Wildflower Hill by Kimberley Freeman Read Free Book Online Page A

my handbag from my locker. I’d started out with such good intentions from the Shaftesbury Avenue studio—don’t stop to look at anything, don’t stop to buy anything—but up on Euston Road, I’d been recognized.
    “Excuse me! Excuse me!” A toffee voice behind me, growing closer.
    I stopped and turned.
    A middle-aged woman and her awkward preteen daughter were hurrying up to me.
    “Hello,” I said.
    “You’re Emma Blaxland-Hunter, aren’t you?” the woman asked, smoothing her shirt as though preparing for esteemed company.
    “I am. I’m very pleased to meet you.”
    The woman glanced at her daughter, then back to me. “This is my daughter, Glenys. She loves to dance. Do you have any advice for her? She wants to be just like you.”
    “Mum!” Glenys exclaimed, as mortified by a simple thing as only a twelve-year-old can be.
    This was the point where I should have smiled politely and backed away, offered my apologies but claimed to be terribly busy, and so on. But I couldn’t. Gran always said to share the good times and they would last forever. London had been the city of my dreams as a child. To live and work here, exceling in my field, was an honor, and to be welcomed with such enthusiasm by its residents was something I never grew tired of. I wasn’t naturally good with people, especially children, but it was only twenty minutes out of my life. So, while the traffic roared past and the long summer afternoon wore on, I talked to Glenys, gave her some tips, danced with her on the footpath as puzzled commuters hurried by on their way to King’s Cross or St. Pancras. Glenys shed her awkwardness quickly, became shiny-eyed with excitement. Finally, I autographed the back of an old envelope for her and encouraged her to keep dancing.
    “Thank you so much,” Glenys said, pressing the envelope against her chest.
    The mother nodded appreciatively. “It was such a pleasure to meet you. I’ve long been a fan of your grandmother’s brand, you know. There must be something in the blood with the women in your family. Such creativity, such drive.”
    I bit my tongue so I wouldn’t say “You haven’t met my mother,” and turned to be on my way. Late now. Quite late.
    Even so, I arrived at the restaurant before Josh. Our reserved table waited, and I sat at it, feeling daunted by the sharp edges of the folded linen napkins and the posh quiet.Josh was born into privilege; for me it had come only lately, and I still felt like an impostor sometimes, waiting for the tap on the shoulder, the polite “You shouldn’t be here.”
    Ten minutes passed. He still hadn’t arrived. This was unusual. I’d been living with him in our roomy rented apartment in Chelsea for six months, and he lived his life like clockwork. The alarm went off—he got up! Not like me, hitting the snooze button over and over, clinging to the last thin shard of sleep until I heard him putting on his shoes near the front door and guilt finally prompted me to rise. If he said he’d be home at six, then at six he’d be home: no later, no earlier. If anything beyond his control held him up—and there was little beyond his control—he’d call and . . .
    My phone! Did I even have it switched on?
    I rummaged in my bag. I hated the damned thing, but Josh had insisted on it. I barely knew how any of its functions worked, and 90 percent of the time, I forgot I owned it. Dozens of calls were usually piled up on my voice mail every week. Sometimes I just ignored the tiresome task of listening to them all; it was time taken away from more important things.
    My hand closed around it . . . Four missed calls. I was thumbing through the functions, trying to remember how to retrieve my voice mail, when I heard the door to the restaurant open, briefly letting in a blast of traffic noise. I looked up, knew it would be him.
    He smiled. Oh, that smile. It had been the start of everything. A smile that hinted at the man beneath the polished surface, at primal