In the mirror, she could see the toilet attendant getting up from her seat by the entrance to sweep around the floor, check the basins were clean, set out two fresh boxes of tissues, give this lone customer a brief smile as she went about her work. The woman had a job, a purpose.

And what do I have? wondered Belle.

I ride horses, I go to beauty salons, I get my nails and hair done. Beyond that, there was only the prospect of marriage to someone wealthy. That was it. She had no job. She’d had little real schooling. Her dad worked for Charlie Stone, was tied to Charlie Stone in the furnishings business, while her mum seemed – inexplicably – to hate him. But Charlie Stone put bread on their table, housed them in the gatehouse, they owed everything to Charlie Stone and his business.

She was sick of shopping. Recently, when she’d bought stuff, she’d just chucked the bags into her wardrobe and left them there. Forgotten all about them.

It would be nice to have something to fill her time. Maybe even a job. She thought of the furniture business – but then, Mum and Dad had always been so determined to keep her out of that. She couldn’t understand why, but it was a fact. Maybe . . . maybe somewhere in Charlie’s company there might be room for her if she snuck in a side door and didn’t let her parents know what she was up to.

She could spell and she could add up. She wasn’t illiterate, she was quite intelligent. Not in Einstein’s league, of course; Einstein who was now up at Cambridge doing clever things with physics and bacteria. But there might be something, if it was only pushing papers around a desk. She’d have to keep well out of Harlan’s way, obviously, but if he was being groomed to take over from Charlie he’d most likely be working out of head office. So she’d try one of the smaller local offices. That way, at least she’d be achieving something, feeling better about herself. Because right now, she was so bored she could barely function.

Poor little rich girl, right?

That was exactly what she was. Nobody was going to pity her because she was loaded. A pampered silly princess. But she felt restless. Unsatisfied. She knew, deep down, that she could be so much more than this, given half a chance.

She picked up her bag. The toilet attendant had resumed her seat by the entrance. She smiled at Belle. Belle fished in her pocket and pulled out a twenty and dropped it into the attendant’s tray.

‘Thanks,’ said the woman in surprise.

‘You’re welcome,’ said Belle.

81

She was walking back down Regent Street when someone called out: ‘Hey! Belle!’