Playing by the Rules: The feel-good heart-warming and uplifting romance perfect for Valentine’s Day

I leaned on the rail of the balcony and sighed. I was an artist who no longer owned a sketch pad and who didn’t have an HB pencil to her name. My talents lay elsewhere as I kept trying to tell everyone. I was an expert in where to get the best cosmopolitan in town, how to dress well and how to get invited to all the good parties in London, Paris, New York and at least four other cities in the world. With those credentials how was I ever going to get a job that lasted a year and what on earth did working for a year actually feel like?

I went back inside and put on some music. Before flopping onto the large red sofa in the middle of my spacious living room I grabbed the phone and called my younger sister, Ebony. Ebony was the most serious of us all and the most sensible. She was three years younger than me but seemed to have at least thirty years of common sense built into her anatomy and I admired her for that.

‘I was expecting your call,’ she said when she picked up.

‘Can you talk? Where are you?’ I said. I was upside down on the sofa, thick hair almost touching the wooden floorboards and feet crossed over the headrest. I could see I was due a pedicure. ‘You sound like you’re on the move.’

‘I am,’ said Ebony and I pictured her in the power suit she’d been wearing earlier today. A dark red skirt and jacket with a brilliant white shirt underneath. She wore an amber brooch on the collar of her jacket, one of the treasures Nana Clementine had given to her. Each time we went to see Nana in her sickbed she would point a long, thin finger at her jewellery box and present us with some precious gem or ring or bracelet. I had a box full of Nana Clementine treasures and there had been times, desperate ones of course, when I’d thought about taking them to the pawnshop on Notting Hill Gate.

‘I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes,’ said Ebony. ‘I’m just getting into the car but I think I have the solution to your financial predicament.’

I sat up quickly, the blood rushing away from my head, and I swooned.

‘Oh, Ebony, you’re a sweetheart,’ I breathed. ‘Are you sure about this?’

‘Sure about what, Magenta?’ I heard her car start up.

‘Well you’re going to loan me some cash, right?’ I said casually. Because, after all, what’s the point in having a favourite sister if she didn’t give you money when you needed it?

‘Better than that,’ said Ebony. ‘I’m going to put you onto someone who can give you a job.’ Ebony had started driving. I could hear traffic from her end but I had suddenly lost the ability to focus on the David Hockney lithograph on the wall opposite me. Its vibrant colour scheme was nothing but a blur before my eyes.

‘Magenta, are you still there?’ Ebony shouted.

‘I am, but for a moment I thought you said you might have found me a job.’

‘Welcome to the world of the grown-ups, Magenta. My neighbour’s son is taking over from him and is hiring. Just yesterday Arthur told me that his son, Anthony, is interviewing for a new PA. I called Arthur a second ago and he called Anthony. You need to see Anthony tomorrow morning at ten-thirty at his office in Mayfair.’

It was all happening too fast. An interview? A job? Who the hell was Anthony and why would he hire me?

‘Look you’ve been a PA before, Magenta. It’s more or less in the bag. Anthony won’t know what he’s looking for in a PA because he’s new to the game. You just have to go and convince him that you’re the one for the job. You know how to do that.’

‘I don’t. I haven’t got a clue.’

‘Yes, you have. You know exactly how to manipulate people. How else could you get Mother and Father to keep you in the lifestyle you lead without having to lift a finger?’

‘That’s not manipulation, Ebony, that’s a mother and father’s genuine love for their daughter.’

‘They’ve spoilt you and you know it. Now get off that sofa of yours and get practising your interview technique. I’ll text the details.’

‘But I …’ With a click the line was dead and Ebony had probably zipped off in her sports car without a single thought as to how having to go for an interview would affect me.

It wasn’t until a little while later, when I was mixing an emergency margarita, that I realised I didn’t even know what the company I would be interviewing for actually did. A text came through from Ebony with the details of the job interview and I was none the wiser.

My interview was with Anthony Shearman. The company was called A Shearman Leather Designs. I supposed the ‘A’ stood for Arthur, Ebony’s neighbour, and quite fitting that his son, Anthony, another ‘A’, was taking over. The office was in Mayfair, classy, so that was fine but as for leather designs, well, that could be anything. Hopefully Ebony hadn’t lined me up for a job in anything kinky and the leather might mean shoes and handbags – two of my favourite words. I’d never heard the name Shearman in top fashion so they obviously weren’t a designer label, but with an office in Mayfair they must be doing well.

I decided to Google ‘A Shearman Leather Designs’. I opened my laptop on the coffee table and sat on the floor, my back against the sofa, a second margarita beside the laptop.

I saw that Arthur Shearman inherited the company from Arthur Shearman Senior, long since deceased. They started as cobblers of men’s shoes in the West End of London and branched out into boot making, wallets, briefcases and men’s leather gloves. In fact, every conceivable leather item a well-to-do city gent could require, A Shearman made and sold it. They also owned a small factory in East London. Arthur Junior was recently retired and his thirty-three-year-old son, Anthony, was to take the helm.

It looked as if most of their sales were online. There was a picture of Arthur Shearman shaking hands with his son at a party. His son was tall and looked pleasant enough. In fact, when I zoomed in on the picture, Anthony Shearman wasn’t bad-looking at all. I could work very happily alongside those looks for a year, I thought to myself as I zoomed in even closer, very happily indeed.

