Love to Hate You: A fun, feisty romance

By Anna Premoli

Can your worst enemy become the love of your life? A fun, feisty, feel-good romance for fans of Sophie Kinsella and Meg Cabot.

Jennifer and Ian have known each other for seven years. They are leaders of two different teams in the same London bank, and are constantly engaged in a running battle to be number one.

Ian is a handsome, wealthy and sought-after bachelor; Jennifer is a feisty, independent lawyer. When they are thrown together to work on the same project, Ian makes Jenny an offer she can't refuse: to have free reign of their rich client if she pretends to be his girlfriend.

Soon, it becomes more and more difficult to tell the difference between fiction and reality...

What readers are saying about LOVE TO HATE YOU:

'A light-hearted novel about love, (im)possibilities and challenges in the workplace' Tu Style.

'Anna Premoli, for me, is the best of the genre. This book made me laugh and fall in love – I read it four times!'

'I loved this novel from beginning to end... If you want a book that is fun and romantic at the same time, I would definitely recommend it.'

'A beautiful love story... I read it in just two days!'

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
• Release date: Jun 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781784977504

Anna Premoli

Anna Premoli is a bestselling author in Italy. She began writing to relieve stress while working as a financial consultant for a private bank. Her novel, Love to Hate You won the Bancarella prize in 2013.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I can make it, I know I can make it.

I have to make it.

And it's then that I make the mistake of checking my watch.

Oh God – I'm not going to make it…

I'm running like crazy along a street in central London because, for the first time in my almost nine year career, I'm atrociously late. Me, the perfect employee, head of the bank's best tax consultancy team – unforgivably late on the day of a crucial presentation.

When I get to the turnstiles in the atrium, I unceremoniously dump the contents of my bag out onto the floor. I'm gasping for breath from panic and the effort of running – I need to find that damn badge quickly, otherwise I'll be for the high jump.

I search desperately through the pile of stuff until I find what I'm after, then hurriedly shove all the rest back into the bag – well, almost all the rest, but it doesn't matter. I wasn't particularly attached to that lip gloss that's rolling away anyway.

Ok, here I am – only two hours behind schedule!

"That was a nice little scene. Are we on You've Been Framed?" asks a deep, perfidious voice behind me.

My hand hangs suspended in the air, gripping the badge I was about to pass over the scanner. I don't even need to turn around to know who it belongs to.

Ok, now it's official: I'm not going to make it.

*

Part of me is tempted just to swipe my badge and keep walking without even turning round, but that might look as if I was running away, and the day I run away from Ian St John will be a pretty chilly one in hell. And despite all the doom and gloom and Mayan prophesies and Hollywood disaster movies, the end of the world is not yet quite at hand.

I do my best to keep my colleagues entertained, I say, turning slightly.

From the corner of my eye I see his tall, menacing figure approaching. I swipe my badge quickly, rush across the atrium and press the lift button in front of me furiously. I'm in a hurry, if he hadn't realised.

Well I never thought I'd see anything like that, murmurs the voice that a second before was behind me and now is… right next to me, damn it. We're both standing in front of a lift that apparently just doesn't want to come. All this technology and you still find yourself unable to avoid the one colleague you don't want to bump into. Why hasn't anybody invented some kind of app or something to help you avoid making a fool of yourself the way I just did, I wonder?

Even without looking at him, I can tell that he is staring at me with curiosity. I'd do the same, if I were him.

I look up, and am dazzled by the bluest pair of eyes in the whole of creation, and I lower my head quickly, as though in annoyance. What a waste – a pair of eyes that gorgeous on such a puffed-up, snotty, hateful creature.

But my curiosity is too much for me, apparently, and as I give him another look I can't help but chuckle.

His pitch black eyebrows are lowered warily, an expression that I've often seen on his face. He must practice looking as ominous as possible in front of the mirror or something. Though, of course, he's not doing a very good job of it.

Glad to have provided you with some amusement on such a challenging day. Didn't you have a presentation about, what… an hour ago, Jenny? he asks, giving a theatrical look at his watch.

