Alicia Martinez hadn't meant to break the golf club.

Truly, she hadn't.

She stared down at the broken Callaway driver mournfully. Damn. That was going to cost a mint to replace. She could probably convince her boss, Steve, to take it out of her weekly salary, but still. It was a nuisance.

Alicia sighed, laying the broken club on a table. Outside, the Old Course was pulled taught as a green quilt, the flag poles sticking out like pins. Cars clattered over the cobblestones outside the shop, and she could hear someone shouting in a Scottish accent. Something about a birdie. Or maybe it was, "don't burp me."

She hoped for the Scottish man's sake that it was the first one.

Alicia turned back to the club. Maybe she could glue it? No; that was a terrible idea. She would simply have to come clean.

She began arranging a stack of monogrammed tea towels. The golf club incident hadn't even been her fault, really; she had simply been trying to clean it when a customer walked in. The bell on the door had tinkled. Alicia stood up. And then she had jumped, cracking the driver on the counter.

Because for a moment — just a moment, mind you — she thought it had been him.

The man that she was trying to avoid.

The reason that Alicia had fled to St Andrews in the first place.

It wasn't, obviously; it was a lovely French man named Paul who had been after a shot glass for his wife. But the damage was done. And now Alicia was standing in the store, ignoring the broken golf club.

Stupid, sodding club.

The door tinkled. Steve stumbled through, weighed down by boxes filled with emblazoned polo necks and caps. The Glaswegian man's foot caught the doorstep, and he cursed creatively, running through a number of words that Alicia didn't understand. She caught "get tae hell" and "ye wee shite." Or maybe it was "ye willy's shite." You never knew, with Steve.

She rushed forward to take the boxes. "They were late again, then?"

"Fecking delivery people," Steve growled. "If they dinnae turn up on time next week, I swear I'll—" He froze, his eyes landing on the driver. "What the hell is that?"

Ah. Oops.

Alicia set the box down slowly. "Well, Steve, I was cleaning it, and then I—"

"Ye know what?" Steve shook his head. "Ahm pure done in." He retreated towards the back office. "Unpack that lot and then go home."

"Really?"

"Really." He smiled. "And dinnae worry about the driver, Leese. Just shite luck, int it?"

Alicia felt a rush of relief. She had the sudden urge to throw her arms around Steve, but she restrained herself. Firstly, because Steve was her boss. And secondly, because she had given him a birthday card last month, and Steve had stared at it for thirty seconds before explaining to her that he was uncomfortable with displays of affection.

He might actually combust if she hugged him.

She unpacked the boxes quickly, and then locked up the cash register. The June air hugged her like a blanket as she trekked up the road, breathing in the brine rolling off of the sea. Turreted buildings rose up like spikes on a wrought iron fence. The university students were getting restless for summer holidays now, and she could see several of them flopped out on a grassy lawn, a stack of books spread out in front of them.

Alicia's flat was a twenty-minute walk — practically on the other side of town, for St Andrews — and she was sweating through her jumper by the time she reached the stone building. Her flatmate, Hattie, was standing by the stove, stirring what appeared to be a large pot of green goo.

"Let me guess." Alicia yanked off her trainers. "You're making slime."

"I'm not making slime."

"Antifreeze?"

"It's soup," Hattie sniffed. "Broccoli, to be exact."

Alicia pulled a face. "I think I'd rather eat antifreeze."

"That's because you have no taste."

Alicia crossed to the refrigerator, pulling out a pre-packed pudding. Hazelnut and vanilla goodness; that's what she needed. Hattie gave her a dubious look; her wild blonde curls were pulled up into a knot, and they bounced as she shook her head.

"It's amazing that you don't have diabetes."

"I'm only nineteen." Alicia took out a spoon. "Give me a few years."

"How was work? You were caddying today, right?"

Alicia shook her head. "I was at the shop." She collapsed on to a chair, dipping her spoon into the silky hazelnut. "Unpacking boxes. Don't start on me," she warned, seeing Hattie's face. "I'm not in the mood today."

Hattie pressed her lips together. She was clearly trying hard not to give Alicia the same lecture that she had been giving her all summer, which consisted of chastising her for working in a shop when she should be out on the golf course. Which Alicia would prefer, obviously. But joining the LPGA wasn't in her future; not if it meant being in the public eye.

