The Complete #LoveLondon Collection. Nikki Moore

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СКАЧАТЬ want to pay me for scalping you?' he joked.

      'Or making me look like a super-model?' she answered hopefully.

      He pulled a face. 'You know I love you, but no. Anyway, call it a late Christmas prezzie and if anyone asks who gave you such a divine style, point them in my direction. And don't forget what I said. Everyone needs love.'

      'I'll hurl them in your direction, never mind point them,' she retorted, and was rewarded with a playful smack on the bum as she skipped out the door.

      The conversation with Davey was spinning through her head as Frankie walked into her pokey flat at midnight a few days later. Dumping her rucksack in the hallway, she picked up a thick pile of post which included a ridiculous amount of takeaway menus.

      The train journey from Southampton to London hadn't been too bad, considering the time of year. It was the tube ride from Waterloo that'd been a royal pain in the arse. She'd left it really late to head back but had wanted to maximise her time with her dad. There wasn't enough money to make it home very often. And now he was alone, it was even more important to spend as much time with him as possible. He was the only parent she had left.

      Everyone needs love. Davey's words resounded in her head.

      He might be right - but there was more than romantic love in the world. Love for friends, love for family. Which reminded her; pulling her phone from her pocket, she tapped out a quick text to her dad.

       Home safe, thanks for a lovely couple of days. Will come down & see you again as soon as I can. F xx

      Traipsing into her lounge, she groaned. 'Oh, bloody hell!'

      She'd left a window open while she'd been gone. The scent of frying food was forever escaping from a vent on front of the kebab shop below and wafting into her flat. Now the place stank of meaty kebab, raw onions, crisp jalapeno peppers and oily chips. Nice. Flinging her coat off, and chucking the post on the sofa, she slammed the window and picked up one of the numerous cans of air freshener crowding the low bookcase, spraying it so heavily around the room it sent her into a coughing fit. Crouching down, she turned on the plug-in air freshener and cast her eyes over the damp, peeling ceiling, before giving up and storming out of the lounge.

      Was she ever going to climb out of this hole?

      No, it was too late for that kind of thinking. She had her health, an okay job in a department store, a loving father and good friends. And right now, thank god - she rubbed her temples tiredly while stumbling into her tiny bedroom - she also had a comfortable bed, one of the few luxuries she'd budgeted for when taking up the tenancy.

      Falling face down onto the duvet, she kicked off her ankle boots and let sleep claim her.

      Frankie felt much chirpier the next morning. It might have had something to do with the massive lie-in until gone eleven, the bucketful of milky coffee she'd drunk and the hot water she'd managed to coax out of the decrepit boiler for a steamy shower. Or it might be that for the first time since her trip to the salon, she'd managed to tame her hair into something resembling an actual style. Alternatively it could be that she finally fit back into her black jeans, the ones she'd had before meeting Christian. Teaming them with the fashionable soft peach jumper her dad had bought her for Christmas, she felt comfy but a little glam too.

      Whatever it was that explained her good mood, she felt better than she had in weeks. Not quite ready for 2015, but getting there.

      Curling up on the sofa, she picked up the pile of post.

      Sifting through it, she rolled her eyes. Takeaway leaflet, fast food menu, ironing services, window cleaning. Bill, bill, bill, and what a shocker, bill. Then another b- hang on. She gazed at the plain white envelope, her name written in bold script on the front, no stamp, no postmark, meaning it’d been hand-delivered.

      Open on 31 December was inscribed in the top left hand corner. Not Davey’s hand-writing, or anybody else’s she knew for that matter. Weird. But it was New Year's Eve, so she ripped into the envelope, apprehension and excitement mixing in her belly.

      Pulling out an A4 sheet of paper, she breathed in deeply and frowned. She recognised the smell; her favourite perfume. Anyone who knew her knew that she wasn't the pink flowers and hearts type, so plain stationery and her favourite scent was a good compromise. But was it also a little creepy? They knew where she lived, and what perfume she wore. Stalker alert?

      Unfolding the note, her eyes widened. No, I'm watching you, I long to stroke your hair while you sleep stalker type of message. It looked like a rhyme, or a puzzle.

       A New Year's surprise, the path to your heart,

       Main Knightsbridge station, that's where you start.

       Follow the clues across London, see where they lead,

       this object meets the need for speed.

       Look in the window, see it revolve,

       the road to the next clue you will then solve.

      ? x

       p.s. Set off at 4.00 p.m – and try not to be late!

      Reading the letter a second and then a third time, she rested her head against the back of the sofa, blowing out a long breath. It was cool and scary and intriguing all at the same time. Someone had gone to quite a bit of trouble for her. She itched to know who was behind it and what the end game was. But she wasn't sure. The path to her heart? She wasn't sure she had one left after her mum, and Christian, and had told Davey only a few days ago she wasn't interested in having a boyfriend at the moment. So was there any point in doing this, this game, whatever it was? Wouldn't it be better to stick to her plans, go out partying with Davey and the rest of the gang, instead of short-changing some poor bugger by turning up and saying thanks for all the effort, but no thanks.

      No, she wouldn't go. It was the best thing.

      Tapping her fingers on her knees, she sat up and studied the bookcase stuffed with sci-fi books, overflowing wall shelves stacked with photography magazines, the scarred wooden coffee table positioned on a rich, multi-coloured Indian rug brought back from the post-uni travelling she was still struggling to pay off. Her eyes lingered on the wooden family of elephants lined up on the floor by the TV, walking in a row, trunks holding tails to link them together. She didn’t have much but it was hers, and she wasn’t ready to share it with anyone.

      Standing up, she strode across the room and stuffed the mystery letter in between two ancient, dog-eared Isaac Asimov books she and her dad had discovered on a stall in a musty indoor market one day, when she'd been about twelve. If she pulled one of the paperbacks off the shelf and opened it the smell would take her back to her childhood; to overflowing bookcases and Sunday afternoons spent wandering around car-boot sales and markets, a cheap and cheerful way of feeding her parents' reading addiction.

      Slinking back to the sofa, she threw herself down and picked up the TV remote, flicking restlessly through the channels. She'd just veg out until it was time to get ready for the New Year festivities, whatever they might be. Davey hadn't messaged yet, but he would. He always came through with a plan.

      She put the remote down and checked her phone. No messages. Nothing interesting on Twitter. Not much doing on Facebook, apart from various posts about how excited people were about their New Years' Eve plans. СКАЧАТЬ