There's a ping as the lift finally arrives and the doors open.

You bastard, I think, as I walk inside.

Oops – I thought I'd only thought it, but I obviously didn't.

Ian follows me in with a chuckle.

"I might be terribly late, but what on earth are you doing turning up at this time of day? Employees as dutiful as you don't usually like missing a chance to show the bosses what good little boys they are…" I say, tart as an unripe blackberry.

Breakfast with a client, he says neutrally, not at all put out by my insinuations.

Of course – Ian takes all his female clients out. Apparently they simply swoon in front of him.

Though, to be fair, the whole female population of this building probably does. And the ones in the office across the street. And in the street round the corner…

I'm very glad that I'm apparently the only one who doesn't.

He reaches round me to press the button for the fifth floor, adding sarcastically, Since you're so late, you might at least push the button.

The truth is that I was distracted, damn it, and this morning I could really do without any other annoyances.

The lift sets off with a slight jolt.

Come on, Jenny, he says, tell me what happened. You're never late—

And so finally I turn to face him, and he stares back at me like a big game hunter who's got his prey in his sights. A rebellious curl of dark hair falls jauntily across his forehead, and with a studied gesture he flicks it away from those intense eyes. If I were being objective, I'd have to admit that the contrast is amazing, but fortunately I'm extremely biased when it comes to Ian and can ignore his physical appearance completely. The drooling of my colleagues is more than enough for me.

Let's get one thing straight, I tell him, sounding annoyed, first of all, it's none of your business why I'm late this morning and, second, don't act like you care, because I know very well that you couldn't give a monkey's.

At first my words don't seem to provoke any reaction, but then a cheeky smile of derision forms on those well-sculpted lips.

Jenny, Jenny… how can you think that about me? he says, as though talking to a little girl, just as the lift stops at our floor. I turn around and am on my way out when I hear his voice again, this time sounding rather annoyed: with a certain satisfaction I realise that it's taken me about two and a half minutes to make him lose his temper. Impressive, but I can do better.

"Anyway, I do care, because they called me up here to calm down Lord Beverly, who's been waiting for his tax advisor for exactly one hour."

And with those words he strides off quickly towards the meeting room. I stand stunned for a moment and then hurry after him.

I catch up with him just as he's opening the door of the meeting room; there's nothing for it now but to follow him in.

While they've been waiting for me, they've set up something like a tea room and the scene inside would actually be quite funny if this impromptu picnic wasn't all my fault.

The dreaded Lord Beverly is there, sipping his tea and being entertained by our boss, Colin, who is red-faced and visibly nervous. And Colin is never nervous.

He has a pretty good excuse today, though, because I doubt there's anyone who doesn't get agitated around Lord Beverly, a man who combines pomposity and menace and possesses all the haughtiness you might expect from an English nobleman who thinks he still lives in the eighteenth century, along with the arrogance that comes from possessing the mountain of money he actually does.

Most of today's nobles haven't had a penny for generations, and we mere mortals can at least enjoy seeing how low they've sunk, but not Lord Beverly – he deems himself superior by birth and also by net worth, after having managed to brilliantly exploit some vaguely specified mines in New Zealand that have been in his family for generations.

Ian, my boy! says Beverly affably, rising to greet him.

For a moment I shake my head and wonder if I'm dreaming. Beverly, affable? What the hell has Colin put in his tea?

Ian shakes his hand firmly and smiles guilelessly. Yes, guilelessly, of course.

Lord Beverly! What a pleasure to see you! exclaims Ian casually. But then I suppose he can afford to sound casual – he's not the one who's late.

The pleasure is all mine! How is your grandfather? It's been a while since our paths last crossed, I do hope he's well, Beverly replies politely, almost as though he were a human being like the rest of us.

Colin and I exchange a worried look that says, what about if we just go and leave them here to their aristocratic pleasantries?

Just when I'm on the point of beating a retreat, though, Lord Beverly notices my presence. I should have moved faster.

