Damaged: A gripping short read, the perfect escape for an hour. Barbara Taylor Bradford

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СКАЧАТЬ was aware that these two big tough cops were marshmallows when it came to her.

      That’s why she always let them know where she was and what time she’d be home. That’s why she agreed to let them build her a private apartment atop the family home, rather than moving out to live in a loft in SoHo. She had been dreaming of doing that since her mom began taking her prowling through the quirky boutiques that were tucked away in that neighbourhood.

      Not that she would ever be able to afford such a luxury, if she couldn’t figure out how to sell her designs without putting all the profits into overheads. She had taken a risk when she quit her job as junior designer at a SoHo chic fashion house. But she had big ideas. Selling out in eight days told her she was on the right track with the designs.

      But if her ideas were a ten, her business plan was a two.

      Allison did what she always did when she needed to think something through. She grabbed a jacket and headed for the beach.

      Breezy Point in Queens, New York, was known as the place where cops lived. The peninsula was between Jamaica Bay and the Atlantic Ocean with a population of about twenty-eight thousand. Over sixty per cent of the residents were Irish-American, a whole lot of them police officers and firefighters. With a private security force and no easy access in or out, it has been said there was no safer place to live in any of New York City’s Five Boroughs.

      It was no coincidence that Breezy Point was where Riley Jones moved his family after his wife was killed.

      It was April, but with the wind coming off the water from two directions, it felt like November. Allison put her head down and took the path towards the ocean. Four o’clock was the time the residents started getting home from their shifts at the precinct or firehouse, so there was activity on the usually quiet streets. She waved at everyone she knew and she knew almost everyone.

      But her mind was on her fledgling company now in trouble and her social life obviously on life-support. Since the day she broke up with Brad, she had been on a ‘man-fast’.

      She had been involved with Brad Dolan for eight months but it wasn’t until the seventh month that she had risked taking him home to meet the family. The results were disastrous, as somewhere deep inside she knew they would be. Which was probably why she had waited so long.

      It wasn’t that her family ever did or said anything. They were polite, solicitous even. But they were also mirrors that revealed the truth. They had listened and nodded while Brad talked on and on about his accomplishments, his ideas, his life plan. In other words, talked exclusively about himself.

      Soon she was seeing Brad through Jimmy’s eyes, and her dad’s. Within a month, the relationship was over.

      Allison realised she always chose the wrong guys. Maybe it was just that inborn streak of defiance she acknowledged but couldn’t control. Or maybe she just liked bad boys.

      ‘I’ve decided to become a nun,’ she told Riley and Jimmy at supper the Sunday night after the break-up. That night’s meal was sacrosanct to the Jones family, unless Riley, who worked in Homicide, had a case he couldn’t abandon. Same menu, different crowd. Sunday was the day everyone was welcome at the Jones family home.

      On that rare Sunday it had been just the three of them, so Allison could speak her mind. Not that she ever had a problem doing that, no matter who was there.

      ‘Men are creeps. Present company excluded,’ she had announced as she dug into her shepherd’s pie. ‘Maybe.’

      ‘There are exceptions,’ her brother had said, so eager to bring forth his idea that he spoke with his mouth full. ‘I know this guy you would really like …’

      ‘Jimmy Jones, if you mention Mike Dennison one more time, I will poison your food next Sunday …’

      ‘Hey, Ally!’ The voice of her uncle startled her back from the past and into the present. He and his family lived two blocks from hers. ‘I hear you did good with your store.’

      ‘Hey, Uncle Marty,’ she said, giving him a hug. ‘Maybe too well,’ she admitted. A gust of wind sent the sand rattling against the wooden fence that lined the beach. ‘I need a new plan.’

      ‘You’ll figure it out,’ he said. ‘You’re as smart as you are beautiful. Just like your mama. And don’t you ever forget it.’

      A lump formed in Allison’s throat as his love for her seemed to wash over her. She certainly knew what it meant to feel love. She’d been showered with it since the day she was born. The entire family – grandparents, uncles, cousins, second cousins, her father and brother – all of them had treated her like a rare piece of porcelain that might shatter at any moment.

      Not only was she the only girl of the lot of them, but she had talent. She could sing and dance, and paint and design things. To them, she was a beautiful alien dropped into their boisterous midst by some miraculous quirk of fate.

      Only her mother had known that she was made of sturdier stuff. It was Lydia who had taught her to be self-reliant, independent and to dare. And it was from Lydia that she got her quirky sense of style. Lydia may have been a cop, but she was a fashion plate when she wasn’t on the job.

      As a child, Allison had spent hours in her mother’s closet trying on exotic scarves and shoes and belts. And the closet had been left exactly as it was when Lydia was shot. A cousin had taken over the family apartment on West Ninth Street but kept the closet for Allison. Whenever she needed inspiration, all she had to do was open the door.

      And then, when she decided to open a shop, the name was a no-brainer. Lydia’s Closet was the only one she ever considered.

      ‘Careful, Uncle Marty,’ she said, dragging a wool hat out of her jacket pocket. ‘My head will get so big, this won’t fit!’ She pulled the hat over her tangle of hair and headed towards the water where the sand was firm. ‘See you for Sunday supper.’

      She walked for almost an hour and when she headed back up the path, she had her plan. Two cars were in the driveway when she got back to the house. The one Jimmy and her dad drove to work, and a jeep of indeterminate age and questionable roadworthiness.

      Her family was known for picking up strays. Heaven only knew what down-on-his-luck Irishman awaited her inside. He’d be hungry, from the look of his car. She hoped the chicken she planned to roast for dinner would be large enough.

      The man having a beer inside with her dad and her brother did not look underfed. Nor down on his luck. He looked … the word that popped into her mind was ‘gorgeous’.

      Allison’s visceral reaction to this splendid creature so startled her that she felt a blush flooding her face. That was the trouble with being a ginger. People could tell what you were feeling by the colour of your skin.

      Since she couldn’t do what her body was telling her to do, which was to crawl onto his lap so he’d have to hold her with those muscular arms of his, she settled for a strained, ‘Hi, I’m Allison.’

      The man at the table didn’t say anything right away, even though Riley and Jimmy were looking at him expectantly. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded as if he was out of breath.

      ‘Hi,’ he said back to her. ‘I’m Mike Dennison.’

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