Tell That to My Heart
TELL THAT TO MY HEART
(Book One in the Heartshaped Series)
Eliza J Scott
Copyright © Eliza J Scott 2020
Eliza J Scott has asserted her moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission in writing of the author.
This book is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book has been edited in British English (BrE) and therefore uses British spellings.
To my family xxx
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Afterword
Also by Eliza J Scott
Thank You
About the Author
1
‘Thanks.’ Mim flashed the driver a quick smile before leaping down from the bus that had ground to a halt halfway along Gillygate in the centre of York.
‘No worries, love, mind how you go.’ He winced as she narrowly avoided colliding with a cyclist who’d been weaving his way in and out of the static line of rush-hour traffic.
‘Yikes!’
‘Watch where you’re bloody-well going!’ The cyclist turned, his eyes full of anger. ‘Stupid bloody woman.’
‘Alright, keep your hair on.’
Thanks to the seemingly never-ending roadworks that had sprung up everywhere around the city, the bus had been stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic for the last twenty-five minutes, creeping along at an agonisingly slow pace, fumes from the many exhausts swirling around in the damp October air. Mim’s stress levels were soaring; she was going to be late for work. Again.
‘S’cuse me.’ She squeezed through a couple of early morning shoppers who were ambling along, blocking the pavement and too deep in conversation to notice her impatience bubbling up behind them. They stood aside, one of them shooting her a filthy look as she hurried by.
With her long blonde hair flying out behind her, Mim managed a short burst of running before she hit another wall of people. ‘Flaming hell,’ she muttered, doing her best to edge around them. Her long legs took a few strides before she reached the next obstruction. ‘Sorry, can I just get through, please?’
She raced along, taking a quick leap to the right to avoid the snapping jaws of a snarling Yorkshire Terrier. ‘Yeah, yeah, when you’re big enough, squirt.’ She landed in a muddy puddle that splashed up her leg. ‘Drat!’
Taking advantage of a clear stretch ahead of her, Mim ran with long, thundering strides, one hand gripping onto the backpack that was slung over her shoulder, the other holding her phone – she’d already texted her best friend and co-worker Anna-Lisa, warning her of her lateness and asking for her to cover for her. Her mind was so focused on getting to work and trying to ignore the tight feeling in her chest, she didn’t see the tall, dark-haired man stepping out of the Coffee Bean cafe until it was too late. She lunged sideways to avoid him, clipping his arm with her backpack and skidding in a small pile of soggy leaves in the process.
‘What the …?’ He shook hot coffee from his hand, sending Mim an angry look.
‘Arghh!’ She thrust out her arms. Don’t hit your head! Don’t hit your head! Don’t hit your head! Everything seemed to grind down into agonisingly slow motion; a cyclist swerved around her, she heard gasps from a group of women huddled nearby, and snorts of laughter from a gaggle of teenagers who were obviously bunking off school. There was a resounding thud followed by a clatter as she landed in an ungainly heap on the ground, her phone skittering across the cobbles, coming to a halt perilously close to the wide-toothed mouth of a drain. She lay there frozen, all but for her chest that was heaving as she struggled to catch her breath. She took a moment to gather her thoughts. The message that her knee was throbbing finally reached her brain – it would be a miracle if she hadn’t put a hole in her tights. A stinging sensation in her hands joined the chorus and tears of embarrassment started swimming in her eyes. She sniffed, quickly blinking them back. Don’t cry! Don’t make a show of yourself, you’re a grown woman, not a child! But, ouch! Bloody ouch!
‘Are you alright down there?’
She glanced up to see the man she’d just bumped into looking down at her, his dark eyes twinkling. Though her throat felt tight, she did her best to swallow her tears as she made a clumsy attempt to stand up, humiliation colouring her cheeks. ‘Yes, I’m fine, thanks.’
‘Here, let me help you.’
Strong arms pulled her to her feet. She watched, her face burning more furiously, as he bent to pick up her backpack then reached for her phone. ‘There you are. I’m afraid the screen on your phone’s cracked.’ He handed them to her, brushing away the wayward strands of hair that had fallen over her face, the sudden intimacy sending a spike of electricity through her. In spite of her embarrassment, it hadn’t escaped Mim’s attention that he was seriously good-looking. Tall, dark and handsome; he was just her type. Her already scarlet face flushed even brighter.
‘Thank you.’
‘And I think you might need a new pair of tights.’ His dark eyes glittered.
She glanced down to see a large hole glaring at her, a ladder already hurrying its way down her shin. ‘Oh, bugger. They were new, I just bought them at the weekend. They were expensive; they’re special thermal ones.’ And exactly why do you think this stranger needs such details?
‘Ah.’ Amusement tugged at the corners of his mouth.
‘And I think you might need a new shirt – sorry, by the way.’
