My Map of You Read online

  ‘I’m happy for him,’ she said.

  ‘She’s a total airhead,’ Aliana went on. ‘Hangs off his every word, so of course he’s smitten. Not that he wasn’t with you,’ she added quickly.

  Holly laughed and took a swig of her drink. Aliana was still looking mutinous, although Holly suspected it might have more to do with the fact that Rupert had moved on with someone that wasn’t her. She had always known that Aliana had a huge crush on him, even if they had never openly discussed it.

  ‘Are you missing Zakynthos?’ Aliana asked now, shocking Holly with such a rare flash of insight.

  ‘So much,’ Holly blurted, slapping a hand over her mouth when she realised what she’d said.

  Aliana laughed and wagged a finger. ‘You’re allowed to miss the place, you know? You can even go and live there if you miss it that much. Why the hell would you want to live here anyway, when you have a house in Zante?’

  For a brief second, Holly felt her heart fill up with pleasure at the thought of it, but then she shook her head.

  ‘Something actually happened today that means I really have to stay here,’ she teased, laughing as Aliana’s eyes widened with intrigue.

  ‘Well …’ Her friend was literally bouncing on the spot.

  Holly waited for her to stop jogging the table. ‘This guy came to the stall earlier and told me he works as a scout for an upcoming designer. He’d had a meeting with Fiona, of all people.’

  Aliana’s eyebrows went up so far they were in danger of colliding with a passing plane.

  ‘I know! She actually showed him a few items of mine that she had photos of on her iPad and told him to come and seek me out. I feel guilty for ever bad-mouthing her now. Anyway, I talked to this bloke for a while and then he wandered off again and came back ten minutes later with his boss in tow. He then took a look at my stuff and, well, he wants me to make some garments for a show he’s got coming up and—’

  ‘THAT’S AMAZING!’ Aliana yelled, leaping up from her seat and spilling a good portion of Holly’s drink in the process.

  ‘I know!’ Holly laughed. ‘I only have three weeks to create five outfits completely from scratch, so I’m going to be very busy – but I think it could be really good for me, and for the business. Apparently he dedicates a portion of each of his shows to unknown designers and, well, people like me. I don’t really think of myself as a designer, but I suppose I am.’

  ‘What’s his name, this bloke?’ Aliana asked, sitting back down.

  ‘Anton Bazanov. He’s Russian.’

  ‘Not the Anton Bazanov, of AB Couture?’ Aliana was practically frothing at the mouth. ‘He’s only, like, the biggest up-and-coming designer on the planet!’

  ‘I thought the name sounded familiar,’ Holly grinned.

  ‘I can’t believe Anton Bazanov has asked you to be part of his show.’ Aliana sounded almost disgusted. ‘And he’s bloody gorgeous! If I didn’t love you so much then I’d be insane with jealousy. In fact, sod that – I am insane with jealousy. And I hate you very much,’ she added, making them both laugh.

  The summer heatwave strode confidently from July into August, causing newsreaders to talk fervently about hosepipe bans and the risk of forest fires. Holly woke up most mornings to discover that her mum’s world map had fallen off the wall in her tiny studio flat because the Blu-Tack had melted during the night. She’d added her own, different-coloured pin to the tiny green dot of Zakynthos, and spent a lot of time just lying on her narrow bed gazing up at the map, as she knew Jenny must have done once upon a time, dreaming of all the places she could explore.

  Her fingers were blistered from all the extra hours’ sewing she’d put in to get everything ready for the AB Couture show, which was taking place that evening at a very trendy pop-up venue in Hoxton, East London. Anton had popped to the stall in person just a few days ago to check that she was on track and pass on all the details.

  The Russian had told Holly that she must arrive at the venue no later than 4 p.m., because she needed time to set up and meet the models who would be wearing her ‘collection’, as he referred to it.

  ‘I can recognise zee talent ven I see it,’ he explained, his glorious Russian growl making the hairs on her arms stand up. ‘I vant to offer chance to all zee talented people I meet.’ And what a chance it was.

