Free Getting Over Mr. Right by Chrissie Manby Page B

office interiors, and there was the name of Michael’s firm among the company’s list of clients. The sight of it made me clench my jaw.
    He really had met her while she refurbished his office. To think I had thought that between the hours of nine and five each day I had nothing much to worry about as far as my boyfriend was concerned: There was very little T&A in an office full of people who got excited about tax codes. I hadn’t allowed for incomers. Now I thought back to the first time Michael mentioned that his office was being decorated. Of course I’d thought nothing of it at the time, but now I wondered if the decorating had coincided with Michael’s visit to the personal shopper at Harvey Nics and his sudden renewed interest in weight training.
    I visited the Well-Sprung Interiors website about a hundred times that week, from home and from the office, when I should have been dealing with the Effortless Bathing project. But the website wasn’t enough for me. By the end of the week I knew that I would have to go to Well-Sprung’s office.
    The urge had not left me when Saturday rolled around. I just wanted to get some idea of the world Miss Well-Sprung (it seemed like a good nickname given her “assets”) moved in. I told myself it would do no harm.
    All the same, a disguise seemed like a good idea. According to the website, Well-Sprung wasn’t open weekends, but I couldn’t take the risk. What if she lived over the shop? There was a strong possibility that if she saw me, she would recognize me. Michael may not have officially introduced us at the Christmas party where Miss Well-Sprung first came to my attention, but, especially if they had already begun their flirtation, she must have seen me clinging to him on the dance floor. Clinging because I had noticed her circling him like a shark. Yes, I would have to wear a disguise.
    I stood in front of my wardrobe and waited for inspiration. Unfortunately, it was not a fruitful cupboard of disguises. I did have a nurse’s uniform, but I’d bought it from Ann Summers, the sex shop, in an attempt to cheer Michael up when he had man-flu. With its mini-skirt in highly flammable nylon, that outfit was going to fool nobody. Had it been the winter, I would have been fine. I had plenty of coats with hoods and sweaters with big roll necks that I could have pulled up to my nose. But it was the beginning of May and unusually hot. Definitely not balaclava weather. Wrapping up would draw more attention than it diverted. Only nutters wear too many layers in the heat.
    Soon my options had been narrowed down to a pair of big sunglasses with a loose lens in the left eye and a head scarf, bought when I had the notion that channeling the glamour of Grace Kelly might be a suitable fashion direction for me. I’d spent the best part of two hundred pounds in Hermès, but it hadn’t quite worked as I’d hoped. On the three occasions I’d ventured out with that scarf, I’d looked less Princess Grace than palace washerwoman. I didn’t look much better when I tied it around my head now, but it would have to do. With the sunglasses clamped firmly to my nose, most of my face was covered. The scarf hid my hair color. I was ready to go.

    The premises of Well-Sprung Interiors were surprisingly uninspiring. They occupied the ground floor of a building in a little parade of shops that also contained a dry cleaner, a kosher butcher, and a newsagent offering mobile-phone top-ups and Oyster transportation cards. Opposite was a hairdressing salon so out of date that it still offered a shampoo and set. I was immediately cheered by the fact that my rival obviously wasn’t making Martha Stewart lose any sleep.
    As it was a Saturday and the shop appeared to be empty, I pressed my nose against the picture window for a proper look inside. There were a couple of very ordinary-looking desks. Possibly Ikea. Neither especially tidy. The bookshelves were bowing under the weight of hundreds of three-ring