Читать книгу The By Request Collection - Kate Hardy - Страница 88

CHAPTER EIGHT

‘CAMILLA SEEMED IMPRESSED with your ideas.’

Flora put her hairbrush down and turned to look at Alex, admiring the lithe grace as he sprawled on the bed, completely at his ease as he looked through her sketchbook. ‘It was like being summoned for an audience with the queen,’ she said, her palms damp at just the memory. ‘It’s a good thing she can’t actually raise those eyebrows of hers, she made me feel about six as it was.’

‘That’s just her way. I don’t think she meant to question you quite so closely—she knew you would have no real idea of cost at this stage. We’re still at the initial concepts.’

‘How can I even think about putting costs in when she hasn’t even decided which of your ideas she wants? Plus I have no idea of what I can actually source there—or what her actual budget is.’ At least when she had worked in-house she hadn’t had to worry about any of this part. She had been given a task, she’d completed it, easy—even if it had been dull and monotonous and about as creative as granola.

He turned another page, nodding as he looked at her carefully drawn plans. ‘Relax. No one expects you to know any of this yet. Once Camilla gives us the go-ahead we can do a reconnaissance trip out there. We’ll need to talk about money as well. The interior design is all subcontracted through my firm. Lola charged for each project as a whole but I could take you on as a contracted member of staff if that makes things easier.’

Flora froze. It would make things a lot easier. She had no idea about how much to charge if she freelanced, nor how often she could invoice, when she would get paid—or how she’d live until she did. But working with Alex? Travelling to Bali with him? It wasn’t going to be the kind of cold turkey she thought she might need...

Because four nights in and she was already getting a little addicted to his touch. To the way his eyes seemed to caress her. To the way his hands most definitely did. To his mouth and the long, lean lines of his body.

She was in way over her head, barely graduated off the nursery slopes and yet heading full tilt down a black run and she didn’t even care. ‘Do we have to go on this evening’s jaunt?’ She allowed her eyes to travel suggestively over his body. ‘I’ve seen the Christmas markets.’

‘Not at night, you haven’t, and yes, you do. Three-line whip. But we don’t have to hang around in the bar after we get back if you would rather get some rest.’ He smiled like the big bad wolf eyeing up Red Riding Hood.

‘I do need a lot of rest,’ she agreed solemnly. ‘All this mountain air is exhausting me. I may also need a really long hot bath.’

‘I was thinking about a bath too,’ he said softly and she shivered at the intent look in his eyes as he slowly glanced from the large tub to her. ‘I do feel particularly dirty this evening.’

A jolt of pure lust shot through her and Flora gripped the top of the dressing table, her knuckles white. What was she doing? How on earth could they ever return to their old, easy camaraderie after this? How would she manage when his hand was no longer hers to hold, when she couldn’t run her fingers over the soft skin on the inside of his wrists, when she couldn’t kiss her way along the planes of his face and down his neck?

She had dreamt of this for so long that it all felt completely right, completely fitting. Stepping back again? That was going to hurt. But she had promised him that it would all be fine, that she would be fine, they would be fine and she couldn’t let him down. She would just have to keep smiling and pretend her heart wasn’t shattering into millions of little pieces.

‘Okay.’ She turned back to the mirror and outlined her mouth with the deep red lipstick. She’d almost got used to the striking colour over the last few days. It sent out a statement of confidence that she might not feel but that she could fake. She caught up a silk scarf, a midnight blue patterned with abstract snowflakes, and knotted it around her neck, the accessory adding some much-needed style to the cream jumper and blue velvet skinny jeans she’d chosen for their warmth. ‘I’m ready.’

Alex caught her hand as they left the hotel room, an easy gesture. She fought to keep her hand loosely clasped in his, not to curl her fingers tightly around and hold on, never letting him go.

‘You can help me choose Christmas presents,’ he said as they made their way along the wide corridor to the stairs. ‘I haven’t managed to buy any yet. I expect yours were all done and dusted by September.’

‘This year’s fabric was designed and printed by then,’ she agreed. Twice a year Flora got several of her designs printed up into silks and cottons, which she then used to make the cushions and scarves she sold online. She also combined her own designs with vintage fabrics to create quilts, which she made to order. ‘I’ve made both Mum and Minerva clutch bags. I hope they like them. I don’t think Minerva has ever worn last year’s skirt.’

‘Strawberries and cream isn’t particularly Minerva,’ he pointed out. ‘But it was a beautiful design. I’m sure she really appreciates it. Apron for your dad?’