  Hoxton Gallery was situated in a disused railway arch at the Old Street end of Kingsland Road, which connected the borough of Hackney to the City. Aside from clearing out all the fixtures and rubble, the space had been left largely unchanged, with exposed brickwork curving up from floor to half-moon ceiling. As well as fitting in perfectly with the hip simplicity so adored by the capital’s fashionistas, the linear design also provided a desirable blank canvas to whoever rented it out for the evening.

  Anton Bazanov, Holly had learnt after many a late-night Googling session, was a big fan of simple and understated designs when it came to his clothing (save for the extravagant hats he liked to wear), and this had translated into the layout of tonight’s show too. Rather than hang up fairy-light bunting and erect speakers the size of small cars, he’d opted for a plain black runway with one large screen at the far end, and a few age-stained mirrors propped up between the rows of chairs. An industrial-sized fan was standing at the end of the catwalk waiting to be switched on, and everywhere Holly looked, Anton’s army of staff were all busy scurrying about with clothing bags, cases of make-up and complicated-looking hairdryers. There was a buzz of excited expectation in the air, and Holly felt the telltale bubbles of nervousness start to work their way up from her belly to her throat.

  ‘Who are you?’ barked a bored-sounding voice.

  Holly jumped guiltily. ‘I’m, er, Holly. Holly Wright.’

  The woman frowned and ran a slim finger down the clipboard she was holding. Her nails had been filed into sharp points and were painted black to match the polished catwalk.

  ‘Oh, you’re that Holly – the designer. You should have said. Follow me.’

  Holly followed, thinking privately that she bloody well had said, but guessing that it was probably best to remain mute. Her head was spinning as she took in the scenes of organised chaos unfolding around her. Clipboard woman led her past the catwalk and lifted the edge of a black curtain to let Holly pass underneath. The back of the room had been obscured on both sides and separated by clothing rails into rectangular sections of varying sizes. It was into one of the smaller areas that Holly was told to set up and wait for her models. Clipboard handed her a schedule, pointed vaguely to where the toilets were and scurried away again, narrowly missing a man with bright green hair who was balancing precariously on a stepladder.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right – we are all bonkers.’

  Holly turned to find a man standing in her little alcove. He was neck-achingly tall and his hair was bleached the colour of lemon curd.

  ‘Are you one of my models?’ Holly guessed.

  He nodded, extending a long, thin hand in her direction. ‘I’m Bernie,’ he told her, ‘but everyone calls me B. And I don’t mind at all, because that’s what all Beyoncé’s friends call her, and she’s the queen of the bloody world.’

  They shook hands and Holly told him who she was, which turned out to be completely unnecessary.

  ‘I’ve done my homework on you already,’ Bernie grinned, waving his finger at her like a conductor’s baton. ‘You used to work at Flash, but now you have your own stall in Camden, right?’

  Holly hated the idea of anyone doing ‘homework’ on her, but she supposed in this instance it was better to appear flattered.

  ‘I know – I’m a total stalker!’ Bernie laughed again, running his hand through his spiky thatch of hair.

  ‘I had no idea that anyone knew who I was,’ Holly told him honestly.

  ‘Babe, you’re AB’s darling. One of his star acts! To get a slot in his London show is just, you know, a very special honour.’

  ‘I very much doubt I’m a star
act,’ she said, turning away to hide her blushes and beginning to hang up her modest collection of garments. Even after all these months, the smell and texture of the Zakynthian lace made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

  ‘Seriously!’ Bernie squealed, peering at her through narrowed eyes. ‘Word on the catwalk is that you’re his latest big discovery.’ As he said the last part, he brought his long fingers up and mimed inverted commas. Holly felt her earlier nerves swiftly intensifying.

  ‘Oh wow, babe, now I see what all the fuss is about.’ Bernie was holding up a silk blouse with intricate lace panels. ‘These really are something special. I can’t wait to feel this lace against my skin.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Holly smiled at him. ‘This is the first time I’ve done something like this, and I’m just a bit …’ She trailed off, shrugging at his bemused expression.

  ‘Come on, babe!’ he told her, grabbing her clammy hand. ‘I’m going to give you the grand tour.’

  After Holly had been introduced to at least twenty other models, a handful of make-up artists and two very harassed-looking stylists, Bernie led her right to the back of the room where a makeshift bar had been set up.