Ah, Miss Percy. Here you are… finally. It is an observation that sounds like a death sentence – his tone has changed instantly and became as cold as the North Pole.

I can't apologise enough for being late, I say in an attempt to justify myself, but am instantly interrupted with a wave of the hand and a hard look. Someone should remind him that I'm not his dog.

He's clearly on the verge of giving me a telling off when Ian intervenes.

Miss Percy was held up by a serious family problem, Lord Beverly. I do hope you'll accept my colleague's apologies.

Beverly, who a second before was about to give me a mouthful, stops and looks at me. He's struggling, you can tell from his expression, and it's clear that he doesn't give a damn about my problems, he just wants to ingratiate himself with St John. Which is curious, to say the least: I'd assumed that Beverly had never needed to cosy up to a living soul in his entire life.

Well, I imagine that we all have family problems from time to time, he concedes, finally. And quite obviously, reluctantly. But he does say it.

I'm in shock, and for a moment am literally speechless. St John beats Beverly, one nil.

Part of me is almost disappointed, but the other, more rational part is enormously relieved. I start breathing again. And just think – apart from the light-headedness, I hadn't even noticed that I'd stopped.

Thank you so much for being so understanding, I say theatrically.

At this point, Colin decides to intervene. Well, now that everything's been sorted out, I'd suggest that Ian and I leave Lord Beverly in the capable hands of his tax lawyer so you two can work in peace, and having said that, he starts to move towards the door. But Lord Beverly has other plans.

Colin, I was thinking – what would you say if Ian was also present at the meeting?

My jaw muscles give way and my mouth drops open. Ian? In a meeting with me?

Beverly doesn't know what he's asking for.

But Colin remembers all too well those turbulent times when Ian and I used to work together, and banged heads again and again and again. His face creases up in panic and he turns as white as a sheet. Poor guy, this is going straight into his 'top ten worst mornings of my life'.

Lord Beverly, I think Ian might have an appointment— stammers Colin in a vain attempt to save the situation, but Beverly isn't one to be intimidated by other people's appointments. The bottom line is that he has been sitting in this meeting room for an hour, obediently drinking tea and eating butter biscuits, and he knows that whatever he requests will be given to him.

I must insist, Colin, he says. And damn him, he knows that that's all it takes.

Our boss nods resignedly. Do you think you can free yourself up, Ian? he asks.

Of course, no problem. Excuse me for just one moment, says the man of the day, before disappearing.

*

Oh God. I can't do it.

I've just got time to get the documents out of my bag before Ian is back, perfectly at ease, smiling and with a determined look in his eye. He's loving this morning, and it's all thanks to me.

This is undoubtedly the crappiest day of my life. Previously, the worst had been the one when they took out my appendix and I spent all morning throwing up because of the anaesthetic, but today… oh, today is much worse!

My number one enemy has made himself comfortable in a nice black leather chair next to Lord Beverly and sits there in eager anticipation of the brilliant tax optimization plan I'm about to present to my client.

For a moment I feel as though I've been catapulted back in time: it's the aristocrats versus the commoners all over again.

Lord Beverly, son of a marquis, and Ian St John, grandson of the Duke of Revington, son of a marquis and successor to the title and thus a count of something or other, stare at me from their seats with ill-concealed impatience, anxious to discover just what the hell I've come up with.

And then – because, basically, I am the most brilliant mind that this bank has to its credit, despite whatever Count whatsisname might think – I launch into my brilliant presentation and show them what I'm made of.

Chapter 2

I’m exhausted and my head feels like it's about to explode. The pain has been keeping me company since the dramatic moment when I first opened my bleary eyes this morning and realised that:

a) I hadn't heard the alarm going off two hours earlier;

b) I was late for a really important appointment;

c) I had the first serious hangover of my wretched life.

I've always been a determined girl, one with her head screwed on, and I've never been anyone's doormat, but the previous night the latest in a long string of romantic failures had just been too much for me – and the coup de grace was less that it had been him who'd dumped me and more the awful realization that I couldn't even have cared less.

