit. You look ridiculously handsome.’ I laugh, albeit a little nervously. Getting married is such a grown up thing to do. ‘And we’re in a small hall, more like a room really.’

‘So it’s not very full?’

‘Oh no,’ I answer. ‘It’s crammed full of people, but it’s a small room. Definitely less than fifty people in there.’

‘OK, and what does it look like?’

I think about this. ‘It’s very grand,’ I finally say. ‘Old-fashioned with charm, rather than out-of-date and musty. There are suits of armour and colourful paintings, lots of silverware and grand chandeliers.’

‘And what about afterwards? Where are we having our wedding breakfast?’

‘It’s full of light and candles, a big roaring fire, intimate tables of six or eight, and lots of laughter.’

Irgh, a big roaring fire. I wonder how the firefighters are getting on down in Camden and whether there’s any chance... Piers’ hand touching my arm makes me jump, and I open my eyes to find him staring at me with his big brown eyes. 

‘None of that, please,’ he chides. ‘You can’t change anything thinking about the market, and you’re not supposed to be thinking about it because we’re planning
our wedding
. So, close your eyes and tell me about where we have our first dance?’

I do as I’m told. I love it when he gets a bit stern with me.

‘It’s a cross between the ceremony room and where we have the wedding breakfast.’

I smile, and even though I can’t see him, I bet Piers is smiling back.

‘There are a lot more people on the sidelines, but it’s not too crowded,’ I continue.

Forget him becoming a chef! If he gave up the day job, maybe his calling is to be a wedding planner. This visualisation technique of his is
brilliant
.

‘Open your eyes.’

I do to find that Piers is, indeed, smiling at me. ‘Sounds like the perfect wedding to me, my love,’ he says. ‘And it sounds like a castle.’

A castle, huh? I like the sound of that, plus there are a fair few near London for us to choose from. God bless the Norman Conquest.

‘Here.’

He throws a magazine at me, then moves his armchair closer. I glance down and see that it’s
Castle Weddings
.

‘Let’s both take a look through this one.’