They both knew why that was impossible.

"It just seems like a shame." Hattie stirred the green soup. "You're wasting so much potential. That's all."

Alicia plunged her spoon into the pudding. She knew Hattie was trying to be supportive, but she couldn't help but feel a growing sense of irritation.

She chucked her empty pudding cup into the bin. "I'll never do anything that could get my name out there. Or reveal my location." She looked at her. "But you know that already, don't you?"

Hattie's soup blistered and then burst. "I still think you should—"

"Hattie."

"Fine." She stirred her soup. "I'll drop it."

Alicia softened slightly. "Thank you."

Harriet Winters really had been a good friend to her; they had met the first week that Alicia had arrived in town, just over three months ago, in a pub that Hattie worked at called "The Sinner." Alicia had been wary of her, at first; she didn't have many close friends, especially after what happened in London.

Hattie, however, had refused to let Alicia push her away.

"You're like a bottle of red wine," she had quipped. "You just need some time to open up."

One week later, Alicia — after several rum cocktails — had confessed the truth about why she left London so abruptly. Two weeks later, she had moved into a spare room in Hattie's flat, and now, here they were.

Alicia squeezed her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Hattie. I'm being a dick, aren't I?"

"No more than usual."

"Hey!"

She swatted her shoulder, and Hattie cracked a smile. Alicia was about to retort further when her phone vibrated. She pressed the green button. "Hello?"

"Alicia!"

"Hi, Mum."

She beat a hasty retreat into her bedroom. Poor Hattie had to listen to her mother's ramblings almost every evening, and while she claimed not to mind, there was only so much cursing in Spanish that one could take. As if on cue, a bowl clattered, followed by a torrent of swearing.

"Are you cooking?"

"I'm making tostadas."

She flopped on the bed. "You can get those pre-made, you know. From Tesco."

"I could, mija, but that would take away the fun of it."

Personally, Alicia didn't see what was so fun about slaving over homemade dough for hours, but hey — who was she to judge? Something sizzled in a pan. The ground beef, probably. A door slammed, and a moment later, the phone was yanked out of her mother's hands.

Well, Alicia assumed it was forcefully yanked; her younger sister, Teresa, wasn't exactly famous for her politeness.

"Did you send me that dress yet?"

Alicia sighed. "Hi, Tess."

"Well, did you?"

"Can't you wait? You're visiting this month."

"I can't wait," Tess said, sounding horrified. "The Patriots are only in London until tomorrow, Alicia. What on earth am I meant to wear?"

Alicia glanced at the dress in question. It was a racy red number with a slit up the side, and one that she had once worn out to nightclubs. Certainly not an appropriate dress for a 15-year-old English girl to totter around London in.

"It's not like you're going to run into them anyway, Tessie. Not unless you wait outside their hotel like a total stalker."

Silence.

"Tess?"

"I wouldn't wait outside the hotel," Tess muttered. "I'd wait down the street. At a respectable distance."

"Please say you're taking the piss."

Tess gave a dreamy sigh. "Do you know my friend Rachel met Rory the other day? He threw his shoe at her."

"He what?"

"She has it beside her bed," Tess continued. "Wrapped in tissue paper." She smacked what sounded like chewing gum. "Lizzie Blythe offered her two hundred quid for it in our English class today. Naturally, Rachel turned her down, the cheap cow."

Alicia stared at the phone. Dear god. Had the whole world gone mad? She couldn't imagine paying two hundred quid for any pair of shoes, let alone sweaty ones that had been worn by some boyband singer that probably had a secret addiction to heroin.

"You're mental," she said. "You know that right?"

Tess sniffed. "You have no taste."

"So I keep hearing."

"So you won't send me the dress?"

"No."

"Fine," Tess grunted, smacking her gum again. "But you can kiss your chances of being related to Rory Walker goodbye."

"Trust me," Alicia said wryly, "if I'm related to a member of The Patriots one day, I'll eat my own golf clubs. The entire set."

And with that, she hung up the phone.

A/N: Ooh and so it begins! What does everyone think of Alicia so far? And Hattie? Readers of my standalone novella "No Two Are Alike" might recognize Hattie Winters as the relation of two blond identical twins — did anyone make that connection? ;)

Affectionately,

J.K.