The moment he'd said that he didn't want to come and live with me, I'd felt so relieved that I'd practically burst out laughing. Again.

That was the third serious relationship that had broken up just before we moved in together, and last night I'd finally realised that it's not because of my pathetic boyfriends, but because of me. I'm the cause of my romantic failures, I'm the reason why they dump me: sooner or later, they realise that I just don't care about them. And that I'm kidding myself. And they run for it.

If I was in their shoes, I'd have done the same thing, a long time ago.

This sudden realization had floored me so much that Laura and Vera had eventually bullied me into going out, and we'd gone to a few pubs and had a few drinks. And then a few more.

In terms of making me forget about myself and my problems, the mission was a complete success. There was so much alcohol in my system that I did actually stop thinking about my useless boyfriends and my own failures for a while. I even stopped thinking about the reason I'd chosen them, which was basically that they were insignificant non-entities who wouldn't have the slightest impact on my messed-up life.

I hate not being in control of things, and in relationships I always end up choosing people who are completely unable to hinder my plans in any way – people who let me lead them. Pushovers.

Pity, then, that realizing the fact meant crashing back down to reality. And what an ugly reality it was.

All of this is running through my mind as I trot out facts and figures to Lord Beverly and Ian – two card-carrying wankers, certainly, but at least, for some perverse reason I feel that we're on the same level.

*

For a very short period I really thought that Charles, my last boyfriend, was perfect for me: he teaches philosophy at university, he's very serious and thoughtful, hates conservatives and dreams of changing the world. Ok, so he doesn't get any further than dreaming or actually do anything practical about it, but at least he dreams the right things.

My family fell for Charles immediately and established a bond with him that they've never had with me. I'm a kind of genetic error that they still don't quite understand – the pinstripe sheep of the family.

This latest failure with Charles is going to mean doing some serious work on myself. I have to find the right person – someone that I like, and not just someone my family are going to accept.

My phone rouses me from my thoughts and, seeing that it's Vera's number, I pick up straightaway.

Hello gorgeous, I say, smiling.

You're alive, then! she answers in relief.

You could say that—

So how did the infamous presentation go?

Oh, couldn't have gone better, I say, sarcastically. I woke up two hours late, barely managed to drag myself to work, and then found out that my client loves surrounding himself with people of the same social class, so I had to try and act totally at ease while I explained everything not only to him but also his fellow nobleman. Ian.

Ouch—

Vera knows all about the feud that's been going on for years between me and Ian – she's spent whole evenings listening to me moan about him and knows practically every detail of our now–famous quarrels.

I think she even warns all the new interns that it's probably not a great idea to get too close to us.

Her theory is that at the base of our animosity there's a kind of class struggle, but to be honest, I just think he's a massive idiot and that the difference in social class has nothing much to do with it. His being from the gentry has nothing to do with the fact that he's a conceited, puffed-up cretin.

Yeah, you can say that again. Ouch—

That bad? she asks fearfully.

"God, it was worse than that bad. But you know me, always on the ball, so I managed to pull it off. I have to admit, though – Ian wasn't too painful, and he kept strangely quiet."

Well that's good, isn't it? asks Vera.

Hmmm. I'm not convinced. If it had been anyone else, maybe… but Ian's not to be trusted. I've got the feeling that the only reason he didn't stick the knife in today is because he's got something even more diabolical in mind.

Vera laughs. Has anybody ever told you you're paranoid, love?

Of course I am – I'm a tax lawyer, I have to be.

Vera is still chuckling when I see Colin walking past my desk and beckoning me to follow him.

Got to go, gorgeous, I tell Vera, the big boss wants to see me. Cross your fingers for me.

Will do!

See you later.

*

I walk straight over to Colin, who's standing in front of the coffee machine.

Skin of your teeth today, says the boss, in a voice that is more admiring than reproachful.

I know, Colin. Listen, I hope you don't think that I don't realise how lucky I was there. It was a mistake – the kind that I have no intention of committing again.

