New Year at the Ritz. Nikki Moore

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СКАЧАТЬ 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. She sighed, picking up the remote again and eventually settling on an Eastenders omnibus. By the looks of it, someone was dead. It was probably another dramatic shooting. She liked the programme, the writing could be brilliant, but she had to have the appetite for it otherwise it was a bit depressing.

      Her gaze was drawn to the shelf where she'd hidden the letter. What was that first clue referring to? Need for speed. Road. Some sort of transport then. No. Her decision was made. She was not going on some mad scavenger hunt. Today she was relaxing, given how tired she'd felt recently and how her ribs had been aching. It would be criminal not to make the most of being one of the lucky few people in the store with the whole Christmas and New Year period off. At interview she'd asked for her pre-booked holiday to be honoured if she was offered a job. At the time of applying, the role had been a symbol of independence, perhaps even rebellion. But after the break-up it had quickly become a necessity, a way to pay the rent.

      So she would definitely not think about the fact she was supposed to be in Bali right now. Must not dwell on the idea of lying on a sun-drenched beach in a designer bikini, with a warm breeze stirring the tropical palm trees and a chilled cocktail in her hand. It was fine. She didn't need any of that stuff. She could lie on the sofa in her warm flat - thanks to hitting the radiator with a spanner a few times to crank it into life – and please herself. Relax. Chill. Revive.

      Perfect.

      Three hours later and she was seriously bored. She'd read a photography mag, got out her favourite old-style Nikon camera and cleaned the lenses and painted her nails in seasonal gold glitter varnish. She’d also tweezed her eyebrows, sorted out her wardrobe and even resorted to scrubbing the bathroom for entertainment.

      Her phone pinged and she snatched it up.

       Hey love, the city party has fallen through and after a vote we're going to the C&R. See you there at 8ish, don't forget there's a tenner charge on the door. Will save you a seat if you're late!

       D x

      She groaned. She loved going to the local with her friends but was there practically every week, so it was hardly somewhere special to celebrate the New Year. Although she guessed beggars couldn't be choosers and all that. It wasn't like she had any better offers.

      Her eyes strayed to the Isaac Asimov books, or rather, what was hidden between them. She could see what it was all about, couldn't she, and be back to the pub for eight? It was only just past four now. If she left soon she could fit it in.

      She stood up. Sat down. Bit her lip. But how involved was this going to be, and who was behind it? What did they want, or expect from her? No, maybe it was better not to poke the bear.

      Opening the text from Davey, she re-read it. Perhaps she should phone him, ask his advice? She knew his response would be go for it though, follow the clues. Everyone needs love.

      Tapping her hands on her knees, she stared at the walls. She needed to talk to someone level-headed, sensible. Someone lovely who would advise what was best for her, not get swept away in romantic notions. She'd consider phoning Zoe, one of her best friends from uni, but Zoe was in the States at the moment so the call would cost a fortune. Besides, she was completely loved up with Greg, engaged to be married, so she was hardly going to be objective about the whole thing. She was as worried about Frankie's single status as everyone else. If she СКАЧАТЬ