The Perfect Location. Kate Forster

at some point in their career. Writing books is collaborative, even though a few writers’ egos might argue otherwise.

      Without the following people in my life, who knows where I would be and what I would be doing. I want to say thank you to them, it’s not nearly enough but it’s a start. Yes, I could drop them a bottle of wine and a thank you card but I would prefer to see their names in print for posterity and all that jazz. They put up with me; they deserve something more concrete than a Pinot Grigio and a scrawled note. Trust me, I can be hard work.

      *Warning: gushing ahead. Look away if it offends.

      To my mother Joan who never censored the books in our house and who has champagne taste and a song for everything.

      To Emma and Fiona for being the first readers of everything I write. Thank you for telling me to keep writing. I am here now, because of you both. You are my ideal readers and ideal best girlfriends.

      To my agent Tara Wynne at Curtis Brown for taking the call, seeing something in the first draft and taking me on, typos and all. Tara, you are a tigress, a patient teacher and always, extremely fabulous. I am blessed to have you in my corner.

      To Domonique for her cheerleading across the pond and never-ending belief in me.

      To Claire Bord and Sammia Rafique, thank you for your support, collaboration and sound advice. It has been a dream to work with you both and I am very thankful you took me on.

      To Tansy for keeping me up to date with everything and telling me when something is really ‘lame’.

      To Spike for having such faith in everything I do and not complaining (much) when dinner doesn’t always arrive on time.

      And to David for understanding I didn’t have a choice and wanting me to be happy more than anything else.

PART ONE

      CHAPTER ONE

      Rose Nightingale walked into LAX, hiding behind large Dior sunglasses and ignoring the photographers that lurked at the international terminal, waiting for celebrities to come and go. They took their chance to harangue them, usually when they were holding travel-weary children and pushing a trolley full of luggage. It didn’t matter how fabulous you were, travel was travel and it was a bore.

      As Rose approached the United Lounge, she was greeted by a flight attendant who ushered her inside a door to the sanctity of the private space.

      ‘Hello, Ms Nightingale. May I have your passport, please?’

      Rose handed it over with a smile.

      ‘Can I offer you champagne and a light snack?’

      ‘No, thanks,’ said Rose as the attendant led her towards a private seating area.

      Rose’s phone rang and she answered it as she sat down in a corner of the lounge, ignoring the flickers of recognition from other travellers.

      ‘Slapper,’ said Rose, seeing Kelly’s name appear on her phone.

      ‘Tosser, you all ready for Italia?’ Kelly’s thick Northern accent came down the line and Rose smiled at the sound of her oldest friend’s voice.

      ‘All sorted, babe. You and Chris there already?’

      ‘Yeah, we got here two days ago. Shit, it’s gorgeous, Rosie. You’re gonna flip when you see your villa, I checked it out yesterday, although the housekeeper is like something out of central casting. “Super Nonna”, I call her.’

      Rose laughed. Kelly always had a way with words that summed up a person or a situation perfectly.

      Rose and Kelly were from different parts of England, both geographically and economically but these differences were never remarked upon or noticed even by each other. The only acknowledgements they made to their upbringings were their nicknames referencing people’s perceptions of them, Rose being an upper class girl and Kelly being from Yorkshire.

      Rose was the daughter of a successful novelist and a television writer. Her intellectual father had been nominated for the Pulitzer twice and her mother created and wrote a popular crime series for television. Rose moved amongst the society crowd at her private day school and her brief relationship with a minor European royal gave her enough social currency to be named the most eligible girl in England by Tatler magazine. Appearing on the cover in a dress handmade by Lacroix himself from fresh rose petals, the headline read ‘A Rose by any Other Name’. Rose could have then married well and faded away from fame with an occasional photo in the social pages of Jennifer’s Diary.

      But Rose was no wallflower or country wife and she decided on a more precarious road, successfully auditioning for acting school in London. She worked hard at the school to be more than just the beautiful girl, but never overcame the stigma of being close to perfect.

      It was the other women on her course who were the worst in their treatment of Rose. Deliberately excluding her from parties and events and even at one point calling a group meeting with her where they each told her what they disliked about her in a round circle as a way of ‘helping her fit in more’. Rose despaired, her self-esteem was gone, her confidence shot, and she hated herself and the way she looked.

      It was Kelly who saved Rose from losing her mind. Students from The London School of Make-up Artistry were to create the make-up for the third year students’ production of William Congreve’s Love for Love. Rose had the lead role and Kelly, the best student in the course, was given Rose as her subject.

      The heavy Restoration make-up required for the play meant Rose was in the chair earlier than the other actors. Even though Kelly liked to call herself psychic, it didn’t take much to realize that Rose was ostracized from the rest of the cast. Kelly thought Rose seemed pleasant enough, if not a little quiet.

      As the play’s short run went on, Kelly realized that Rose was on the outside of the circle, deliberately punished for her beauty and her background. A shared joint at the cast party between Rose and Kelly bonded them. Kelly made an effort to include Rose in her group of interesting and creative friends from the make-up school and Rose was grateful for the company. Kelly’s friends were without the affectations of her school friends and without the competitiveness of her acting school peers. They celebrated Rose’s beauty and encouraged her to try new looks and styles with her face and even her clothes.

      Kelly’s belief in new age philosophies was at odds at her country upbringing and it was something that Rose was interested in. She wasn’t sure she believed in it, but was always surprised at Kelly’s ability to intuit what another person was feeling.

      ‘You are a rose in a field of onion grass,’ Kelly said to her best friend after she graduated. ‘You need to go to America where they will appreciate you more.’

      Rose ended up taking the US by storm and when it was Rose’s turn to help Kelly after she had made her mark in Hollywood she did it without a moment’s doubt. Rose got Kelly a job as an extra’s make-up artist on her next film, and soon Kelly was on her way to becoming the most sought after make-up artist in Hollywood.

      Bringing her thoughts back to the present, Rose tuned in to Kelly’s voice on the other end of the phone.

      ‘Hey, are Wendy and Bruce coming over to stay?’ asked Kelly.

      ‘I don’t know. They’re being weird about it. I think Mum thinks it all a bit much, you know, Italy and flights for her and Dad. I asked Martin and Fiona and the kids too. I just think it would be nice to spend some time together. It’s not like I’m heading back to London anytime soon.’

      ‘I’m going back for Christmas,’ said Kelly.

      ‘Really?’ said Rose, not noticing the surprised faces looking at her.

      ‘I want to show him Skipton.’

      ‘Well, that should take half a day, what else will you do while you’re back in your old stomping ground?’ Rose teased.

      ‘Piss