Miracle at the Museum of Broken Hearts

Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

Two days later, I was outside number sixteen Fournier Street again, ready for my first day of work. Yesterday, I’d informed my manager at the British Museum I was quitting (he had to ask my name, if you can believe it – sod the leaving notice!), gave Ernie the Skull a final pat, then trotted down the grand stairs of the iconic building for the last time. On the way out, I’d paused to buy a hotdog from the ever-present vendor lingering outside the gates. It was something I’d always meant to do, but my constant hurrying to and from work meant I’d never got around to it. And after the tummy pain I’d been experiencing since ramming the sausage down my throat, it certainly wasn’t something I was keen to do again.

Even now, I was still feeling queasy, and my face was hot and sweaty. Not exactly the ideal state to be facing your new boss. My stomach rumbled again as I pictured Heath’s solid form, the way he’d shoved back an errant lock of hair, his bobbing bottom . . .

‘Rose!’ A shout made me turn my head, and my cheeks reddened even more when I spotted Heath at the museum’s ground-floor window. ‘Are you going to come in?’ He grinned and I noticed the sparkling whiteness of his teeth. How had I missed that before? Then it struck me this was the first time I’d actually seen him smile.

‘Coming!’ I scurried over to the door, pushing against it the same time Heath swung it open from the other side. ‘Ouf!’ I slammed into his solid chest, breathing in the spicy scent – kind of like cinnamon, nutmeg, and my favourite biscuit ingredients all rolled into one.

‘Sorry,’ we chorused, quickly stepping away from each other. His face had returned to an unreadable mask, and I wiped away the small beads of sweat that had gathered on my upper lip. Just the after-effects of bad sausage, I was sure. Nothing to do with the close proximity of my cookie-scented boss.

‘Come on up to the office,’ Heath said. ‘Let’s run through our work schedule for the next couple weeks until the opening.’

I nodded, thankful he’d turned away so I could collect myself.

‘Can I take your jacket?’ Heath asked when we’d entered his barren workspace. Nothing had changed since I’d last been in here – it was still practically Siberia.

‘Sure.’ I shrugged off the turquoise coat Mum had bought me for Christmas (the only good thing about last year’s holiday). It matched my eyes perfectly, setting off my sausage-poisoned pale complexion nicely. I’d made an effort today, dressing in a pair of softly flared grey trousers and a wraparound cobalt-blue top. Hell, I’d even put on my lucky gold chain and heart earrings.

Heath’s eyes flashed with what looked like appreciation, and I smiled to myself. Ha! I knew men were interested in more than “skills”. That was the reason I’d always tried to look nice around Gareth, slathering myself in deliciously scented creams and pouring my chest into too-tight bras to give the illusion of cleavage. It was only since he’d left that I’d defaulted to sloppy jeans and sweaters.

As Heath elaborated on my role here – cataloguing, writing up descriptions, and organising the rooms – I couldn’t help noticing he looked rather nice himself. He’d ditched the formal black suit he’d been wearing the last time we’d met, and today he was clad in perfectly fitting jeans and a navy blue sweater that settled nicely across his broad shoulders. Unbidden, my mind flicked back to Gareth, who lived in torn, stained denim he proudly proclaimed he only washed twice a year, and a ripped T-shirt he’d had since the nineteen-eighties. But that was okay, I told myself. Gareth had showed he loved me in other ways. Like pushing off to Vietnam. An unfamiliar ribbon of bitterness curled around my insides.

‘Does all that sound okay?’ Heath’s question snapped me back to reality, and I blinked.

‘Um, yes. Great.’ I hoped. I’d no idea what he’d just said. I was so happy to be out of my arrowhead hell, though, I’d agree to polish his shoes with a toothbrush if I had to. My cheeks flamed as I pictured myself bending over in front of him . . .