Calling Romeo - Softcover

Potter, Alexandra

 
9780743470322: Calling Romeo
Softcover
ISBN 10: 074347032X ISBN 13: 9780743470322
Verlag: Gallery Books, 2004

Inhaltsangabe

Romeo, oh-no! Romeo
Juliet is already wondering whether her live-in boyfriend Will has lost his lust for life -- and for her -- when tragedy strikes: He stands her up. On Valentine's Day. Then some jerk in a fancy car splashes her with icky London rain water, takes a good, hard look at her, and drives away. What's worse he was gorgeous, the kind of guy you dream would sweep you off your feet...or at least remember you on Valentine's Day. On top of having to win a big advertising account at work it's a wonder Juliet doesn't collapse into a puddle herself.
The course of true love never did run smooth
To Juliet's surprise, the mystery driver turns out to be an adman named Sykes -- her competition for the hot account -- and he's awfully sorry about the splashing. So sorry that he whisks Juliet away for a romantic weekend in Verona, the storied home of her Shakespearean namesake. A funny thing happens, though. When Juliet gets back, Will's all sweet again and Sykes pitches an ad campaign suspiciously similar to Juliet's. Suddenly it's time for fair Juliet to decide whether she and Sykes are meant-to-be star-crossed lovers -- or whether Romeo has been right by her side all along.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Alexandra Potter was born in Bradford in Yorkshire, England. She has lived in Los Angeles and Australia and is the author of two previous novels, Going La-La and What's New, Pussycat? She has also written for UK magazines including Elle, More!, OK!, and Vogue. She lives in Notting Hill, London.

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Chapter 1

How would you feel if you were stood up? Embarrassed? Upset? Pissed off?

Juliet was all three. Sitting conspicuously by herself at a table for two in a fashionable bar-cum-restaurant in Soho, she glanced self-consciously at her watch -- nearly 7:30 -- and tried to ignore the pitying glances of the cozy couples around her. She was going to kill Will. Being stood up was bad enough, but by her boyfriend.

She'd been waiting for over half an hour, which didn't seem like a long time when she was curled up at home on the sofa watching Sex and the City -- one minute it was the opening credits and Sarah Jessica Parker was stumbling around in a tutu, the next it was all over and the commercials were on -- but it was a completely different storyline when she was marooned in the West End in a brand new pair of killer heels and a dress that should read "do not wear unaccompanied" next to the dry-clean-only instructions. The outfit was meant to get Will's attention, not that of the minicab driver, the workmen on the corner with their hard hats and hard-ons, and the suited cityboys at the bar.

Draining the lukewarm dregs of her "house speciality" cocktail she toyed with the idea of another round. She'd already finished off the complimentary olives -- and she didn't even like olives, nasty bitter bloody things -- read the Evening Standard from cover to cover, including the boring pink bit that came in the middle, and sent text messages to everyone she could think of on her mobile. Now it was make her mind up time. Should she order another drink and give Will ten more minutes? Or go home, put a bunny on the boil and lie in wait for him with a bread knife?

Juliet stabbed her last remaining ice cube with her straw. Feeling as she did right at that moment, she was sorely tempted to go for the bunny option. But instead she did what every female does in times of emotional crisis. She called her best friend.

The answering machine picked up immediately. "Hi, you've reached Trudy Bernstein designs..." Email, fax and mobile numbers followed, plus an entire electronically piped verse of Chaka Khan's "I'm Every Woman" that seemed to go on forever. Finally there was the beep to record. "It's me, pick up the phone," hissed Juliet.

She knew Trudy was at home screening her calls. She'd been doing nothing else since she'd met her new fling, Fergus, three weeks ago. Not that she was trying to avoid him: on the contrary, she was desperate to see him. But she didn't want him to know that. A firm believer in playing hard to get, Trudy wanted Fergus to think she was a cool, independent woman with a hectic social life, not a mass of insecurities who stayed in every night, glued to the phone like an elastoplast waiting for his call.

Trying to hide from the inquisitive stares of the other diners, Juliet pressed her mobile to her mouth, hunched her shoulders and sank like the Titanic into the depths of her coat. And tried again: "Trudy, this is really important..." Her pleading voice wavered as she locked eyes with the alarmingly hirsute waiter leaning against the bar. Juliet winced -- she could smell his Kouros aftershave from where she was sitting -- and dived back under her sheepskin collars. "For Godsakes Trudy, I know you're there..."