‘Of course.’ Every year she made her father a new apron and a selection of tea towels and he always made sure they were prominently displayed in every tutorial and photoshoot. ‘I’ve bought dolls for the twins and made them entire wardrobes.’ She had also made shirts for Horry, Greg her brother-in-law and Alex in the same pattern as the scarf she was wearing this evening. Flora always made her presents; she suspected Minerva at least would rather she stuck to scented candles and bath salts but Flora loved to create things, especially for the people she cared about.

‘As we’re in Austria I’m thinking glass all round, animals for the littlies, crystal glasses and bowls for the adults. Too obvious?’

‘No, they’ll love them. It’s unfair how you always manage to pull the perfect present out of the bag last minute when some of us plan all year round.’ She squeezed his hand in mock protest and he grinned.

‘Not unfair, it’s because I have good taste.’

And money to spare, she wanted to retort—but she didn’t. After all, he’d always managed to find the right thing, even when he was at college and working three jobs in order to pay his way, refusing to allow the Buckinghams to house and feed him rent free. This man who didn’t think he was worth loving.

‘I was thinking,’ she said hesitantly. They hadn’t discussed anything personal since the night at the ski lodge, a tacit agreement to keep the week as carefree as they could.

‘Careful...’

She elbowed him. ‘Ha-ha. Don’t you have any grandparents? Uncles, aunts?’

‘Trying to get rid of me, Flora?’

‘Never. It just seems odd, that’s all. There must be someone.’

But he was shaking his head. ‘As far as I know my father’s parents died before I was born and he was an only child—not that he’d tell me if there were a hundred relatives out there, I suppose. As for my mother, I did see my grandmother when I was much younger but she gave up. Either my father frightened her off or I...’

Flora squeezed his hand. ‘Don’t even go there with the “or I”. If she disappeared I would bet all my Christmas presents your father was behind it. You should try and track her down. She might have some answers.’

‘Maybe.’ But he didn’t sound convinced and she didn’t want to push any further.

* * *

Flora was surprised by how at ease she felt as they approached the hotel lounge. It was busy; the guests buzzing as they discussed their impending visit to Innsbruck’s famous Christmas markets, sampling the food and drink on offer and purchasing some last-minute gifts. Normally she’d find such a noisy and full room intimidating, hang behind Alex as he strode confidently in, let him be the one to mingle, she following where he led. But over the last couple of days she had struck up a few acquaintances and greeted her new friends with pleasure when Alex disappeared over to the other side of the room to charm an influential broadsheet journalist who was considering a magazine feature on Alex’s work.

‘I hear you skied down several red runs today,’ Holly, the travel journalist Flora had met on the first evening, teased her. Flora was the only learner in the entire hotel and many people were watching her progress with encouragement and interest. ‘We’ll have you out on the blacks before we leave.’

‘Not this trip.’ Flora shook her head emphatically. ‘But, I have to say—and I am amazed I am about to admit this—I think I’ll come back and ski again. It has been sort of fun. Although I still prefer the hot-chocolate, hot-tub part of the proceedings most!’

‘If I was sharing a hot tub with your boyfriend I think that would be my favourite part of the evening too.’ Holly looked over at Alex, a wistful expression on her face. He was casually dressed: jeans, a dark green cashmere jumper, hair characteristically tousled. There were more obviously handsome men in the room, more famous men—richer men—but somehow he stood out.

Or maybe it was just that Flora instinctively knew where he was at every moment. Her north star.

Flora stood back to let one of the other women pass by. Although she recognised her they hadn’t spoken during the week; the celebrity guests, mostly socialites and gossip-magazine staples, tended to keep to their own tanned, designer-clad selves and only a few people like Alex passed from one group to the other with no hint of unease. Bella Summers was gossip-magazine gold—an ex-model, TV presenter and extremely keen skier, she had been invited to bring the launch week a sprinkle of glamour and help create a buzz around the hotel.

‘Oh, my goodness.’ To Flora’s amazement Bella stopped dead in front of her, staring at her neck in undisguised envy. ‘Your scarf! Isn’t that the same one Lexy Chapman is wearing in this week’s Desired?’ Her eyes flickered to Flora’s face, curiosity mingling with undisguised surprise. ‘Where on earth did you get it?’

‘This scarf.’ Flora touched it self-consciously. ‘No, it can’t be the same. It must be a coincidence.’

‘It is exactly the same. That abstract snowflake print is unmistakeable,’ Bella Summers insisted. ‘Mitzy, come here. Isn’t this the same scarf Lexy wore on her date with Aaron? The one in Desired?’

