Miracle at the Museum of Broken Hearts

Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

Two weeks later, I’d almost given up hope on the new job. At Mel’s insistence, I’d even emailed to follow-up and make sure my résumé had been received. Instead of an enthusiastic “we never dreamed we’d get a candidate as qualified as you” response, though, I got nothing. Well, unless you counted several emails in my spam box offering to elongate my nonexistent penis.

I was just slurping my soup (all I could afford, what with covering Gareth’s half of the bills) with Ernie the Skull when my mobile started ringing. After rummaging in my handbag, I pulled out the phone, squinting at the unfamiliar number on the screen.

‘Hello?’ A dribble of liquid ran down my chin and I swiped at it impatiently.

‘Rose Delaney?’

The voice was deep and smooth – and undeniably sexy. The hairs on my arms lifted and I patted them back down again. God, it had been a while! As soon as Gareth got through the door (and hopefully it wouldn’t be much longer), I was going to jump his bones. Not that he was really the “jumping” kind – more of a tender, thoughtful, “making love” kind of bloke. I got lucky there.

‘Yes, this is she.’ My voice came out all prim and proper.

‘This is Heath Rowan, calling from the Museum of Broken Hearts, about the résumé you submitted.’

‘Oh! Yes, hello.’ My heart started thumping.

‘I’d like to have you in for an interview, if you’re still interested in the position. Does this afternoon at four suit?’

This afternoon?

I bit my lip, glancing down at my clothes. Working in a basement, there was never any need to dress up, and today I’d thrown on a crumpled pair of jeans and an old, soft sweater that was a cast-off of Mum’s. Timing wasn’t an issue – I could nip out of here whenever I liked, as long as the work was done – but no way could I rock up to an interview looking as if I’d escaped from The Museum of Derelict Clothes. If I wanted to get there by four, though, I wouldn’t have time to change.

‘It’s fine,’ I said finally. ‘But I have to warn you, my work attire is very casual.’ “Casual” being an understatement. More like fit for the rubbish heap, as Mum would say.

‘Don’t worry,’ Heath answered. ‘I’m not interested in what you look like. I’m interested in your skills. So I’ll see you at four, then. Take the Tube to Liverpool Street station, then follow the signs to Spitalfields Market and turn right onto Brushfield. That will take you close to Fournier Street, and we’re at number sixteen.’

‘Okay, brilliant. I’ll see you at four.’ East London – full of bohemian artists, independent shops, and little cafes – was the perfect location for a quirky new museum. Excitement whirled inside me and I took a deep breath to calm down.

What did this Heath bloke looked like, I wondered? From his voice, he sounded maybe early thirties, tall, dangerously handsome . . . Right, no time for daydreaming if I wanted to leave here early.

‘Back to the fossils,’ I said brightly, smiling over at Ernie. ‘And mate, if I’m lucky, this might be the last batch of boring ferns I ever need to catalogue.’

The next few hours passed as slowly as ever, and finally it was time to head to East London. I bolted out of the British Museum, onto the Tube, and over to Fournier Street. My fingers were shaking and my heart fluttered uncomfortably. God, I wanted this job. I needed this job. No offense to Ernie and his fern friends, but if I had to spend another minute in that pit, I was going to fossilize, too.