His eyes followed hers to the coffee stain splashed down his front. ‘Hmm, unfortunate timing.’
Mim suddenly remembered the cause of her haste. ‘Look, I’m honestly really sorry for bumping into you and for making a mess of your shirt, but I’m late for work again and I’ve got a horrible feeling my old dragon of a boss is looking for any excuse to sack me, so I’ve got to dash. Bye and thank you. And sorry, again.’
‘Hey, no worries. Good luck with your horrible boss.’
‘Thanks, I’ll need it.’
She pushed on, ignoring the thrumming ache in her knee and cursing the smashed screen of her phone. Not far now! She was nearing the snickelway that gave a short cut to Smiddersgate, the street of mediaeval timber-framed buildings where she worked; she was hoping to slip down it but her heart sank when she saw roadworks blocking the way and a sign proclaiming: “No Access”. ‘Bugger!’ She stopped, resting her hands on her thighs while she
considered what to do. Her lungs were squeezing ever tighter, creating a pain in her chest, making her breathing ragged. There was no alternative, she’d have to go the long way round. Why, oh why, had she moved out of her house on the edge of the city? She never had this problem when she lived there; a quick bike ride and she was at work in under twenty minutes.
She continued her race along the York-stone pavements, her heart pounding almost as loud as her Dr Marten-clad feet. ‘Jeez.’ She gasped, pressing her hand against the stitch that had started stabbing into her side, while her lungs protested as she tried to force a gulp of air into them. Nearly there, Mim, keep going. She jumped down off the kerb and onto the road to dodge a young mum with a pushchair who was negotiating the path with a businessman and his pull-along-case.
As she ran, Mim did her best to block the rising feeling of nausea that had started swirling around her stomach which exercise always seemed to induce. Lord, I must be North Yorkshire’s most unfit twenty-six-year-old! She hated running; she was rubbish at it. Always had been. Always would be.
Her body continued to object as she ran down Smiddersgate.
‘Phew!’ The main door to the wonky, wattle and daub building that housed Yorkshire Portions Magazine where she worked as a marketing assistant was a welcome sight. Mim paused for a moment, hoping to steady herself and calm her breathing. She pulled her hair away from her clammy neck and slipped her phone in her pocket. ‘Right, here goes.’ Once inside, she headed to the back stairs and tiptoed her way up, hoping to weave her way around the rabbit warren of rooms and corridors before slipping surreptitiously into her office.
‘Morning, Jemima.’ No such flaming luck.
Mim’s galloping heart plummeted to her feet as a line of sweat trickled down her back. She looked up to find her boss, Catherine Pallister-Biggs, owner editor of Yorkshire Portions Magazine and stuck-up, snooty bag, at the top of the stairs, hands on sturdy hips, pinning her with her infamous steely glare. As usual, Catherine’s hair looked like it hadn’t seen a hairbrush in weeks, the short, salt and pepper curls sticking out as if she’d had a fright. The look was topped off by a smear of what looked like dried egg yolk running down the front of her blouse. She was the only one at work who used Mim’s full name. Being addressed as Jemima always made her feel like she was in trouble, which she invariably was with Catherine and her equally pompous sub-editor husband Kenneth.
‘Morning, Catherine. I’m really sorry I’m late, roadworks again; there’s even more of them today, they’re everywhere, I think they’re breeding, it’s causing mayhem.’ She was still gasping for breath, her pulse thrumming in her ears.
‘Well, whatever the reason, you can make up the time you’ve lost by working through your lunch break. We’ve got heaps to do today, as you’re very well aware. And look at the state of you with your hair all over the place and that hole in your tights; please don’t tell me it’s the latest fashion trend.’ Catherine’s imperious voice was really beginning to grate.
‘Of course, I was going to do that anyway.’ What bloody lunch break? Mim couldn’t remember the last time she hadn’t worked through at least part of hers, even when she hadn’t been late.
The magazine’s rapid rise to success had taken all at Yorkshire Portions by surprise, resulting in Catherine becoming increasingly competitive with their peer publications, pushing to feature more appealing, fresher articles in theirs. She made no secret of wanting their magazine to be the best. The increased workload this had generated meant that the magazine had become horrendously understaffed. But, instead of employing new “team members”, as she liked to call them, Catherine had merely allocated those who were already there with extra job titles, and naturally, extra responsibility – not that this was reflected in an increase in salary. If anyone was brave enough to draw the situation to her attention, she would simply dismiss them with a wave of her diamond beringed hand and say that she was dealing with it. This had resulted in everyone being stretched to the limits, and the general feeling that something or someone would break before too long pervaded the air. The situation was laughable, since rumour had it that the Pallister-Biggs were loaded, and it didn’t sit well with their staff that they were working for a couple of mean penny-pinchers who put frugality before staff worth or morale.
