Page 1 of Untamed Heart
CHAPTER1
It was 6.15 a.m. and I was sweating like a nun at aMagic Mikeshow.
My phone lit upagainas I attempted to hoist my work bag onto my shoulder without creasing my shirt. My front door slammed shut behind me and I winced at the noise in the silent hallway.
‘Hi, Cressida,’ I said, squashing the phone against my ear, desperately hoping I hadn’t woken anyone up. My long working hours were already a talking point in the building. Between lovely Mrs Peterson next door, genuinely concerned that I was mid-burnout, and the passive-aggressive notes from the guy opposite, I was one early morning or late night away from an intervention. But, as my manager Cressida was about as warm and understanding as your average dictator, I forced my voice into corporate mode, burying the exasperation in my tone as I reached the outside door. ‘I’m on my way, won’t take much long—’
‘Yup, yup, I know – look, Lottie, can you pick up the coffee order on the way in? I wouldn’t normally ask but the whole team’s on their knees.’ I bit my lip. Why was she saying this like I didn’t already know? As if I wasn’t one of them? But I kicked my thoughts into the background and quickly opened the notes app, trying my best to keep up with the list of drinks she reeled off. As she finished, she paused before adding, ‘Oh, and Heather fromHRhas scheduled a 9 a.m. in your diary, just so you know.’
I slowed, turning off the path from my building and onto the main street. My new shoes, an unexpected gift from my boyfriend Kyle just the previous weekend, were already beginning to pinch and rub.
‘Okaaay,’ I replied, completely lacking the balls to ask why. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
She hung up before I’d finished speaking, just as she usually did. Staring at the blank screen of my phone for a moment, I fought the urge to mirror the scream of a 747 flying overhead as it cruised down towards Heathrow. Refusing to acknowledge the growing pain from my toes, I carried on up the street towards the tube station, almost breaking into a jog, despite the 4-inch stiletto heels. I figured they were worth it – beautiful, made from eye-wateringly expensive Italian leather. Kyle had stared at my legs, his eyes inching up my body as though he wanted to devour all of it. Slowly. I smiled to myself despite everything. He could be exacting, yes, and sometimes a bit of a snob, butsweet Jesusthat man wasHOT. Plus, he’d made me promise I’d wear them tonight for drinks and dinner. I couldn’t let him down; that would only bring out his moody, snarky side, and that was more than I had the bandwidth for at the moment.
As I forced myself to take a deep breath, the caustic scent of exhaust fumes and weed hit the back of my throat. I couldn’t quite suppress a wistful glance at the source of the illegal smell as I passed the two student houses tucked at the end of the street, likely still going from the previous night. Imagining Kyle’s disgust, I reminded myself that all of that was behind me now – there was no room for messing around any more, no room for failure. I snapped my head up and aimed for the entrance to the tube, for my extremely hard-won job on the Bowers & Johnson graduate scheme, and for everything I now had.
The temperature gradually rose as I descended on the escalator with a handful of other tired, blank-faced commuters, and I was beginning to sweat. Huge fans circulated the stagnant air at the bottom, giving everyone with long hair a Medusa-like appearance as they passed by. I knew my own wilful dark curls, hastily straightened just fifteen minutes earlier, wouldn’t hold. The tips were already threatening to twist and I cursed the unseasonably warm early May weather, my shoes, the tubeandmy job.
Finally on board, as we rattled east and drew closer to zone 1, the carriage filled. I gave up my seat to a pregnant lady as we got to South Ken, her grateful smile just about making up for having to squish myself into the sweaty armpits of two tall, highly perfumed City boys.
Forcing my mind to head for my happy place, the rest of the journey occurred largely in the countryside where I’d grown up, at the riding stables where I’d spent most of my time as a teenager until I’d left home for university – just me and a couple of close friends, shovelling the shit produced by about thirty horses. In exchange, I rode most days through the surrounding countryside of rolling hills and forests, free of people, of responsibility and of overpowering, overpriced cologne. Often I’d listened to audiobooks as I worked, measuring out the horses’ feed into buckets, or taking apart bridles to give them a thorough clean and polish. Sometimes I’d even taken my books up to the stables and snuck a read in the tack room, the comforting smell of supple leather and sun-warmed hay infusing the memory of the stories.
As I made my way off the tube at my stop and wound my way up to street level, I realized I couldn’t remember the last time I’d read or listened to anything. Work and Kyle took up so much of my time that anything else other than exhausted sleep felt like nothing more than a vague memory. Had those years at the stables been the happiest time of my life? If so, was it all downhill from there?
Before pushing my way onto the street, I pulled out my phone and checked my reflection. It revealed the true mess that my expensive clothes and make-up couldn’t disguise. Wide blue eyes now watery with exhausted frustration, overly pink cheeks contrasting with my otherwise pale, freckled skin. As for my hair . . . the ends had now bounced upwards, creating a curly chaos. My best friend Hestia had once described it as perfect surfer-girl hair, adding, ‘You know, if you had any chill at all, you could totally pull it off.’
She hadn’t meant it to, but it’d hit a nerve. Would I ever be able to relax? Could I afford to do that and be the success I needed to be?
My phone lit up again with more messages – two more coffee orders.
Apparently not.
Swallowing down choice expletives, I propelled myself towards the only café in this section of zone 1 that Cressida hadn’t declared ‘fucking abysmal’, and considered the years I’d spent studying, the months I’d spent cramming for my finals, the sheer effort and tears that’d gone into applying for the scheme – endless interviews, aptitude tests and team exercises. To get her and the rest of the marketing team coffee.
There was no way in hell that Kyle would have to fetch coffee for his team, but perhaps that was the difference between a marketing assistant at a law firm and a junior analyst at J.P. Morgan. Or maybe because his father was on the board, or just that he had the right accent and a signet ring.
I mentally slapped myself, knowing I needed to knock it off. Maybe I needed coffee too, way more than I thought.
Finally reaching the door of the café, I pushed inward on the long brass handle, but nothing happened. My frantic momentum almost propelled me through the glass, my eyes directly in line with a piece of paper taped to the inside.
‘Closed due to unforeseen circumstances on Tuesday 7 May. See you again soon!’
Oh.Fuck.
Cressida was exacting in the extreme, but the only other option without a significant walk and three more blisters was the Starbucks just up the road. Bowers & Johnson was part of a sea of steel and glass offices that swallowed the older stone buildings in their shadow and didn’t leave much room for anything else. We had our own café in the building, of course, but it wasn’t open until later. Because reasonable people don’t require caffeination at their office before 7 a.m.
Praying to any and every god, I jogged to Starbucks, rationalizing that turning up with some kind of coffee was better than none. I offered up eternal servitude, my new car – hell, my unborn children – for Starbucks to be open.
It was. Thank fuck.
The barista’s eyebrows rose as I barrelled in, groaning in relief and reeling off my order before I’d even reached the counter, grateful that it was empty.
‘Are you sure you need coffee? We have some herbal options?’ he said, a half-smile on his mouth as he added the order to his screen. I paused, mid-list, ready to narrow my eyes or poke his out when he winked. ‘I’m just saying, girl, you look like you need a Xanax, not caffeine.’
The sheer ridiculousness of the moment hit me and my mouth twitched.
‘You got a cold foam Xanax? I’ll take a Venti.’
