Invitation to the Boss's Ball. Fiona Harper

nicely for being at their beck and call. All her spare cash was going into the start-up fund for their dream—Coreen’s Closet in bricks and mortar, with a stockroom and a small office. A place where Gladys and Glynis, the two battered mannequins that Coreen had rescued from a skip, could stand in the warm and dry, safe from the danger of being toppled by blustery autumn winds.

      At that moment, another gust blew through the market. Although they were in a courtyard with a corrugated roof, surrounded by small shops, Greenwich market was basically an open-air affair, and the wind still whistled through the access alleyways and pillared entrances. Alice pulled her scarf tighter around her neck, and Coreen pulled her coat around her and stamped her feet. Braving the elements was part of the life of a market trader, even if you dealt in old furs and satins, so all in all it was a very ordinary day—and Alice was totally unprepared for what happened next.

      Coreen had been to an estate clearance the day before, and had brought back some truly amazing pieces, obviously hoarded by a woman whose children didn’t see the designer labels she’d tucked away in the back of her wardrobe as a useful part of their legacy. Some people were like that. They could only think of vintage fashion as wearing other people’s clothes, and would never see the inherent beauty of the pieces they were on the verge of throwing away or cutting up for rags.

      The satin cocktail dress and the velvet skirt were only part of that haul. Alice carefully lifted a peacock-blue taffeta evening cape out of the box, and when she saw what was underneath it she froze. There they were, just sitting there—the perfect pair of shoes.

      She’d been on a steep learning curve about the history of fashion since she’d first met Coreen, but she knew enough to date this pair of evening sandals somewhere in the early fifties. They were the softest black suede and hardly worn. They were elegant, plain—apart from a small diamanté buckle on one side—with a slingback strap. But it was the heels that made the shoes unique. They were totally transparent. Not dull, cheap plastic, though. They were hard and solid, and reflected the light like glass.

      Alice hardly dared touch them, they were so beautiful, but she picked one up gingerly and showed it to Coreen.

      Her friend nodded in agreement. ‘Fabulous, aren’t they? I swear, if I was a smaller size, I’d have swiped them for myself.’

      Alice peeked at the label. ‘But they say they’re a five and a half—you’re only a smidge bigger than that. Are you sure you don’t want them?’

      Coreen shook her head. ‘American sizing. That’s a size four to you and me.’

      Size four? Really?

      That was it, then. This was destiny.

      They were the sort of thing a twenty-eight-year-old should be wearing on a regular basis—not canvas sneakers and the big, clumpy things that made Coreen tut.

      ‘They’re mine,’ she whispered.

      Coreen was looking at her again, this time with an understanding light in her eyes.

      ‘How much?’ Alice asked.

      The ponytail bounced violently as Coreen shook her head. ‘I only paid fifty quid for the whole box, and I can sell the rest of the contents for five times that. You have them.’

      ‘Really?’

      Coreen winked. ‘Really. I know that look. That’s the look of a girl who’s fallen completely in love and is never going to fall out again. Go on—try them on.’

      Even though the stall was only half set up, Alice couldn’t wait. She sat on the collapsible chair behind the main table and pulled off her ratty old trainers and thick woolly socks. She didn’t even notice the cold on her toes as she took a deep breath and slid her foot into the right shoe, praying fervently that Coreen was correct about the sizing.

      Oh, my.

      Her first instinct had been right. They were perfect. The shoe moulded to her foot as if it’d been crafted especially for her, and when she slipped the other one on and pulled up the legs of her jeans to get a better look, she gasped. Somehow the shoes made her skinny little ankles and feet look all curvy and shapely and sexy.

      She looked up at Coreen. ‘The heels? What are they made of?’

      Coreen bent forward as Alice twisted her foot to give her a better look. ‘Lucite. It’s a type of perspex. Really fashionable in the fifties—and not just for shoes. I think I might have a pair of gold-coloured Lucite earrings in my treasure trove.’ She indicated the glass-topped wooden display box full of costume jewellery on the other end of the stall. ‘But the things to look out for are the handbags.’

      ‘Handbags?’ Alice looked shocked. ‘Made out of this stuff?’

      Coreen nodded. ‘Cute little boxy things with hinged handles. They come in all shapes and colours and they are really collectible—mainly because a lot of them haven’t survived undamaged. In good condition, they can go for hundreds of pounds.’

      ‘Wow!’

      ‘Yes, so keep your eyes peeled.’

      Coreen went back to setting up the stall, and Alice looked down at her feet and twisted her ankles this way and that. She wasn’t a girly girl, and she didn’t normally get excited about something as frivolous as shoes, but it was almost a wrench to slip her feet out of the sandals and return them to her hiking socks and trainers.

      ‘That settles it, then,’ Coreen said, bustling Alice to her feet and snatching the shoes away so she could pack them up in a box. ‘They’re yours.’

      Cameron Hunter stood facing the plate glass window that filled one side of his office. From seven hundred feet above sea level, this was one of the most spectacular views in London. It was as if the whole city had prostrated itself at his feet.

      Although the day had started crisp and bright, pollution had turned the autumn sky hazy, and now the cityscape below was all pale colours, smudged greys and browns. He stared at the silvery water glinting in the docks below.

      He should feel like a king.

      Most days he did. Head of his own software company before the age of thirty-five. A company he’d started with nothing but a loan he couldn’t afford and an idea that had woken him up in the middle of the night.

      And now look at him. This building in the heart of Canary Wharf—and his office within it—could be seen all over London. Further, even. Now every day in the south London suburb where he’d grown up the boys who’d bullied him, the ones who’d taunted him mercilessly, could see the proof of how spectacularly they’d been wrong about him when they walked down the street.

      Even better, when they got to work and switched on their computers, it was probably his innovative software they were running. Not that he’d leased these offices because of that—it had just been a pleasing perk. When Orion Solutions had first moved in here he’d smiled every time he’d glanced out of the window.

      But now…Sometimes he felt…

      He shook his head. This was nonsense.

      The intercom on his desk crackled.

      ‘Mr Hunter?’

      He didn’t move, not even to twist in the direction of the speaker. His eyes were fixed on a blue patch of sky on the horizon.

      ‘Yes?’ He didn’t speak loudly. He never spoke loudly. Somehow there was something in the timbre of his voice that just carried. He had no doubt that Stephanie heard every syllable.

      ‘I know you asked not to be disturbed, Mr Hunter, but something urgent has come up.’

      Now he turned and stared at the speaker. ‘Come and fill me in.’

      He stayed where he was and transferred his gaze to the door. He was not a man accustomed to being kept waiting. Not that he was impatient—far from it—but when you were Cameron Hunter people tended to ask how high it would be convenient for them to jump before he’d even thought