Mim reached the top of the stairs, but instead of stepping to one side to let Mim pass, Catherine remained rooted to the spot, appraising her with a critical eye. It made Mim feel even more uncomfortable. ‘S’cuse me, I just need to…’ As she went to squeeze past her boss, her nostrils were assaulted by the woman’s familiar fusty odour, generated by her apparent reluctance to wash her clothes. Mim couldn’t help but scrunch up her nose and hold her breath. It put her in mind of a jumble sale and the smell generated by piles of unwanted, long-forgotten clothes that had been lurking at the back of so many wardrobes for years.
‘Honestly, Jemima, close up you look even worse, anyone would think you’d been sleeping rough.’
‘Sorry, I had a bit of an accident on the way here.’ You’ve got a bloody nerve commenting on my appearance; at least I’m not wearing my breakfast. And when was the last time your hair saw a brush or shampoo for that matter, eh, Catherine-the-not-so-Great? And don’t speak about homeless people in that disparaging way, you snotty old boot!
‘Hmphh. I think you did. But never mind that, now you’re here you can get me a coffee, then I want a word with you in your office.’
‘Oh, okay.’ If Mim’s heart could have sunk any lower it would have; Catherine’s words spelt doom.
‘Well, what are you waiting for? Don’t just stand there gawping at me. Go on. Chop, chop. Go, go, go. I’ve got to contend with the new art director starting today on top of everything else, and I need a coffee before I can face any of it.’ She made a shooing motion with her hands, the stones of her enormous diamond ring glittering in the artificial light.
‘Sorry, yes, coffee.’ That’ll be in my role as “Office Dogsbody” no doubt.
Mim worried at her bottom lip as her mind began scrambling over her boss’s words. Shit. What did Catherine need to speak to her about so urgently? If it was something bad, surely she wouldn’t want to do it in the office Mim shared with Anna-Lisa and Aidey; that would be way too awkward on so many levels. Even so, she wouldn’t put it past her boss; Catherine was infamous for her shocking lack of sensitivity when it came to people’s feelings.
With a variety of scenarios whirling around her mind – all involving her being handed her P45 – Mim made her way along the oak-panelled landing to the pokey little kitchen, its familiar smell of damp making her nostrils twitch. She checked the kettle for water and flicked the switch; she could murder a coffee herself. An image of the response that would elicit from Catherine pushed the craving right out of her mind. Instead, she slugged back a quick glass of water, wiping the drips from her chin with the back of her hand. That would have to do for now. She washed her hands, wincing as the water made the grazes sting. As she dried them, her eyes were drawn to a wide scrape down the sleeve of her prized leather jacket; it must have happened when she fell. ‘Oh, no!’ Her heart sank. It was her pride and joy, and it had taken ages for her to save enough cash to buy it; she hadn’t even had the flaming thing for six months. Wiping it with a dampened corner of the tea towel didn’t help; she’d google how to fix it, or email the store and ask their advice. There was no way she was going to stop wearing it.
The sense she was being watched took her unawares, making her shiver. ‘Ughh! Stop it!’ she remonstrated with herself. But paranoia was becoming an increasingly common feeling as an uneasy air of change had begun to permeate the office at Yorkshire Portions, slipping under doorways and lurking in dark corners, making everyone feel they had to watch their backs. Such an atmosphere had the potential to be divisive and Mim was thankful that the friendship she shared with Anna-Lisa and Aidey was strong enough to ward off any potential discord between them, quashing any negativity before it had chance to take root.
While she waited for the kettle to boil, Aidey eased into her mind; what exactly was going on there? Four weeks ago, one chilly Monday morning, Catherine had marched into their office and announced that she was changing his role from art director to designer and picture editor which she said was a job he was much better suited to, the new art director apparently being somebody they’d headhunted and who was “made for the role”. Mim’s heart had gone out to Aidey, who had listened, his kind face disguising the anger he felt, as Catherine blatantly bulldozed over his feelings. She’d even had the audacity to suggest that he should be grateful he wasn’t taking a pay cut. Up to that point, Mim had thought Catherine’s lack of sensitivity couldn’t surprise her. Now, nothing would; which made this morning’s imminent conversation all the more worrying.
As Mim headed along the corridor to her office, a vaguely familiar voice floated down towards her. She frowned as it triggered a warning in her gut and set her hackles up. Her mind leapt at the hazy wisps of memory that hovered around the edges of her mind, trying to link the voice to the person, but she still hadn’t managed to put a face to it by the time she’d reached the door. Warily, she pushed it open to find that the usual friendly atmosphere of the room had been whipped away and replaced by one of heavy discomfort. She glanced between Anna-Lisa and Aidey who gave her matching concerned smiles. She turned to her desk to see the owner of the voice sitting there, a challenging glint in her eye as she held Mim’s gaze.