Starr Fated Read online

  Starr Fated

  By G E Griffin

  G E Griffin has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved; no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. G E Griffin has asserted her moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in Great Britain in 2013

  Published by G E Griffin at Smashwords

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase a additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own very reasonably priced copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  ISBN 978-0-9576745-1-6

  Copyright © G E Griffin 2013

  Cover design by Lucy Rose Griffin

  http://www.gegriffin.com/

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  To all my wonderful loyal CG Blog followers, because without them I would never have had the courage to write my own book.

  To Jacqueline Crowley and Heather Murphy for their help with the chapter set in Southern Ireland.

  To Jane Harvey-Berrick for all her help and advice about self publishing.

  To Lizzie Anders for all matters BMW related.

  To Nick and Daniel for putting up with all my weird questions.

  And of course a huge thank you to my husband and my three daughters for their endless support and encouragement.

  Chapter 1

  Seraphina

  “One of these places is going to have to do, however disgustingly awful it may be,” I told myself firmly, as I sat on the tube train one afternoon in September. I quickly scanned again the details of the three rooms I’d managed to track down as possibilities to rent for my final year at university. They were all in a suitably cheap, and therefore rough area of London, but they were near enough for me to be able to walk to my lectures at Central Saint Martin’s College of Art and Design, where I was about to start the final year of my BA Graphic Design degree.

  The snotty cow in the university accommodation office had tutted disapprovingly at me having left it this close to the start of term to find somewhere to live when I asked her for a list of approved places. What she didn't appreciate was that I had to save up the deposit that’s always required by landlords, on top of all my normal living costs, so I’d had to work through the summer holidays before I could sort out somewhere to live.

  I’d spent the summer sleeping rent free on my friend Abbey’s sofa, but it was not a long term option. Her parents had paid the rent for her to keep the house for the whole year instead of just term time, but it was already bursting at the seams with five other girls sharing, some of whom had made it pretty plain they thought I’d outstayed my welcome.

  I could have taken out a student account overdraft with the bank to use for a deposit, but I preferred to just manage on my student loan - that was more than enough debt to deal with as far as I was concerned. And no way was I going down the path of taking out a credit card and running up huge debts on that as a millstone round my neck. So I preferred to live frugally and keep within my means as far as possible.

  I’d set aside the small nest egg my mum had left me when she passed away, resolving that it was only to be used for absolute essentials, such as the new laptop I’d had to buy when my old one had finally died, and the photographic equipment I needed for my course. I hated this feeling of living hand to mouth, but realistically I knew it couldn’t be helped when you didn’t have wealthy middle class parents to support you through university.

  I’d never really known my father. He’d been killed in an accident on the building site where he was working when I was only two years old, so I don't remember much about him at all. It meant it was just my mum and me when I was growing up, and so we were very close. She never re-married – she simply focussed all her energy on bringing me up. There was a very strong bond between us as we were so similar, both having the same creative, artistic nature.

  Then, when I’d only just turned eighteen, my mum was killed as she was crossing the road one day. She was hit by a stolen car that was being pursued by the police, and of course it didn’t stop at a pedestrian crossing. My mum was killed instantly. When it happened and she was taken from me so suddenly, I felt as if my whole world had fallen apart, and it took a long time before I was able to function reasonably normally – most of the time I just operated on automatic pilot.

  But the strange thing was, although she was no longer physically with me, sometimes I heard her voice in my head, as if she was trying to guide and help me. My Irish Grandmother said she could see Mum’s aura surrounding me, but she was trying to make me feel better I think. She said all sorts of weird things like that, and my Irish cousins all believed she had special powers, but I thought they were just old superstitions that they liked to cling to.

  So sadly, Mum wasn’t around to help me celebrate when I got my place at Central Saint Martin’s, which is where she’d always hoped I would end up studying after my foundation course, and she wasn’t there to support me through the three years of hard work a graphic design degree demanded. This wish of hers, to see me follow her dream, was what drove me on when the pressure of trying to keep my head above water all the time became almost unbearable, and I was tempted to give up and just get a full time job to earn enough money to live more comfortably on.

  I glanced up and realised we’d nearly reached my stop on the tube, so I hastily started gathering all my belongings together. I’d come straight from my lunch time waitressing job, and I was loaded up with several bags to carry.

  I’d noticed a tall, blonde haired guy sitting opposite smiling at me. He was wearing faded blue jeans that looked effortlessly casual, but had probably cost a small fortune, along with a tight fitting, plain white T shirt with just a tiny logo on the chest that denoted the expensive brand. He was hot, no question. He could have been a model, or at least one of those types who worked at Hollister or Abercrombie and Fitch, but I ignored him all the same.

