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what?” he asked.

      “Well, you…you make things happen. I came in here ready to throttle you; instead, we’re about to plan D&J’s future together over spring rolls and plum sauce.”

      He shrugged. “I just get on with it.”

      The food arrived, and once the cartons and spring rolls and packets of soy sauce and mustard were sorted, they went to work.

      “Gemma said you went shopping with your sister this morning,” Rhys said as he expertly wielded his chopsticks. “Did she find a wedding gown?”

      Natalie squeezed Chinese mustard liberally on her spring roll. Gemma had a big bloody mouth. “She found the perfect dress at Vera Wang. I was going to buy it for her. But unfortunately—” she glared at him “—my credit was declined.”

      “That must’ve been inconvenient…and embarrassing.”

      “It was. I was furious, had a bit of a meltdown. Caro said the dress was too expensive anyway.”

      “I’m glad at least one of you is sensible.” He caught the packet of plum sauce she flung at him. “Why not ask your designer friend – Pen, is it? –to recommend an up-and-coming designer to make your sister’s wedding dress?” he suggested. “A bespoke gown from a rising fashion star—”

      “Yes! We could feature the dress in store ads, and offer a limited number for sale,” Natalie mused. “Women love limited editions. And not just wedding gowns! We could feature a new designer line each season.”

      “Available only at Dashwood and James,” Rhys agreed.

      “We could sponsor a yearly event,” Natalie went on, her excitement growing, “and offer makeup consultations and makeovers, and accessories – handbags, shoes – to go with the outfits. We could have a fashion show!” She looked expectantly at Rhys, her eyes shining. “Well, what do you think?”

      “I like it…dependent upon the cost, of course. Draft me up a business plan.”

      “Oh, it shouldn’t cost much; we’d only need to put up a marquee outside, provide light refreshment, hire a couple of DJs. We’d give a real boost to a fledgling designer’s career if we featured their clothing line in-store.” Excitement overtook her. She was actually enjoying this! “I’ll do up a marketing plan.”

      Rhys frowned, which meant he was deep in thought, and probably not listening to a word she’d said.

      Natalie bit into her spring roll. “Tell me a bit about your brother, the one who fancies Keeley. Is he a workaholic, like you?”

      “Jamie? He’s a sous chef with a 60-hour work week and a girlfriend he rarely sees.” He paused. “So yes, I suppose you could say he’s a workaholic. But he’s more likeable than me.”

      Natalie raised her brow. “I should hope so. You’re not likeable at all.”

      He chucked a packet of Chinese mustard at her and said it was time they got back to work.

      Hannah James flicked through the racks of new spring clothing with a satisfied sigh. A Saturday afternoon spent browsing in Topshop and H&M always cheered her up.

      “Let’s go somewhere else,” she told her best friend, Jo. “I don’t see anything I like.”

      As they emerged onto the pavement, Jo glanced at Hannah. “We could go to D&J…”

      “No way. The clothes are vile. Even mum says they’re only fit for old ladies.”

      “True.” They passed a music store, and Jo grabbed Hannah’s arm. “Han, look, isn’t that…it is! It’s Duncan!”

      “Where?” Hannah froze and glanced through the window, past the guitars and amps and racks of sheet music, and she saw him.

      He stood with a slender blonde girl, the two of them looking at a sheet of music Duncan held, oblivious to anyone around them.

      “Who’s she?” Hannah demanded. “I’ve seen her before, somewhere—” she broke off as she saw Jo’s guilty expression. “You know who she is! Tell me.”

      Jo sighed. “Her name’s Theodora, she’s a new sixth-former. Her friends call her Theo.”

      “Come on,” Hannah decided, “let’s go. I don’t want to see Duncan…or Theo,” she added.

      They were turning away when Duncan glanced up and saw them through the window.

      “Oh God, he’s seen us,” Jo muttered. She waved. “Shit! They’re coming out. Sorry.”

      “Jo, I swear, I’ll kill you for this!” Hannah hissed.

      The door opened, and Duncan and Theodora joined them. “Hullo, Jo, Hannah,” he said, his expression unreadable. “What are you doing here?”

      “Shopping,” Hannah retorted. “What else?”

      “This is Theo,” he said. “She’s a new music student. Theo, this is Jo and Hannah.”

      Theo’s hair was looped and clipped into a messy up-do. She looked like one of those annoying French girls – chic, without even trying. She wore dangly eardrops and hardly any makeup. She didn’t need it; her skin was flawless.

      Hannah was consumed with jealousy.

      “We’re looking for sheet music,” Theo said, and smiled at Hannah. “I’m singing a solo for a vocal competition, so Duncan’s helping me find the proper music.”

      “How nice.” Hannah cast Duncan a pointed glance and turned to Jo. “Let’s go. We’ve got shopping yet to do.”

      Duncan glanced at her empty hands. “No luck yet?”

      “Not yet,” she said breezily, “but something’ll turn up. It always does.”

      “You know,” Jo confided later as they boarded the bus to go home, “Theo seemed pretty cool.”

      “How can you say that?” Hannah snapped. “She stole my boyfriend, Jo!”

      “But you broke up! And they’re not dating, they’re just friends. Duncan’s tutoring her—”

      “Oh, I just bet he is.” Hannah flung herself on a seat in the back of the bus as it lurched forward. She clutched her carrier bags on her lap and stared, unseeing, out the window. He’d probably already had sex with Theodora. She was probably on birth control—

      “Well, I thought she was nice,” Jo said stubbornly. “You’re overreacting.”

      “You don’t know anything about it.”

      “Why? Because I don’t have a boyfriend?” Jo asked her sharply. “Well, neither do you, now.”

      “Oh, do shut up, Jo. Just leave me alone.”

      “No problem.” Jo stood, gathered up her bags, and found a seat near the front of the bus.

      When Hannah got home it was nearly seven. She closed the front door, hoping no one heard her come in. She didn’t want to talk, or answer a dozen questions.

      But the rustle of the carrier bags gave her away.

      Her father appeared in the kitchen doorway and smiled as he saw her bags. “Bought out the store, Hannah Banana?”

      “Don’t call me that!” she snapped. “I’m not your Hannah Banana any more, dad, am I? I’m not six years old.”

      Alastair, taken aback by her outburst, frowned. “Sorry, pet, I didn’t realise it bothered you so much.”

      “I’m sick of everyone treating me like a child.”

      “Well, then,” Alastair told her evenly, “perhaps it’s time you stopped behaving like one.”

      Hannah

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