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Her words were edged with sarcasm. “Believe it or not, my finances are in perfect order. I’d hardly have decided to be a single parent if they weren’t.”

      “I didn’t mean to imply that you were reckless,” Alex cut in. He wanted her to understand that he was offering back-up, someone to rely on. “What I meant was …”

      “I don’t want to hear it.” She held up the palms of her hands and backed away from him. “What do you expect from me? Do you want me to say that’s really sweet? You can drift in and out of my life between girlfriends? Maybe even have the occasional shag? I can’t do it.”

      “You’ve got it all wrong. I didn’t mean some kind of friends-with-benefits thing. Just friends. Why not? We were friends before. We can be again.” He spluttered it out, knowing it couldn’t happen.

      “I love you.” Her arms hung limply at her side. The fury had gone from her face. “I can’t be just friends anymore. I shouldn’t even be here. I wouldn’t be, if your brother hadn’t interfered.”

      “What?” She loved him? Confusion clouded his mind. Nick and he were finally on separate career paths, leading different lives.

      “Nick set us up.” Her eyes narrowed and her chin jutted. “You mean he hasn’t told you?” She shook her head despairingly. “He fixed for me to get hired to style you in Boston. And if he hadn’t? None of this would have happened. I wouldn’t have gone to New York. I wouldn’t be here now. Face it, Alex. If you’d walked past me on a London street, you wouldn’t have recognized me.”

      “Oh, I’d have recognized you.” The shattering of his heart echoed in his voice.

      “You don’t have to look after me. I’m not your responsibility.”

      She spun on her heels and walked away. He hurried after her, following at a close distance, a pace or two behind, like her minder. When they were off the bridge, he hailed a taxi. He pulled her into his arms, held her tight, and pressed his forehead to hers. He ached to kiss her mouth. Instead he brushed her forehead with his lips and let her go. Cold as a marble statue, he watched the taxi’s tail lights disappear. After it rounded a corner he remained frozen to the spot, utterly dispirited. He raked both hands into his hair, took two quick strides, aching to run after her, get her back. There was no point. No matter what she felt, he couldn’t be her perfect man. He sucked in a deep breath and let it go in an anguished gasp. Accepting, finally, that this was goodbye, he turned and walked purposefully towards the theater.

      Time to rejoin the party.

      Alex was breaking inside.

      Back at the theater he walked straight bang into Drake. He’d sent him an invitation to the first night, but he hadn’t RSVP'd, so Alex had assumed he wasn’t there.

      His face beaming, the grey-haired actor grabbed Alex in a firm hug. “Well done, son,” he said. “You knocked Hamlet out of the ball park. I knew you could do it.” With that he swept out of the building to a waiting car.

      The American expression coming from the English actor’s mouth sounded ridiculously incongruous. He wasn’t being facetious. He meant it. Alex had earned Drake’s approval. It paled into insignificance. His heart hammered in his chest. The only approval he really needed was Maggie’s love and he’d let that go.

      Back in the bar, he hunted down Nick. He’d moved on from champagne and was sitting, looking bored and peeling the label off a bottle of beer.

      “What did you do it for?”

      “What do you mean?”

      “You know. Setting me up with Maggie.”

      “Because if I’d said ‘Hey, why don’t you look up Maggie?’ – you wouldn’t have. It was a nudge in the right direction.”

      Alex’s cheek muscle flickered. “You were out of order.”

      “Maybe, but the minute you heard she was our stylist, you got her an upgrade on the flight so that she could sit with you.”

      “That doesn’t mean you were right.” Tension ripped through Alex’s body.

      “I engineered a reintroduction.” Nick shrugged and slugged his beer. “I’d say New York was a pretty good indication that I didn’t get it entirely wrong.” He grinned lopsidedly. “The rest is up to you!”

       Chapter Twenty

      “I’m starting to look like a pot-bellied pig and I’m only twelve weeks. I’m eating like a prize porker too.” Maggie picked up a blueberry muffin and took a bite.

      Layla looked her over critically. “I don’t think we need to build you a sty or buy you a trough just yet!”

      Four weeks had passed since Maggie had left London for Cornwall. She’d started thinking about redecorating the cottage and the kitchen table was covered in drawings for her new venture – designing babywear. In a corner of the sitting room she’d set up her sewing machine. There was a big pile of colorful fabric samples stacked up beside it.

      She was sitting in her kitchen with her best friend and next-door neighbor, Layla. Layla’s unmissable dyed red hair lit up the room with color. She had boundless energy and enthusiasm. It was Layla who’d encouraged Maggie to have a go at designing, pointing out that if other fashion stylists could turn designer, why shouldn’t she?

      It warmed Maggie’s heart remembering the hours she’d spent at the scratched rustic pine table as a child drawing and coloring and cutting and pasting. Her grandmother had been ever- patient with Maggie. She had helped her learn how to turn her creations into reality by showing her how to sew. Under her watchful eye, she and Layla had made a vast collection of clothes for their toys. They’d had the best-dressed teddies in the village.

      Maggie sighed, her eyes resting for a couple of seconds on the kitchen notice board. She’d sorted out the shoebox under the bed and stuck up a photo of her teenage parents – happy, smiling, in love, in the moment. She wondered what would have become of her if her mother hadn’t left her behind when she’d hightailed off to Spain. She’d probably have spent the last ten years pulling pints of cerveza in the Green Flamingo karaoke bar and serving up bacon and eggs to tourists. Her singing voice was rubbish. She’d be useless at karaoke. She shuddered. That was her mother’s dream, not hers. She’d never fully understand what her mother had felt when she left, but she knew now she hadn’t gone because she looked like her dad. She’d been emotionally defeated, moving forward, but not going anywhere. She hadn’t left her behind because she didn’t love her. She’d done it because she did.

      As well as her designing project, she had an exciting new work prospect on the horizon. It had turned out that the television presenter who’d cancelled her for the awards show hadn’t done so in a fit of pique over her rubbish leggings and I Heart NY tee in the press photos of Maggie in New York. Quite the reverse. The day-time television presenter had caught chicken pox from her three-year-old. She’d had to miss the ceremony altogether, so hadn’t needed a stylist. But the “New York Cinderella” pictures had caught her eye. Then a “Who’s The Daddy?” story, speculating about whether she might be expecting Alex Wells’ baby, had got her noticed by a producer on the morning magazine program. They’d approached her about doing a series of maternity fashion items on the show.

      She’d been quick to put them straight, make sure they understood that there was no man in her life, and that the Alex thing was a misunderstanding. The producer didn’t seem bothered. She’d been intrigued by her go-it-alone approach to parenting, and they’d gone on to discuss a follow-up contract of regular slots doing yummy mummy makeovers, fashion advice and cool kit for babies and kids. It was a dream job and a great way to get exposure for her planned line of baby clothes. She aimed to create something fun and fashionable for little ones using funky hard-wearing fabrics. Her target market would be busy mums who

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