  The guy stretched out his long legs so that they took up a lot of the space in the confined area of the train carriage. He was quite a lean build, as if he hadn’t quite finished growing to fill out his frame yet. He looked to be in his early twenties, the same as me. His dirty blonde hair was messy and tousled, he had cheek bones to die for, and as he smiled, his soft blue eyes twinkled at me. Yep, he was seriously gorgeous, and yep, he was definitely smiling at me. Too bad I hadn’t got time for distractions like him in my life.

  Guys seemed to find me reasonably attractive, but the trouble was my looks were often a hindrance to being taken seriously. Most men didn’t seem able to see the real person behind the supposedly pretty face, assuming that if you had looks, you couldn’t possibly have a brain as well. And women were often even worse. They could be bitchy and assumed I was some kind of a man eater, which couldn’t be further from the truth. I wasn’t interested in their men. I didn’t have the time or the space in my life for any kind of a boyfriend, although I did have friends, some of whom happened to be boys.

  I inherited my looks from my mother’s Celtic side of the family. My grandmother and cousins still lived in Ireland, but my mother had come over to London
to study art and design – until she fell in love and had ended up pregnant at just eighteen years of age, and so had given up her studies to get married and have me.

  However she had never lost her imaginative nature, hence her choice of name for me - Seraphina. She said she’d chosen something unusual to balance out our very boring surname of Jones. But sometimes bland can be good; sometimes I’d cursed her for giving me the unconventional name of Seraphina, because it hadn’t helped me to blend in at school at all, and that’s why I preferred using Sera most of the time.

  I have dark brown curly hair, which I keep long and basically just let do its own thing, as it’s far cheaper and easier than having it cut into the latest fashionable style. Most of the time I wear it pulled back out of the way in some kind of a ponytail or braid or updo. Thanks to my Celtic ancestry, I have unfashionably pale skin which never tans, and I have green eyes. Witches eyes, my friend Abbey calls them. I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or not, considering her extreme tastes. She dyes her hair a none too subtle shade of bright red, has assorted tattoos and piercings and chooses to wear clashing colours and patterns, as befits a fashion design student.

  I’m lucky because we’re about the same size, so she passes on the rejects from her very extensive wardrobe to me when she gets bored of them, and they’re always a very welcome addition. Due to my very restricted income, my wardrobe consists largely of Abbey’s cast offs, charity shop finds, and outfits sourced from the very cheapest shops and market stalls in London. I like to think I’ve developed a talent for picking outfits that look more expensive than they really are, and sometimes just a simple adaption such as changing the cheap buttons or adding a belt can make a huge difference. Like most girls, I love clothes, but I can’t afford designer labels, and in any case I really don’t think they’re worth the ridiculous price tags.

  I like to mix up styles to make quirky, unusual outfits – why wear boring clothes when you don’t have to? And anyway, at Art College it’s the norm, in fact it’s expected that you dress pretty outrageously. So I count myself lucky to have a kind and generous friend like Abbey, who has a very extensive and eclectic wardrobe that she’s happy to share with me. She also has the most wicked sense of humour. She loves to shock people with her sometimes outrageous behaviour, which is not always that hard to do. She claims to be bisexual, and happily experiments with some fairly liberated behaviour which I try not to be too shocked by.

  As the train reached my stop, I stood up with my bags, and hefted them onto my shoulders. I clutched the sheet of directions I’d printed out, ready to find my way from the station to the first house on my list.

  I made my way over to the doors as they opened onto the platform, and headed for the escalator. As I reached the top and walked over to the exit barrier, I fumbled around to find my handbag, which had my tube pass in it. I felt a sickening surge of panic sweep over me as I failed to locate it. Crap, where the hell was it? I frantically searched through all the bags I was carrying, but my handbag wasn’t there.

  “No, no, no, please tell me I did not leave it on the train,” I yelled at myself. “You stupid idiot!”

  Everything of importance was in my handbag – my purse with my money and cards, my phone, and my battered old iPod. Worst of all, it also contained my USB memory stick with all my course work on it. No use to anyone else, but irreplaceable to me. I felt tears pricking in my eyes, which was stupid. What good would bursting into tears do?

  “Shit. Now I can’t even get out of the station, or phone anyone to come and help,” I cursed in frustration.

  “Is this what you’re looking for?”

  I looked up to see the tall blonde guy from the train standing there. I felt my knees literally sag with relief as I saw him holding out my handbag – it was one of my favourites, a large brown suede one with long tassels. How on earth I could have left it behind I couldn't imagine.

  “Yes! Oh, thank you so much, you have no idea how relieved I am,” I exclaimed, as I heaved a huge sigh of relief, and went over to retrieve it from him.

  “When I saw you’d left it behind, I called out, but you didn’t hear me, and of course I didn’t know your name to get your attention,” he explained with a rather laid back drawl to his voice that immediately screamed of an affluent middle class background. “So I tried to follow, but with all the crowds of people I lost sight of you.”