Another tall, skinny, elegant girl loped across to join them. The two of them stood there gazing at Flora’s neck like a couple of fashion-hungry vampires. ‘Yes, that’s the one,’ she said. ‘Hang on. I think I left the magazine on the shelves over there. It only came out yesterday. Luckily a shop in Innsbruck stocks it.’

It can’t be the same. It’s just a coincidence, Flora told herself. It was always happening, designers inspired by the same things coming up with similar designs. Or of course work got plagiarised; small solo outfits like hers were particularly vulnerable.

Unfortunately it was a much more likely scenario than the other—It girls and style icons just didn’t buy from small solo nobodies like her. She didn’t even have a brand name or a website of her own, using an Internet marketplace to sell the handful of items she produced each year.

‘Yes, I knew it.’ Mitzy and Bella came back waving the latest copy of Desired triumphantly. ‘Here you go. Flora, isn’t it? Look.’

Flora took the glossy magazine from them. Desired was an upmarket weekly combining fashion, gossip and lifestyle in easily digestible sound bites and pictures. It was already open at the page they wanted, the street-style section. Photos of fashion-forward celebrities out and about, their outfits and accessories critiqued. Girls like Lexy Chapman were staples on this page—as were girls like Bella and Mitzy, although neither had the cool kudos of Lexy Chapman.

Normal people didn’t have a hope of appearing on the hallowed pages, no matter how stylishly they dressed. And Flora was too awkward for style.

But maybe, just maybe she had some influence after all.

She sucked in a deep breath as her eyes skimmed over the photo. Lexy Chapman was casually dressed for her date with her on-off rock-star boyfriend in tight-fitting skinny jeans and a cream, severely cut silk shirt visible underneath an oversized navy military coat. The starkness of the outfit was softened by the scarf, tied around her slender neck with a chicness Flora could only envy.

She skimmed the brief wording, her heart thumping.

How does she do it? Once again Lexy Chapman strips back this season’s must-have styles to their bare essentials combining masculine tailoring with military chic.

A clever touch is the snowflake motif scarf, which adds a feminine twist and is a clever nod to the season.

The article was followed by a list of the clothes and accessories, with price, designer and website. Sure enough, right at the bottom...

Scarf, Flora B, £45

It was followed by her website address.

‘Hang on.’ Mitzy snatched the magazine back off Flora and read the article again. ‘Flora B? Is that you? Oh, my goodness, you have to let me have one of your scarves. What other designs do you have? Do you have any on you?’

‘I...’ Flora tried to think. What did she have in stock and ready made up? ‘Sure. When we get back from Innsbruck I’ll show you my web shop. I only make up a couple of patterns a year so it does depend on what’s left.’

‘Exclusive.’ Mitzy nodded in satisfaction. ‘Good.’

‘If you could just excuse me...’ Flora tore her eyes away from the page, her head giddy. What if the photo had generated more interest? She hadn’t checked her orders since she had arrived in Austria. It wasn’t as if they usually came flooding in—more than three a week would be a rush—and she had designated the Friday of last week the last day she could guarantee Christmas delivery. ‘I just need to check on something.’

Flora was glad to escape from the noisy room. The mood had changed as the news flew through the room. People—especially the celebrity clique—were looking at her differently, actually seeing her. Or seeing her value to them. One scarf in one picture. Was that all it took to go from zero to person of interest?

With this lot it appeared so.

She hurried upstairs, back to their recently vacated suite. It looked different, smelt different with Alex’s belongings casually strewn around. His laptop was set up on the desk in the corner, a pair of his shoes left by the door. His book on the side table—not that he’d been doing much reading. Or work. Neither of them had. She liked it. Liked the casual mingling of their belongings.

Flora’s phone was in a drawer along with her charger. She hadn’t wanted it on, hadn’t wanted to be in contact with the outside world, to be reminded that this short idyll was temporary. She switched it on, her mind whirling while it powered up. Would this mean a run on her small amount of stock? If so would it be worth investing in more fabric? How would she fund it? How could she make and store decent amounts of stock in her small rented room? What if she did invest and demand dried up?

She shook her head. Talk about counting chickens! She might find that Mitzy and Bella were the only people who had even noticed the scarf—and only because she was wearing it.

Her phone sprang into life, pinging with a notification—and another and another like a much less musical one-note version of the sleigh bells. Social-media notifications, emails, voicemails. Flora stared at her buzzing screen and felt her head spin. She had only started the social-media accounts for her business to stop her sister, Minerva, nagging her but rarely used them. She didn’t know what to say to her tiny handful of followers.

