Playing for Keeps: A fun, flirty romantic comedy perfect for summer reading. Rosa Temple

and I’m starting a new range of really trendy mum bags for carrying baby things around and you’re going to model them.’

      ‘Really? You’d be happy for me to model your new bags?’

      I shook Anya.

      ‘Darling. You’re a top international model, have been for over a decade. You think there is one person left in this world who hasn’t heard of you? Now stop it. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. So you’re pregnant. Big deal. You look slimmer than me! You’re five months gone and your tummy is flatter than mine. You, my dear, are glowing. That’s what you are. You’re glowing and you’ve never looked more beautiful. Now get on the phone to your agent and tell them you’ll take all the baby-bump shoots they can throw at you. Then I want you to call the hospital and tell them you’re ready to arrange the eighteen-week scan you missed. Let’s find out if we’re painting this nursery pink or blue.’

      I let go of Anya’s hands with gusto, making her hop back and almost fall into the chaise longue.

      ‘You really think I can do this, Madge? Be a proper mother?’

      ‘You already are a proper mother. For one thing you actually eat food these days, every day; no more starving yourself for photo shoots. You see? That’s how it starts. It’s called motherhood and you’re nailing it already. You and I are going to see this thing through together and in four months’ time you’ll have mother of the year awards coming out of your ears.’

      She pinched her lips in, nodded sternly and crossed her arms.

      ‘I can do this,’ she said and marched out of the dining room and into the kitchen where she picked up her mobile from the breakfast bar and started tapping the keys.

      ‘Who are you calling?’ I asked.

      ‘My manager. First I’m going to tell her to get that mad cat out of my house and then I’ll let her know about your new mum bags. I can see myself as the face, and bump, for them. Thank you, Madge. I love you. You know that, don’t you?’ She put her finger up before I could answer and began busily chatting away to her manager, making plans for a comeback.

      I gestured that I’d see myself out. I moved stealthily out into the hallway and darted for the front door before the cat, who was either throwing himself at the closed living-room door or hurling ornaments at it, could get out.

      Outside in the sweltering late morning I got back into the car and turned on the engine. As I pulled out of the drive I made a mental note to myself. Well, two actually. First: arrange some advertising for shop staff so there would be actual candidates available for me and Anya to interview. Second: rush back to the office and start designing these so-called ‘mum’ bags I’ve asked Anya to model. They didn’t exist ten minutes ago and now I’d have to make them happen. Damn.

Chapter 2

       Shearman Bright is hiring!

       Do you have what it takes to manage and run London’s next fashion extravaganza?

       Are you a sales assistant with an eye for detail and a lover of accessories?

      If so, we need you.

      Applications are open for a manager to deal with the day-to-day running of the Shearman Bright flagship shop.

      We are also looking for a talented sales assistant.

      Experience is essential.

      Call and ask for an application form and job description today.

      ‘That sounds great, Riley. Just add the bits about salary, hours and start date and get this advert out as quickly as you can.’

      ‘Will do, boss.’

      I went to leave the reception but my assistant, Riley, called me back. Riley had bunched her auburn hair into a top knot and wore clip-on studs that matched her overly large blue eyes. Her vintage, sleeveless blouse was tied above her navel, the outfit completed by fifties pedal pushers and kitten-heel mules.

      ‘Have you been doing some shopping for Anya?’ she asked, looking down at the Mothercare carrier bag I was holding.

      ‘Oh that.’ I held up the bulky plastic bag. ‘Research. I was thinking about designing baby-changing bags for trendy mums.’

      ‘That’s a bit of a departure from the current lines but it sounds like a great idea. I suppose it’ll be a while before they go into production though. You’ve got so much on at the moment.’

      ‘Actually, they were a bit of a brainwave. Thought I could knock something out in a week or two.’

      ‘You what?’ Riley’s eyes widened more. ‘Magenta, are you sure? You’re meeting the architect at the shop in an hour and then there’s—’

      ‘I know, I know,’ I said, backing out into the hallway. ‘But it’s ideal.’ I was at the foot of the stairs, about to dash up to my office. ‘We’ll have Anya Stankovic modelling the range. It’ll be great. Trust me,’ I called as I ran up the stairs.

      I hurtled into my office before Riley could remind me of my ever-growing to-do list, and that I had to launch a new shop in three months, and that I had yet to find the right builder to start work on the major refurbishment at the shop once I’d approved the architect’s drawings.

      I sighed and kicked the door shut with the heel of my Alexander McQueen sculpted wedge sandal, leaned back against it and exhaled. I should have started wearing trainers to work really, considering all the running from pillar to post I’d been doing.

      I spent the next half an hour staring at the Mothercare baby-changing bag. If Burberry and Moschino could sell designer mummy bags at over £300 a throw, so could I. Another five minutes of hair-tearing moments with my sketch pad and pencil and Riley buzzed me to say the taxi was waiting to take me to my meeting with the architect.

      Jack Sun Carter, the architect, was standing outside the shop on a corner of King’s Road, all six-feet-six of him. He was an imposing figure with broad shoulders, casually dressed and carrying a large portfolio under one arm, mobile in the opposite hand. He was staring into the empty shop as I rushed up to him. Only five minutes late. Not bad. I’d taken an instant liking to Jack, who was recommended to me by Indigo, one of my three sisters. We had gelled immediately, sharing stories about our mixed parentage and comparing notes.

      His father, like mine, was Jamaican, but whereas my mother was a lily-white Englishwoman, originating from Ireland, his was a Chinese American who’d met Jack’s father at a New Year’s Eve bash just off Times Square in New York. Jack, part raised in the States, East London and Jamaica, had an engaging accent. And did I mention his magnificent skin colour? Jack had cheekbones to die for and don’t get me started on those eyes.

      While we exchanged banter on our origins it was clear that Jack’s mixed parentage was a continued source of intrigue to the women who were queuing for miles, not only to experience the culinary skills he’d acquired as part of a bohemian existence, but to wrap their legs around his athletic frame.

      I was genuinely fanning myself from the rush up to the shop and because it was a humid afternoon and not because Jack was a vision of gorgeousness.

      He kissed my cheek. We were old friends by now.

      ‘I’ve reworked the drawings as per your specifications, Magenta. I hope you’ll like them… and not change your mind again.’

      ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that, Jack.’ I was rattling the large bunch of keys I’d accumulated since I bought the leasehold on the shop. I’d fantasised about owning this shop for ages. It was formerly owned by a classy woman who sold classic handbags and accessories but whose styles didn’t bring in enough business and she’d had to sell up. I was now able to realise my dream of bringing handbags as well as my signature man bags to the King’s Road. ‘I just wasn’t sure