  ‘Nonsense, darling,’ he scolded when she refused the miniature bottle of Champagne he thrust at her. It was the norm to be absolutely hammered at these things, he assured her, sticking a pink straw in the neck of her bottle.

  According to the schedule, her collection would be showcased after the main event, along with three other designers that Anton had deemed worthy. One of these fortunate souls arrived not long after Holly and was led into the alcove right next to hers. She guessed from his appearance and accent that he was Russian too, and his speciality was hats. Holly could see at once why Anton had fallen for his outlandish designs.

  The room was steadily filling up and the models were wandering around in various states of undress, each one with a straw clamped firmly to their bottom lip. Bernie was right: there was an awful lot of drinking going on. When Anton himself emerged through the curtain to loud cheers, he had his own bottle of Champagne clutched firmly in one hand. Holly tried to catch his eye as he passed, then chided herself for thinking that he’d have time to exchange pleasantries. She had hung up all her clothes in the correct order and everything was neatly labelled. Clipboard had been back round with a wad of Post-it notes bearing names and stuck them clumsily on each of the hangers. One of the models was called Clara, Holly noticed, immediately curling her lip in disgust. She knew it was grossly unfair of her to hate the woman that Aidan loved, but it made her feel better all the same. She’d been haunted for months by memories of the stunning girl he’d dangled in front of her face, more often than not when she was examining her own far curvier and less statuesque figure in the mirror.

  At that moment a voice broke through her reverie. ‘Holly, is that you?’

  That faint Irish accent …

  Those endless legs …

  That hair …

  It couldn’t be.

  31

  ‘It is you!’ Clara clapped her hands together.

  Holly was doing a very good impression of a goldfish. How could Clara be here? The Clara. The very same ridiculously attractive woman who tortured her memories of her time in Zakynthos. How could this actually be happening?

  ‘You look very pale,’ Clara said kindly, stepping forward and putting a slender arm around Holly’s shoulders. ‘Are you feeling okay?’

  ‘Yes.’ It came out as a squeak.

  Holly coughed loudly. ‘Yes,’ she said again. ‘I’m fine. Just very surprised to see you, that’s all.’

  Clara furrowed her blemish-free brow as she stood back. ‘Not that much of a shock, I hope?’ she laughed. ‘I am a model, after all.’

  ‘Of course you are.’ It took every ounce of self-control Holly possessed not to let any sarcasm creep into her voice. Putting her miniature bottle of plonk down, she pinched herself hard on the arm. Nope, she wasn’t in the middle of a nightmare.

  ‘These are gorgeous.’ Clara was now rifling through the clothes on the rail. ‘Did you make all of them? You’re so clever, like.’

  Why did she have to be so bloody nice?

  Anton suddenly emerged in an eye-watering cloud of spicy aftershave and Champagne fumes.

  ‘You have met each ozzer!’ he crowed, clearly delighted. ‘Zee muse and zee talent. You are my ladies of zee night!’

  He made a big show of hugging them both, almost causing his hat – which today was exceedingly tall and wrapped in purple lace – to fall off his head.

  ‘Isn’t he the best?’ Clara crooned as Anton swept away. ‘I met him in Paris last year and he’s demanded that I do every single one of his shows ever since.’

  ‘That’s great,’ replied Holly, thinking that it was anything but. If, by any chance, Anton wanted her to continue working with him after today, would that mean she’d have to face Clara at every turn? She’d done a pretty decent job of not thinking about Aidan so far, but this was too much. It occurred to her then with a wave of accompanying nausea that he might even be here, in this very room, ready to cheer his girlfriend on as she strutted down the catwalk. Holly sucked her Champagne straw extra hard.

  ‘This lace is from Zakynthos,’ Clara stated. She was holding a pair of embroidered shorts labelled with her name and was rubbing the delicate fabric between her fingers.

  Holly felt a coldness creeping through her; she didn’t want to talk about Zakynthos with this girl. It was her place.

  ‘Are you going back anytime soon?’ Clara asked. She was either completely oblivious to Holly’s blatant discomfort or choosing to ignore it.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I’m sure Aidan would like to see you again.’

  ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t,’ Holly snapped back, far louder than she’d intended. Clara looked round at her in alarm.