"How do you know?" A sudden voice gasped indignantly. "I could be at some wild party, taking shitloads of drugs, drinking endless supplies of champagne, being chatted up by dozens of fabulous men..."

Hearing Trudy's unmistakable New York accent -- Woody Allen with a twist of Rhoda's Brenda -- Juliet felt her panic being swallowed up by immense relief. In fact she didn't think she'd ever been so relieved to listen to one of Trudy's neurotic monologues. "But you're not at some party," she interrupted.

She was cut down.

"Gee, thanks a lot. Is there really any need to hammer home the abysmal reality that I'm alone, I'm wearing sweatpants, and the only drugs in my possession are junior-fucking-aspirin?"

Trudy stopped, suddenly aware of silence on the other end of the line. "Jules? Are you still there?"

"I'm not sure. Is it safe?"

There was a sigh. Trudy's temper evaporated as quickly as it had ignited. "Oh gawd, I'm sorry, Jules. What's up? Don't tell me you've had another row with Will."

"Not yet."

"I thought he was taking you out for dinner."

"So did I."

A pause, and then a yelp as the penny dropped. "You cannot be serious!" Trudy could do a pretty good impersonation of McEnroe circa Wimbledon 1981 when she wanted to.

"Do you hear me laughing?"

"Where are you now?"

"At the restaurant."

"Ohmygawd. You're there by yourself?"

Juliet didn't answer. She was beginning to regret the phone call. The idea was supposed to be that Trudy would make her feel better, not even worse.

"Where the hell is Will?"

"I don't know."

There was another "Ohmygawd," as, oblivious to her discomfort, Trudy continued. "What's the matter with him these days? He's acting like such an asshole. I thought tonight was supposed to be a big deal. For Christsakes you've been looking forward to it for weeks..."

"Months," corrected Juliet. "In fact, make that six months. Ever since Will started up his bloody landscape gardening business we haven't had a night out." She fingered the hem of the dress she'd bought especially for tonight, a luscious raspberry red swathe of silk embroidered with tiny flowers that emphasized all the right bits, and tried not to think of the price tag. "Unless of course you count the movies."

"What? Sitting in the pitch black, not speaking for two hours," scoffed Trudy. "I'd hardly call that going out."

"Will does."

"Need I say more..."

Noticing the silence on the other end of the line it dawned on Trudy that no, she didn't need to say any more. In fact she'd said quite enough. As a dutiful friend she shouldn't be bitching about Will, however tempting it might be, knowing all the effort Juliet had gone to for tonight -- maxing-out her credit card in Bond Street on an outfit to wear, spending her lunch hour freewheeling around Boots, a further two hours after work at the gym, not to mention the time spent in the changing room doing a makeover Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen would be proud of. No, she should be offering reassurance, comfort, support in times of crisis and ignoring the fact that she wanted nothing more than to kick Will's ass.

She made a swift U-turn. "Look, I'm sure he'll be turning up any second now with his tail between those goddamn skinny legs of his." She forced a laugh. Canned laughter would have been more realistic. "What time are you supposed to be meeting?"

"Seven o'clock."

"It's half past."

"I know," muttered Juliet miserably. Casting another hopeful glance at the door, she caught the eye of the hirsute waiter. Picking his teeth with a cocktail stick he was staring right at what little cleavage she'd managed to create with her bought-specially-for-tonight plunge bra from the Salon Rose range at M&S. Cursing Will for the hundredth time that evening she wrapped her coat protectively around her chest like a bullet-proof vest.

"Have you called him?" Trudy was doing her best at trying to be helpful -- not one of her strongest points -- and had resorted to asking the obvious.

"His phone's on voicemail."

"Did you leave a message?"

"Does shouting 'you bastard' down the phone count?"

Trudy laughed grimly. "In that case he's definitely got the message. So what are you going to do?"

"I'm supposed to ask you that."

Trudy knew what she'd do, but then that probably explained why all her relationships (note plural) had failed and...

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Verlag
Gallery Books
Erscheinungsdatum
2004
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
074347032X
ISBN 13 
9780743470322
Einband
Taschenbuch
Auflage
1
Anzahl der Seiten
368
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
Nicht verfügbar

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