Colin puts two coins into the machine and quickly presses some buttons, and a few moments later hands me a hot coffee. I taste it – it's very sweet.

Extra sugar? I ask.

You're… going to need it, he says, sounding mysterious.

So I should probably sit down.

Oh, you're a tough cookie – I'm sure you'll manage without additional support, he says, with a wink.

Come on, Colin, you know I'm good at handling bad news, I say, stoically. I'm actually starting to get an idea about where he's going with this, and I don't like it at all.

And you, Jenny, know very well what the bad news is, or you wouldn't have a face on you like a cat sucking a lemon while you drink the sweetest cup of coffee of your life.

I have a very wise boss, apparently.

I know what it's about, but I'm not going to save you from the embarrassment of having to say it.

God, you're a nasty piece of work… Right, well, if you really don't want to make it easy for me, I'll tell you – Lord Beverly is insisting on having both you and Ian looking after him.

Ah—

That's all I can say. Unfortunately, I'd sensed the vibrations.

It is obvious that our customer doesn't know about your past difficulties, and frankly, I'd rather he never finds out, he continues.

Listen, Colin, I say, seriously, "you know that I never shirk my responsibilities. I understand that I screwed up and that somehow I have to pay for it, but this… This is too much. Lord Beverly might not know what happened, but you do. You know what the risks are."

Colin nervously stirs his coffee and looks at me. It's been four years, Jenny. I was hoping that two intelligent, mature people might have overcome their differences in the meantime.

Yes, we might, if Ian was even remotely intelligent or mature. But at the moment he still seems to be lacking both the necessary features.

I say it with an angelic expression on my face – a bit mischievous, perhaps, but angelic.

There's a certain nervousness in Colin's eyes. Jenny— he starts.

But I don't let him finish, because I know what he's going to say. You're right, I messed up today and now I have to suffer the consequences.

Colin changes tactic. Look at it like this. You're paying for a mistake that you made yourself, but Ian… well, he didn't choose to get himself involved in this situation. He's probably not jumping for joy right now either.

Put like that, things look a little bit less grim. After all, who am I to deny Ian the immense joy of having to work with me?

Does he already know? I ask, with new-found energy. Never underestimate the beneficial effects of making life difficult for others.

Colin smiles resignedly. Nice to see that the old tricks still work. You two are like a couple of schoolkids, Jenny, he scolds, good-naturedly.

"Excuse me – seeing as I'm two years older, it's him who's the kid."

Oh, of course, yes – the famous two-year difference—

"The fundamental two-year difference," I remind him, suddenly extremely serious.

The truth is that it was that two-year difference that started all this in the first place: five years ago, when the bosses set up the first tax team containing both economists and lawyers, they were forced to make a difficult and uncomfortable choice – who was going to be put in charge?

I was twenty-eight and my career was moving along incredibly rapidly and successfully, and Ian was twenty-six and still a recent acquisition. There were already stories about him going around, though – how he was a brilliant economist and how his customers hung on his every word.

Anyway, after studying the various candidates, the bank had to choose which of us to appoint, and each of us was expecting to get the job.

It was a tough call to make, so in the end the bosses, unable to choose, eventually selected the older person – me. We were told that they needed someone with a minimum of 'seniority'.

In my heart I knew that it was just a pretext and that I was fully entitled to the position. Being in charge of a team is not just about being the best – even though I undoubtedly am – but also about knowing how to guide and encourage the group. And as far as I'm concerned, Ian has only ever known only to guide and encourage himself.

He took it so badly that at first we all assumed he'd just give in his notice and go somewhere else, but instead he adopted a much more subtle strategy. He decided to stay, and to dedicate himself to a single goal: making my life difficult.

He kept his hostility well disguised for the first few months, but things gradually turned into an all-out war, and our team meetings became legendary and interminable.

If I said A, he said B, if I said white, he said black, and so on – with a vengeance.

After a whole year of no holds barred fighting, things reached breaking point. In the beginning, I'd tried to