  ‘What’s the matter? I thought you two were pretty close?’

  ‘Not as close as you two are,’ Holly was appalled to hear herself sneer.

  Clara looked incredulous. ‘Well, I suppose not, but then he is my brother. We’re pretty close, as siblings go, but then we didn’t even meet each other until … Holly? Are you okay?’

  Holly had sat down abruptly on the floor and Clara crouched down next to her. She was wearing a minuscule navy blue playsuit with a pattern of little white bunnies all over it. Holly swallowed bile.

  ‘You’re Aidan’s sister?’ she managed at last.

  ‘Yeah, his half-sister.’ Clara sat back on her heels. Even when her legs were bent underneath her, her thighs were still about a third of the size of Holly’s. ‘But you already know that.’

  Holly shook her head. ‘I didn’t know. I thought you and him were … Well, you know. I thought you were his ex-girlfriend.’

  At this, Clara actually started laughing. It was a deep and filthy laugh too, as if Sid James from the Carry On films was nestling secretly in the back of her throat. ‘You thought I was shagging my own brother?’ she bellowed, tears of mirth streaking her immaculate make-up.

  ‘Sorry,’ she spluttered, catching sight of the look on Holly’s face. ‘But that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in ages, like.’

  ‘I feel stupid,’ Holly admitted. She was still sitting on the floor and Clara took both her hands and went to haul her up again.

  ‘Come on, Missy – let’s be having you up on your feet. No more bubbly for you.’ She waggled a finger at Holly, her face mock stern.

  ‘I can’t believe he didn’t tell me,’ Holly said in reply, more to herself than to Clara. She thought back now to the moment she’d first set eyes on the leggy redhead, to what had happened between herself and Aidan just hours before. Had he said anything about having a half-sister? No, she was pretty sure he never had.

  ‘Aidan can be very secretive,’ Clara informed her happily. She was watching Holly with undisguised fascination. ‘But he was so excited to have met you. I mean, I partly popped over for a visit because I’d sp
oken to him on the phone and he’d talked about nothing else. I was in Athens for a shoot, anyway like, so it seemed like the perfect opportunity. It was a bit of a shock to turn up and find you next door with a boyfriend in tow, but Aidan refused to talk to me about it. He just said that it was complicated. But then you barely spoke to him, or to me, so I thought he must have just got it all wrong and was too embarrassed to admit it.’

  She looked over for confirmation, but Holly’s head was spinning. Why hadn’t he just told her the truth? Why had he let her believe that Clara was his ex-girlfriend?

  ‘I think he was horribly jealous of your man,’ Clara continued, as if reading her mind. ‘What’s his name again?’

  ‘Rupert.’

  ‘Yes, that guy. He’s very handsome, if you don’t mind me saying. A bit short for me, like, but I like blonde hair on a man. Aidan had such a face on him around that guy.’

  ‘We broke up,’ Holly told her. ‘I told him what had happened between your brother and me. He didn’t like it very much.’

  Clara let out a long, low whistle. ‘I’m not surprised. So, why haven’t you been in touch with my big brother? Clearly you were close at one time?’

  Holly looked up at her in surprise. ‘Has he not told you what happened after you left? About Dennis?’

  ‘Which Dennis?’ Clara folded her arms. ‘Paloma’s husband, that guy from the restaurant? That Dennis?’

  ‘He’s my dad.’ Holly was amazed how easily it was all flooding out. This morning, the girl in front of her had been an enemy, and now she was telling her things she hadn’t even told her so-called best friends. Clearly this girl and Aidan had something about them that made people open up.

  Clara let out another whistle. ‘I had no idea,’ she said. ‘Did Aidan know?’

  Holly merely nodded, thinking about that awful moment when he’d found her on the floor in her aunt’s house, surrounded by heaps of unearthed secrets that had been buried for decades.

  ‘He told me that Sandra made him promise to keep it a secret. She gave him stuff to hide in the house for me to find, like a map and this photo of my dad with my mum and my aunt, and it was him who told Dennis who I really was – the two of them were watching me. But then Dennis had a heart attack and Aidan made me rush to the hospital and …’ She had to stop before the tears started, and Clara put a comforting hand on her shoulder.