Maureen Johnson - Hello, Cruel Heart

Copyright 2021 Disney Enterprises, Inc. All rights reserved.

Based upon the novel The One Hundred and One Dalmatians by Dodie Smith

Published by Disney Press, an imprint of Buena Vista Books, Inc. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney Press, 1200 Grand Central Avenue, Glendale, California 91201.

ISBN 978-1-368-05919-0

Designed by Soyoung Kim
Cover design by Soyoung Kim

Visit disneybooks.com

For Gig. Thanks for all the music. Its been great.

A LL RIGHT , you, a voice said.

Sixteen-year-old Estella turned and found herself facing one of the Harrods security guards, a red-faced man with a heavy mustache.

I beg your pardon? she said, aghast. Please take your hand off me.

She said it loud enough that several people turned. A tourist raised a camera, so the man pulled on Estellas bag strap to maneuver her several feet away, out of view. The guard had the right idea: Harrods, the great London department store, was not the place where one wanted to make a scene. Especially not in the thick of summer, when the store was swarming with tourists from all over the world.

The bag, he said. Open it.

I will not, she said shortly. Ill speak to your supervisor about this!

Open that bag.

Estella sighed.

Things, admittedly, had gone awry.

Estella had been following along dutifully as a woman in a pink sheath, her ginger hair piled high and teased into a bubble dome, made her way from counter to counter, purchasing cheese, overpriced biscuits, candied fruit, and pickled nuts. Theyd advanced all the way to the seafood counter, where the woman was grilling the seafood man about the freshness of his fish.

Harrods motto was, after all, Omnia Omnibus Ubique, or All things for all people, everywhere (though its motto should have been All things for all rich people, everywhere). The all was quite literal: if one could dream itand pay for itHarrods would sell it to you.

Satin and furs? Of course.

Shoes, coats, and hats? Naturally.

A toy car? A real car? An airplane? A yacht? All available.

A coffin? A tiara? A lion? A gold bar? Harrods could accommodate.

But nowhere did the store take its motto more seriously than amid its large food halls, seemingly miles of elegantly tiled floors that supported the very best and most varied comestibles Englandand the worldhad to offer. There was the proud stink of the cheese counter, the swoosh of knives being sharpened by the butcher, and more than a rainbows worth of colors in the candy department.

And there was Estella, in her green school skirt and blazer. Her ginger hair was long and straight with fringe, in a fashionable cut modeled after the capitals most famous redhead: Jane Asher, Paul McCartneys glamorous girlfriend. Estella was enjoying the cool of the seafood counter, laden as it was with ice packed around the glassy-eyed fish on the warm Friday afternoon. She took her relief where she could get it.

How fresh are your oysters? the pink sheath-clad woman asked the man behind the counter.

Extremely, madam, the man replied. Fresh this morning.

The woman stared at the lumpy oyster shells as if she desired them to speak for themselves.

Are you sure?

Quite sure, madam.

The woman, engaged in her interrogation of the oysters, purse hanging limply from the crook of her elbow, paid no mind to Estella, unremarkable in her school uniform. The purse had a simple clasp top, the kind one could snap open in a second. Those purses were an absolute gift to the pickpockets and petty thieves of the world. The man behind the seafood counter also paid Estella no mind, because Estellas hair was as bright a shade of ginger as the womans. Who else could Estella be but this wealthy customers daughter?

Such a simple trick, and it worked every time.

Estella slid closer, making a great show of interest in a large lobster that rested miserably on the ice. Just a few inches more

Then the tourists arrived.

This way! This way! A voice boomed from the entrance to the hall. This way, ladies and gentlemen! Watch yourselves, come through, come through, right this way.

A man holding a small flag reading SWINGING LONDON TOURS led a group of about fifty people into the hall. The visitors marveled at the scene unfolding around them. They oohed and aahed at the endless counters of food. They raised their cameras and snapped photos.

The woman at the seafood counter turned sharply, and her purse went with her. It was between her body and the glass now, just out of Estellas reach.

Oh dear god, the woman said, looking at the group. Those ghastly people. Why do they let them in here?

The question was rhetorical, and the man behind the counter did not reply.

The tourists massed in the hall, taking up all the free space and air. They were dressed in formless traveling clothesgrim dresses and even grimmer trousers and shirts. Estella made a note of this because she simply couldnt help it. She always analyzed every cut and every stitch of every outfit that passed her. Her mind was a whirling calculation of fashion.

Estella made clothes. Very good clothes. Possibly the best clothes in all of Londonnot that London knew it yet.

Some of the tourists approached the seafood counter.

Would you look at that! one of the men said with a broad American accent. All that fish! The group murmured in rapturous agreement, equal measures shocked and delighted by the fact that there was seafood at a seafood stand. They would never get over it.

Ill just get some smoked oysters in tins, then, the ginger-haired woman snipped before striding off toward the tinned foods. Estella sighed and followed, growing bored. Why was it that the gingers, who provided Estella the best cover, were always the most particular and picky? Surely it wasnt a ginger thing.

As she made her way after the woman, one of the tourists from the group waved at her. Miss, would you mind taking a picture with my wife? he said.

Estella should have said no. She was busy. Shed been tailing her mark for over twenty minutes, and the goal was close at hand. But the man looked so enchanted by her. There it was: the antidote to her ennuithe opportunity to perform. To be darling. Plan be dashed. Estella liked to live in the now.

Oh! Estella said. Oh. Yes! Of course!

Look at your tie! the wife exclaimed, practically clapping her hands in excitement as Estella positioned herself next to her. Girls wear ties here?

For school, Estella replied politely.

Do you guys want a picture with the British girl? the wife shouted eagerly to her friends. Millie! Jake! Just look at her! Shes wearing a tie!

Estella stayed still for several minutes, losing her ginger-haired cover but gaining an entire cohort of loud, brassy American fans. She went from one to the next, smiling, posingthe perfect English teenager.

Then, suddenly, she saw a head in the distance, scanning, looking for her. Red face, sporting a big mustache, that she knew all too well.