Miracle at the Museum of Broken Hearts Read Free Page A

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.’
    ‘ Wow.’ I survey ed the forest of boxes. All this had been collected by one