LITMIR.BIZ

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keep the conversation light, to discuss work and plans but never feelings, never anything deep. Maybe that was why they were friends, both content with the superficial intimacy, their real fears locked safely away.

      ‘Have they been split up long?’

      ‘Nearly twelve years.’ He gave her a wry smile. ‘She waited until after Christmas our first year at university. Didn’t want to spoil the holidays, she said. We were just amazed she made it that long. She’d wanted out for a long time.’

      ‘I can’t imagine your grandfather is easy to live with.’ That was an understatement.

      He huffed out a dry laugh. ‘He’s not. Poor Grandmother, from things she let slip I think she was on the verge of leaving when we came to live with them. She only stayed for Polly and me. Now she lives in central London and takes organised trips, volunteers at several museums and spends the rest of her time at the theatre or playing bridge. She’s very happy.’

      ‘What about your parents?’ She flushed; curiosity had got the better of her. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry.’

      ‘That’s okay. We are meant to be dating, after all, and none of this is exactly state secrets.’ He didn’t look okay though, his eyes shadowed, his mouth drawn into a straight line. ‘My father had a stroke when we were eight.’

      ‘I am so sorry.’ Tentatively she reached out and touched his arm, awkward comfort. ‘That must have been awful.’

      ‘We thought he was sleeping. The ambulance man said if we had called 999 earlier...’ His voice trailed off.

      Cold chilled her, goosebumping her arms, her spine as his words hit her—they’d found their father collapsed? Her heart ached for the two small children who had to suddenly grow up in such a terrible way.

      ‘The stroke was devastating.’ There was a darkness in his voice, the sense of years of regret, of guilt. ‘He had to go into a home—oh, the very best home, you know? All luxury carpets and plush chairs but we still knew, even at that age, that it was a place where people went to die.’

      Clara felt for the familiar cold curve of her bangle and began to twist it automatically; she wanted to reach out and hold him, hold the small boy who had to watch his father disintegrate before his eyes.

      ‘Our mother couldn’t handle it,’ Raff continued, still in that same bleak tone. ‘She went away for a rest and just stayed away. So my grandparents stepped in, sent us to boarding school and gave us a home in the holidays—and my poor grandmother had to wait ten years for her escape.’

      ‘Her choice.’ Clara knew she sounded brisk, the way she sounded when encouraging Summer to sleep without a nightlight, to go on a school trip, to walk to the corner shop on her own. ‘It was the right thing for her at the time. There’s no point dwelling on what-might-have-beens. You go mad that way.’

      She knew all about that. If she hadn’t stayed in that particular hostel, hadn’t met Byron. If she’d tried harder with his father, if she’d stayed in Australia. ‘Our lives are littered with the paths not taken,’ she said. ‘But if we spend all our time staring wistfully at them we’ll never see what’s right in front of us.’

      ‘A sick, unreasonable grandfather, a missing twin and an unwanted job?’ But the dark note had gone from his voice and Clara was relieved to see a small smile playing around the firm mouth. He stopped in front of her and turned to look at the golden building in front of them. ‘We’re here. Welcome to the millstone round my neck.’

      * * *

      It had been a long time since Clara had set foot in Rafferty’s. The flagship department store occupied a grand art deco building just off Bond Street and, although it was a little out of the way of the tourists pounding bustling Oxford Street and Regent Street, it was a destination in its own right. Discreet, classy and luxurious; just the name Rafferty’s conjured up another era, an era of afternoon tea, cocktails and red, red lipstick.

      Tourists flocked here, desperate to buy something, anything, so they could walk away with one of the distinctive turquoise and gold bags; socialites, It Girls and celebrities prowled the halls filled with designer items. Anyone who was anybody—and those who aspired to be—drank cocktails at the bar. Rafferty’s was a well-loved institution, accessible glamour for anybody with money to spend.

      As a child Clara had visited the store every Christmas to see the spectacular window displays, admire the lights, to confide her wish-list to Father Christmas. It had been one of the highlights of her year—and yet she had never brought Summer. She had never even made the seventy-five-minute-long journey into London with her daughter. London was too big, too noisy, too unpredictable.

      But as she stood on the edge of the marble steps, remembering the breathless excitement of those perfect days out, Clara’s throat tightened. Choosing the perfect gift, admiring the other shoppers, having afternoon tea in the elegant restaurant, those memories meant Christmas to her. How could she not have passed those memories on to her daughter?

      To keep Summer safe? Or to keep Clara herself safe?

      Maybe, just maybe, she was a little overprotective.

      ‘Are you going to stand there all day or are you actually coming in?’

      Clara swallowed. It must be nice to be Raff Rafferty. Adored heir to all this. So sure of yourself, so confident that you could treat life as one big joke.

      And yet there were contradictions there. She might disapprove of the lies he was feeding his grandfather—although after the cold, hostile meeting this morning she understood them. But what was he fighting for? The right to live on his trust fund? The right not to do a day’s work?

      Clara tried to remember what exactly Polly had told her about him. Not much, which was odd in itself; they were twins after all. She said he was spoilt, that she had to work three times as hard and still didn’t receive equal recognition. That he was ‘messing around abroad somewhere’. Clara had assumed that he was travelling, partying, having fun. After twenty-four hours in his company she wasn’t so sure.

      He was arrogant and annoying and treated life as one big joke but he didn’t seem lazy, didn’t seem careless of his family’s ties and expectations. He had come running the second he’d thought Polly was in trouble and according to the nurse had spent three days and nights at his grandfather’s bedside.

      Yep, he was definitely a puzzle but, she reminded herself, he was none of her business. And none of this was real, no matter how surprisingly easy it was to forget that.

      ‘I thought you went away to escape Rafferty’s,’ she said, walking up the famous curved steps to meet him.

      ‘To escape running Rafferty’s,’ he corrected her, escorting her through the famous gilt and glass revolving doors with a light touch on her elbow.

      As soon as he took his hand away the spot he had touched felt cold. Clara had to resist the temptation to rub it, to try and get the heat back.

      They had entered a massive circular room topped with an ornate glass dome. It was the heart of Rafferty’s, an iconic image, immortalised in film, photos and books. Looking up, Clara saw the famous galleries ringing the dome, three storeys of them. Each storey took up the entire block and was filled with a myriad of desirable items: food, clothes, jewellery, books, accessories, pictures, lamps, rugs.

      Down here on the beautifully tiled ground floor the world’s leading make-up and perfume brands plied their wares, stalls set out in a semi-circle around the foot of the dome. The middle was always reserved for themed displays and, at Christmas, the giant tree that dominated the room.

      It was a wonderland. And the man standing next to her wanted to throw it all away.

      ‘It’s not that I’m not proud of Rafferty’s,’ he said, as if he could read her thoughts. ‘It was like having our very own giant playground. We could go anywhere, do anything. Polly would walk around talking to all the staff, finding out what they did and how everything worked. I’d

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