  “Lucky I was trapped on this side of the barrier then. I couldn’t get out because my pass is in my handbag,” I explained, as I smiled back. “I really can’t thank you enough. Practically my whole life is in that bag.”

  “Ah, so what’s it worth to get it back?” Blonde guy teased, as he kept hold of it.

  “My eternal, undying gratitude. Will that do?” I replied with a cheeky grin, as I reached over and grabbed my bag back from him.

  “Hmm, I’m not sure about that. How about a date instead?”

  “I don't think so,” I laughed. “I don't go on dates with total strangers.” Cheeky sod.

  “Well, I think I've proved that I’m a very honest and trustworthy individual, seeing as I've gone to all this effort to return your bag, rather than rifle through it to steal all your valuables.”

  “You wouldn’t have found much of value in there, I can assure you,” I scoffed.

  “I could just buy you a coffee instead if you prefer, we don't have to call it a date. You look pretty shaken up, so I think a shot of caffeine is definitely called for.”

  “I told you. I don't go anywhere with strangers.”

  “I’m not a stranger. I’m just a friend you haven't met yet.”

  “Where on earth did you dig that chat up line from?” I couldn’t help laughing at the faux serious expression on blonde guy’s face.

  “My housemate, Toby, has this book ‘The World's Stupidest Chat-up Lines’, and I’ve been studying it. I've been dying to use that particular one for ages.”

  “I think you should probably forget about the book, or at least give it back to your housemate.”

  “You’re probably right. Look, I’m James Starr, but everyone calls me Jamie. So now we’re not strangers are we?”

  “No, I suppose we’re not. I’m Seraphina Jones, but everyone calls me Sera. Look, I really am grateful you returned my bag, but I have to go now, or I’ll be late for an appointment.”

  “Where are you headed, Sera? Maybe I can point you in the right direction? I live around here, so I know most of the streets,” Jamie offered hopefully.

  “It’s okay. I have directions, so I’m sure I’ll manage.” I held up the papers in my hand to prove my point. Before I could stop him, Jamie had snatched them away and was studying them. Annoyingly, because he was so much taller than me, he could easily hold them out of my reach.

  “So you’re looking at rooms to rent? Well, I can tell you straight away that you don’t want to live in this street,” he told me, as he looked at the details of the first one. “Not unless you’re interested in becoming a drug dealer.”

  “Oi! Give them back. It’s really none of your business,” I told him angrily. The nerve of the guy, poking his nose in where it wasn’t wanted. But he just carried on and ignored me, as he looked at the details for the second place.

  “And as for this place – you don't really look much like a hooker to me.” He stared intently at me.

  “I’m sure it’s not that bad. And in any case, I don't have much choice. Term starts soon, and I have to find somewhere in the area by then. I’ll be fine, thank you very much, so just give me back my things.”

  “The last one is probably the best of a bad bunch, but even so, it’s in a pretty rough area. I go past there on my way home, so I could walk you there if you like, so you can see for yourself.”

  “I keep telling you I’ll be fine, and I don't need your help. I can manage perfectly well on my own.”

  “You’re a student, I take it?”

  I nodded.

  “So am I. Look, I know we’ve only just met,
but there is another option. There’s a spare room going in the house I live in, and it’s in a much nicer area than any of these. How about you take a look, see if it would suit you?”

  “If it’s in a nicer area, I doubt very much it would be in my price range. So thanks for the thought, but no thanks.”

  “Actually, the rent is pretty reasonable because it’s the attic room, which means it has a low sloping ceiling, so it’s no good for anyone taller than a midget. You’d be fine in there though,” he smirked, as he looked down at me. At five foot five, I’m actually a pretty average height, but compared to Jamie, who must have been about six foot one or two, I suppose I did appear quite short.

  “Oh ha ha, very funny. Look, thanks for your concern, but really, I’ll be fine. Now please, can I have my papers back?” I glared at him, with my hand held out.

  “Okay, but I’ll put my address on here, along with my mobile number, in case you change your mind once you’ve seen what doss holes these places are,” Jamie said, as he produced a pen from his pocket and quickly scribbled on the back of one of the pieces of paper. “Please, I mean it. It’s all above board, nothing dodgy, and I know the landlord personally, so I could put in a good word for you. It’s a decent room, in a decent house. I wouldn’t live there if…well anyway, let me know. Seriously.”

  I couldn’t help smiling to myself at how keen this guy was. He did seem genuine and he had returned my bag after all. And he really was rather gorgeous in an effortlessly unkempt but expensively clad way. Somehow I couldn’t see him living in a dump. Everything about him, from the way he spoke, to the clothes he wore, to his rather arrogant confidence, reeked of middle class money.

  “I’ll bear it in mind. And thank you again for returning my bag, you really did save my life,” I smiled up at him, and was rewarded by an answering heart meltingly gorgeous smile back from him.