‘Flora?’ The door had opened while she watched the notifications multiply. ‘We’re heading off.’ Alex paused, waiting for her to answer but she couldn’t find the words. ‘What is it?’

She handed him the phone and Alex stared at it incredulously.

‘What? Have you just won a popularity contest?’

‘I don’t know. I think it’s about a scarf but I don’t know where to start.’

‘A scarf? Is this the same scarf that has half the women downstairs frothing at the mouth?’

She nodded, the surrealism of the situation disorientating her. ‘Either that or I’ve won the lottery, been photographed kissing a boyband member or I am a long-lost princess. There are over fifty voicemail messages and I don’t know how many emails.’

The phone beeped again. ‘More than fifty...’ he peered at the phone ‘...although it looks as if at least half are from Minerva. Hold on.’ He put the phone back down a little gingerly, as if it were an unexploded bomb. ‘I am going to make our apologies to Camilla and I’ll help you sort this out.’

‘Your glass animals...’

‘Can wait. I’ll pop down tomorrow before the Christmas Ball. Wait here. Don’t touch anything.’

Flora sank onto the sofa, almost too distracted to notice just how uncomfortable it was. Her phone beeped a few more times and then it was mercifully silent. She unlooped the scarf from around her neck and passed it from one hand to the other, the silk cool under her fingertips. A midnight-blue silk with her snowflake design on it. She had only printed one roll of fabric. It was destined for the central square and edging for a handful of quilts, as the cuff lining on the shirts she had made Alex, Greg and Horatio, the lining of a few bags, some cushions and twenty or thirty scarves.

Her fabric design and sewing were a hobby that barely paid for itself. It took up time she should be spending trying to get her talents noticed so she could work in-house again or at least pick up some freelance contracts in her own field and leave the world of temping far behind.

She didn’t do it for money or fame. The truth was it just made her happy.

Just...

‘Right.’ Alex appeared back, the magazine in his hands and open at the fateful page. ‘It looks like this is the cause of all the fuss. I’ve just been asked by at least ten people if I can get them one of these scarves and they are all prepared to pay a great deal more than forty-five pounds.’ His brow wrinkled as he looked at the photo. ‘Who is this woman?’

‘You know who she is. That’s Lexy Chapman.’

He looked blank. ‘Nope. What does she do?’

That was a good question. What did she do apart from look cool and date famous people? ‘Right now she’s making my scarves sought after.’

He took the scarf from her loose grasp and held it up to the light, turning it this way and that. ‘I didn’t know you sold them. I just thought it was a hobby.’

‘It is a hobby.’ She turned away from his scrutiny, jumping to her feet and retrieving her phone from the side. ‘I have a little online shop, to help fund my projects, that’s all.’

‘Is it?’ But he didn’t probe any further. ‘Okay, this is how we’re going to play it. You listen to your voicemails and make a note of all the names, messages and numbers and we’ll see who you need to call back and when. I’ll log onto your email and social-media accounts, put a holding message on them and see if there’s anything really urgent. What do you think?’

Flora nodded. ‘Thanks, Alex.’ It was what she would have done but having some help would make it easier—and a lot faster. ‘I really appreciate it.’

‘Come on, what else are friends for?’ But he didn’t quite meet her eyes as he said it. Worry skittered along her skin, slow and sure as a cat on a fence. Had grabbing a few days’ pleasure meant the end of everything? Like a gambler staking everything on one last spin and losing. Was the thrill of watching the wheel turn and the ball hover on first red and then black worth it? That moment when anything was possible worth the inevitable knowledge that nothing was?

He opened his laptop. ‘I hope you can remember your passwords. Right, where shall I start?’

It didn’t take too long for Flora to open up each of her accounts for Alex, averting her eyes from the dozens of messages and multitudes of new followers. She retreated to the bed with a notebook, a pen and her phone ready to start listening to her messages. Alex was right; Minerva had been calling consistently all day. Flora steeled herself and began to listen.

Minerva, a fashion buyer from Rafferty’s, one of London’s most exclusive department stores, a couple of magazines, Minerva, Minerva—Minerva again. By the time she got to her sister’s seventh message Flora knew she’d better call her back.

‘At last!’ Her sister didn’t bother with formalities like ‘Hello’ or ‘How’s Austria?’

‘Evening, Merva,’ Flora said pointedly. But the point, as always, was lost.

‘I’m glad you’ve decided to emerge from hibernation. I couldn’t get hold of you or Alex.’