I left the laptop open next to most of my margarita on the coffee table and leapt up. I padded across to my bedroom and threw open the doors to my walk-in wardrobe. I was on a mission. By ten-thirty the next morning I needed to land a new job and maybe a new boyfriend. I had to look the part. I stepped inside my wardrobe and emerged with the perfect ensemble about two hours later.

Chapter 3 (#ulink_1522be0f-6c7a-54a5-b729-a32e9111938c)

The first thing I saw of Anthony Shearman was his backside. He was on his knees, torso under the large desk by the window, scrabbling around for something he must have dropped.

It was a lovely sight considering the dreadful journey I’d had into Mayfair. I rarely travelled on the tube and never at that time of morning. It was far too busy for me. People barged and pushed on the crowded platform until I was squeezed into a packed carriage, hanging on for dear life, a woman’s handbag pressed against my designer summer coat and a man’s copy of Metro inches from my nose.

At A Shearman Leather Designs the receptionist, a sullen-looking woman in her early thirties, looked me up and down as if I was in the wrong place.

‘I’ve got an appointment with Anthony Shearman,’ I said. She tightened her lips and put on her glasses. Obviously the Stella McCartney dress and tailored coat had worked. I hadn’t been too sure about the shoes, though. I had made several last-minute changes but another would have made me late and Ebony would have marched to my house and killed me in cold blood if I messed this up.

‘This is A Shearman Leather Designs?’ I asked when the receptionist said nothing. From upstairs, I heard a great big crash; someone or something had landed with a bump but the receptionist didn’t flinch. Instead, she moved her eyes towards the staircase just outside her reception office and pointed a finger in the direction of the noise.

‘Upstairs,’ was all she said before lowering her gaze to her desk.

At the top of the stairs was a door bearing a gold plaque with the name: ‘A Shearman’ engraved on it. I knocked confidently and heard a muffled, ‘Er, come in,’ from inside.

I opened the door like an actress making a dramatic entrance onto the stage. My smile was wide and bright, my eyes flashed open with excitement and that’s when I noticed there was no one in the room. Looking down I saw a chair had been knocked over in front of the desk, from under which a bottom was emerging.

‘Mr Shearman?’ I asked.

The bottom moved towards me. It was covered in navy slacks, was quite tight and athletic-looking, and had a back pocket.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Anthony said as he got to his feet. ‘I lost my muffin. Cassandra brought it in earlier. I forgot it was there and went to take it out to the kitchen. I don’t like them you see? Muffins. So I was going to the kitchen for a doughnut. I suppose the muffin didn’t want to go back so it rolled off and …’ At this point, Anthony Shearman pushed his glasses up his slender nose and we both looked down at the crumbling muffin on the plate he held up to his chest.

‘I could get the doughnut for you, Mr Shearman,’ I said, full of purpose and as if being a waitress had been my calling in life.

‘Could you?’ he said, looking every bit the angelic schoolboy with his tie neatly knotted around a strong neck. His shirt was immaculately ironed and there was not a hair out of place. His hair was dark, not too short, just at a length that showed the beginnings of a wave. He looked at me for a long moment, dark lashes blinking around large brown eyes that developed fine lines at the side as he began to smile.

‘Maybe I should just ignore the muffin and get down to the interview, Miss, um …’

‘Bright. Magenta Bright.’ I put out my hand and quickly grabbed his for a vigorous shake bordering on a standing arm wrestle. I needed to make a good impression and when I saw his smile grow that bit wider I knew I was onto something.

‘Take a seat, Miss Bright.’ He picked up the overturned chair opposite his desk and presented it to me. ‘May I call you Magenta?’

‘Absolutely.’ I was grinning broadly and felt assured, which might have had something to do with Ebony’s early morning alarm call at six a.m. when she woke me from a deep sleep.

‘You should be up and preparing,’ she’d said and proceeded to pep talk me through my interview technique after having grilled me about what I was wearing. Smile. Look enthusiastic. Be confident. Strong handshake. And for goodness’ sake try to sound like you know what you’re talking about. All of Ebony’s guidance stuck with me on the journey over to Mayfair.

The offices of A Shearman Leather Designs were old but stylish. The ceilings were high. There were tasteful plants here and there, dark wood furniture and stark white walls with expensive prints hanging from them. The large, sash windows in Anthony’s office sported open blinds and looked across to a small hotel.

Anthony went to sit in his high-backed, leather chair, still holding the muffin. He looked at it briefly before placing it onto his large, oak desk that contained nothing more than a telephone, a few letters in a wire rack and a half-drunk cup of coffee. He put his elbows on the desk and folded his hands under his chin. Expensive watch. No wedding ring. He looked young for his thirty-three years. He was not as good-looking as the photo online but there was a strong sexual appeal going on that I was sure he wasn’t even aware of. He looked like a complete innocent and the next time he opened his mouth I could tell he was greener than the lining of the designer jacket hanging over the back of his chair. This job was mine.

‘Could you tell me a little about yourself?’ Anthony asked. ‘Or maybe I should tell you a bit about the company.’ He droned on for a full five minutes but I kept alert and focused on him, nodding in all the right places. ‘And so,’ he was saying when I began to listen properly and stopped fantasising about his sumptuous lips, ‘Dad said the first thing for me to do was to hire a PA. To be honest with you I don’t really know what a PA does. Maybe you could tell me how you’d go about being my PA?’

Was this guy for real? During his blah, blah speech about his father and him and the company, I gathered that he’d agreed to take over because there was no one else to do so. His father had flown out to Anthony’s apartment in a small seaside town in southern Italy and had practically press-ganged him into taking over the running of A Shearman Leather Designs.