Miracle at the Museum of Broken Hearts (2 page)

‘
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.

Right. Squaring my shoulders, I took a
deep breath then marched over to the red-bricked facade of number sixteen. Banging the gold knocker against the blue wooden door, I arranged my face into a smile, praying Heath had meant it when he’d said he was more interested in skills than appearance (because
really
, does a man ever mean that?). I’d smoothed back my long, curly auburn hair into a ponytail, but the soft pink sweater sadly hadn’t transformed into a neatly ironed white blouse. Ah, well.

‘
Rose?’ The door swung open and I tried not to swoon, although I could feel my mouth flapping open. There, right in front of me,
was a man straight from a nineteen-twenties black and white film, all broad shoulders, dark wavy hair, and perfect features. It was my daydream come to life.

I snapped my mouth closed when I noticed his brown eyes shooting me a funny look. ‘Yes, that’s me.’ Sticking out a hand, I noted with pleasure how his solid fingers closed around mine. ‘Lovely to meet you.’

‘
Come on in.’ Heath ushered me inside, then motioned me to follow him down a narrow corridor
. Trying to keep my eyes away from his bobbing bottom, I glanced around the empty rooms of the small, old-fashioned interior. The doorways were crowned with elaborate wood carvings, and a stunning fireplace sat proudly in the lounge. In the late afternoon sun, the floorboards shone and dust danced in the air. I could just envision the walls lined with artefacts, and glass display cases positioned like jewels. A wave of longing washed over me as I trailed behind Heath up some stairs, running my hand over the smooth wooden railing.

‘
Have a seat.’ Heath pointed to a chair in the only furnished room in the house, what looked to be his office. It was stunningly sparse, with a metallic desk, two folding chairs, and a MacBook.

‘
Thank you for coming on such short notice,’ Heath began, fixing those dark eyes on mine. A pang of something shot through me and I forced myself to nod. ‘You see, we had the position filled, but they pulled out at the last minute.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t believe someone would let us down like that. Anyway, by the time I’d rung the other applicants I’d interviewed, they’d already accepted positions.’

Disappointment seeped in as I realised I hadn’t been
his first choice . . . or even the second or third.

‘
What I’m saying is that I need someone committed, and someone who can work quickly. The museum is scheduled to open just in time for the Christmas season.’

My jaw dropped. Christmas season? It was already the twentieth of November, and the building was just an empty shell.

Heath caught the e
xpression on my face. ‘I know,’ he said grimly. ‘You can see how much work needs to be done. But there’s no point sugar-coating it. If I do take you on, we’re going to have to work night and day to get this ready.’

I nodded, my heart leaping. Was he really thinking of taking me on? ‘That’s no trouble.’ It wasn’t like I had anyone but Beano to come home to. ‘What date do you hope to open?’

‘
I’ve already invited the media to our grand opening on
the fifteenth of December. Christmas is a prime time for relationship breakdowns and broken hearts, you see, so opening the museum during the holiday season really is ideal. Not everyone wants Santa and candy canes.’ Heath’s brow furrowed and his eyes flashed, and I leaned back in my chair. God. I’d never thought of the Christmas season as anything other than Santa Claus and candy canes. And cozy fires, roasted chestnuts, and lots of pressies all wrapped up in shiny foil . . .

Okay, last Christma
s had been a bit of a dud, what with Gareth taking off just a few days before Christmas Eve. Mum had been in the Bahamas and Mel had gone up to her parents’ in York, and I’d spent the day sobbing into Beano’s tuna-scented fur. I shoved away the memory, forcing myself back to fluffy snow and dancing elves.
That
was the true meaning of Christmas.

‘
So tell me, Mis
s’ – Heath glanced down at my résumé – ‘Delaney. I can see you have all the relevant experience. Why do you want to be assistant curator here?’

I twisted my hands in my lap as I considered his question. ‘Well, I delivered a thesis on the whole reason men and women come together,’ I said finally, deliberately avoiding exactly what my stance had been. ‘I’m particularly interested in human relationships.’

Heath raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes, I noticed on your CV that you majored in sociology. So tell me, why
do
men and women come together, in your opinion?’ His slightly sardonic tone held a hint of a challenge, and I wondered exactly what had happened in his personal life to make him so sceptical. Unrequited love? A
Love Story
scenario?

‘
Well, of course there
is a bit of biology to it,’ I answered delicately, shifting in the chair. ‘But I do think elements of romance and attraction play a major role.’

‘
Let me guess, you believe in love at first sight.’ I could tell by his voice that he didn’t.

I thought back to that first second I’d seen Gareth – right outside the flower shop by the Tube – and how I’d known straight away he was the one for me. Him rushing back and buying me a rose once he’d found out my name had helped too, of course.

‘
I do believe in love at first sight, yes. But I understand every relationship has its ups and downs, ebbs and flows,’ I added, trying to draw the conversation back to the job on offer. ‘And I would love the chance to bring my skills here, and help display cherished objects from once-happy relationships. Maybe even bring some closure.’ And perhaps a reunion! I kept that last bit to myself, but wouldn’t it be cool to heal a few crushed hearts?

‘
Closure. Right.’ Heath
rose to his feet and I scrambled up, noticing he towered over me by a few inches. Gareth was a little shorter than me, and I usually had to crouch down to kiss him.

‘
Well, despite our differing
opinions’ — Heath thrust out a hand—‘Rose Delaney, welcome to the team. If one person can be a team, that is.’ He paused, shaking his head. ‘Here, let me try this again. Welcome to the Museum of Broken Hearts.’

I took Heath’s
palm in mine, noting how he squeezed my fingers reflexively. ‘I can’t wait to get started.’

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,’ He
ath 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 n
o 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 . . .

For God’s sake, get a grip,
I told myself as I followed him back down the stairs, through the empty rooms, and down a narrow stone staircase into a dank, cold cellar. My heart sank as Heath clicked on the overhead light, gloomily illuminating a jumble of boxes.
Those
were the museum’s artefacts? I’d seen better organisation after the Saturday afternoon feeding frenzy at Primark.

‘
Sorry for the state everything is in,’ Heath said, catching the expression on my face. ‘I did warn you there’s a lot of work to be done.’

I sighed. ‘Yes, you did. Well’ – I stepped over a box and into the middle of the chaos – ‘I should get started.’ I rubbed my arms, trying to get warm. Already the wet damp had taken hold. ‘
After
I get my coat.’

‘
S
orry about the temperature in here.’ I swear I could see puffs coming from Heath’s mouth as he spoke. ‘Until we open, we don’t have the budget to heat the whole building.’

I shot him a curious look as I navigated across the boxes toward the staircase. ‘Tell me, how did you get involved in this project?’ I’d met loads of museum people in my time, and Heath seemed more business man than historian.

‘
What, I don’t look like
your typical curator?’ He smiled as if he already knew the answer. ‘Well, to be honest, I’m not. That’s why I needed someone with experience setting up collections. I worked in the City as a financial lawyer. Then, my grandmother died.’ His face twisted and my heart twanged in response to his pained expression. ‘This was her house. She’d always dreamed of opening a museum, to display all the items she’d amassed over the years. She left me this place in her will – along with the funds she’d saved over the years to complete the project – and appointed me curator.’ Heath shook his head, as if he was still unable to believe what had happened. ‘Gran always collected things; items that were emotionally significant to people, but hurt too much for them to hang on to. Over time, she became kind of famous for it, and people would send packages here to the “Broken Hearts Woman”. Gran always said passing things on was a way for people to come to terms with whatever trauma they’d experienced, and she hoped displaying everything would show others they weren’t alone in their pain. I had no idea she’d squirreled away so much.’