‘We’ve been working.’ Minerva hadn’t been able to get hold of Alex either? It was most unlike him not to have one phone in one hand and the other in front of him—although now Flora thought about it she had only seen him check his work phone and emails a few times—and she hadn’t seen his personal phone at all. Not since the ski lodge. Maybe he was enjoying living off grid just as she was. She glanced over at him. He was tapping away, frowning with concentration. Her entire body ached at his nearness.

Minerva’s tart tones recalled her to the matter at hand. ‘Working? Whatever. So who is handling this for you? I’ve asked around but no one has admitted it. Not surprisingly, I would never let you disappear at such a crucial time in a campaign. Unless that’s part of the plan, to drum up more interest? Too risky, I would have thought.’

Handling, campaign? It didn’t take too long for a conversation with her sister to feel like a particularly nasty crossword where the clues were in one language and the answers another. ‘Minerva,’ she said patiently. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Of course it didn’t take too long for people to work out who you were, thanks to Dad’s aprons. Another serious misstep. You really need him in the latest designs in this crucial period while you’re establishing yourself, although I do think the whole apron thing is a bit saccharine myself. Still, it establishes you as part of that quirky routine he has going on. But you should be here, not drinking schnapps and frolicking on mountains.’

Flora froze. How did her sister know? ‘I haven’t been frolicking,’ she said, hating how unconvincing she sounded. Alex looked up at her words and his mouth curved wickedly.

‘I beg to differ,’ he said, too quietly for Minerva to hear, and Flora’s whole body began to simmer in response.

‘Look,’ she said hurriedly, wanting to get Minerva off the phone, everything else replied to and Alex back here, on the bed, while she was still allowed to want that. ‘You are going to have to speak in words of one syllable. What are you talking about?’

Her sister huffed. ‘Who is handling your PR for the Lexy Chapman campaign? I hope you know how humiliating it is for me that you didn’t even ask me to pitch.’

Her what? ‘Merva, there isn’t a campaign.’

Disbelieving silence. ‘You expect me to believe that the most stylish woman in Britain was photographed in your scarf by a complete coincidence?’

‘I know you too well to expect anything, but yes. That’s what happened. Goodness, Merva, as if I would ever not ask you in the highly unlikely event I was going to run a campaign. My inbox is full, my social media is insane, I have voicemails from scary influential people I don’t dare call back and I’m terrified even thinking about logging onto my shop because I don’t have enough stock to fulfil half a dozen orders.’ She could hear her voice rising and took a deep breath. ‘Come on, even I know enough not to launch a campaign like that.’

Minerva was silent for a moment and Flora could picture her as if they were in the same room, the gleam of excitement in her eyes, the satisfaction on her cat-like face. Her sister loved a challenge—and she always won. ‘I need you,’ she added.

‘I know you do,’ but Minerva’s voice wasn’t smug. She sounded businesslike. ‘Leave everything to me. I’ll take care of it all. Right. I need to know who has left you a message and why, all your social-media account details and you need to forward me every email. Oh, and let me know your current stock list. You won’t be able to supply everyone so let’s make sure you only focus on the people who matter. When are you back?’

‘The day after tomorrow.’ Too soon.

‘Christmas Eve? The timing is really off. We’ll lose all momentum over the holidays.’

‘Yes, well, next time I inadvertently sell a scarf to a style icon I’ll make sure she only wears it at a more convenient time.’

‘Luckily...’ it was as if she hadn’t spoken ‘...I am a genius and I can fix this. Right, I want all that information in the next half-hour. Do not speak to a single journalist without my say-so, do not promise as much as a scrap of fabric to anyone—and, Flora? Keep your phone on.’ Minerva rang off.

‘Goodbye, Flora. It was nice speaking to you. The kids send their love,’ Flora muttered as she put the phone down, her head spinning. ‘Alex, it’s okay. Minerva is going to save the world armed with a few Tweets and her contact list.’

‘Thank goodness.’ He pushed the chair back. ‘There are some hysterical women out there—and some even more hysterical men who think they will never have sex again if they don’t produce one of your scarves on Christmas morning. No pressure.’

She flopped back onto the bed, her phone clutched in her hand. ‘I just need to get all this information to Minerva and then we can head into Innsbruck—if you still want to go, that is?’

‘We could.’ His voice was silky; that particular tone was the one that always made her blood heat up, her body ache. ‘Or we could use our time far more productively.’

Flora propped herself up on one arm and looked at him from under her lashes. ‘Productive sounds good. What do you have in mind?’

He picked up the scarf and twisted it into a slim rope, pulling it taut between his hands before looking back at her, a gleam in his eye. ‘Such a versatile material. I’m sure we’ll think of something.’