Читать книгу The Brazilian Tycoon's Mistress - Fiona Hood-Stewart, Fiona Hood-Stewart - Страница 10

THERE was no use pretending it hadn’t happened, Araminta realised the next day. She just had to face the fact that for a few inexplicable minutes she must have gone mad.

As it happened she was given little opportunity to stew over the events of the night before, for early in the day the telephone rang.

‘Araminta, it’s Pearce. Look, they’re advancing the book-launch date and there’s a huge party planned at the Ritz. I can’t believe it—they’re going to have it published in record time,’ he said excitedly.

‘Oh. Will I be expected to be there?’

‘Well, of course you will, silly girl. You’re the one person who has to be there, come hell or high water.’

‘But I don’t think I—’

‘One more word and I’ll scream,’ Pearce roared down the phone. ‘Araminta, get with the programme! This is your book, your success. Don’t you feel the least bit excited about it all? Girl, you’re about to make millions if it flies!’

‘Really? Yes, I suppose I might,’ she muttered vaguely. The thought of being exposed to all those strangers, having to smile and chit-chat, sound intelligent and answer questions about her book was thoroughly daunting.

‘Araminta, it’s not the end of the world,’ Pearce continued patiently. ‘You used to be so social before you married Peter. What’s the matter with you?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I’ve changed, I suppose.’

‘Not really. You’re just hiding.’

‘Peter didn’t like going out much, so we rarely did.’

‘Araminta, Peter is no longer with us,’ Pearce said carefully. ‘And you are. You have to make a life for yourself. Thanks to your own efforts you’re going to be a great success. Enjoy it, girl, instead of running away.’

‘I’ll think about,’ she murmured, twisting the cord of the telephone. ‘When is the party going to be?’

‘In three weeks.’ He gave her the date.

‘So soon?’ Araminta squeaked.

‘Yes. Goodness knows how they’re getting the books done in time. And you’d better get yourself to London and buy a decent dress for the occasion. Don’t think you can come in those worn jeans of yours. I won’t have it. I want you to look stunning. In fact I’ll go shopping with you if need be.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Araminta responded in a dignified tone. This was all happening far too fast. First last night, now this. It was as if she couldn’t stem the flow of events sweeping her along, despite her desire to stay cushioned from the world at Taverstock Hall.

But as she hung up she heard her mother calling from the stairs and winced, closing her eyes. Perhaps this really was her chance to move on. Of course if she moved it would mean more change. But at least she’d have a choice, which at present she didn’t. Plus, it would mean she wouldn’t be stuck next door to Victor Santander.

This last did more to get her moving than any other element of the equation. The mere thought of coming across him in the village or elsewhere was enough to cause a rush of hot embarrassment. What would she do? How would she face him if it happened?

‘Araminta, I really must have your help for the Hunt Ball,’ Lady Drusilla said, walking into the hall and bringing her crashing back to earth.

‘I’m sorry, Mother, but I’m afraid I’ll be away at that time,’ she responded absently.

‘Away?’

‘I’m going to London. I have to do some stuff for my book. There’s going to be some sort of launch party on the same day as the Ball.’

‘Goodness. How very tiresome.’ Lady Drusilla pulled her cardigan closer and sniffed. ‘Couldn’t you have got your publishers to arrange it another day? It can’t be that important, surely?’

‘Actually, it is,’ Araminta replied, drawing herself up suddenly aware for the first time just what she was about to achieve. ‘They’re publishing two hundred thousand copies.’

‘Goodness. That seems rather excessive, doesn’t it?’ Lady Drusilla’s brows rose in disapproval. ‘I hope they won’t sit on the shelves. It could be a terrible waste of good paper.’

Furious at her mother’s response, Araminta turned on her heel and decided that Pearce was right. She needed out, needed to get on with her life and not tolerate her mother’s impossible behaviour any longer. In fact, she decided, running up the stairs and dashing the tears from her cheeks, the sooner she went to London and began looking for something decent to wear for the party the better. After all, if she was going to be the centre of attention then she might as well do it right.

Three weeks later Araminta stood in the ballroom of the Ritz surrounded by Pearce, her publishers, and a number of journalists, critics and miscellaneous celebrities brought in for the occasion. There were stands with copies of Phoebe Milk and the Magician’s Promise tastefully placed about the room, waiters circulated with trays of champagne and elegant finger food, and a jazz quartet played at the far end of the room.