Читать книгу Prada And Prejudice - Katie Oliver - Страница 15

Chapter 8

“Keeley,” Dominic ventured as he tossed the last carrier bag from the day’s shopping on her sofa, “how about loaning me some cash? To tide me over until the tour starts.”

“How much?”

He flung himself on the sofa. “Oh, I dunno. A couple of hundred?”

“Two hundred quid?” She shrugged and reached for her handbag. “OK.”

Dominic let out a snort. “Two hundred quid? You must be joking.” He thrust a cigarette in his mouth. “No, I meant two hundred thousand. Although I suppose,” he mused thoughtfully as he reached in his pocket for a lighter, “I could just about manage on a hundred.”

“You’re the one who must be joking!” Keeley snapped. “And put that bloody cigarette out! I told you, no smoking in here.”

With a muttered apology, he took the cigarette out, unlit, and tossed it aside. He looked at her, one brow raised expectantly. “So, what do you say?”

“Dominic, we’ve been engaged for three weeks and you want me to hand over two hundred thousand pounds, just like that?”

“Well, Porsches and ’57 Strats are expensive,” he said defensively. “And it’s not like you can’t spare it.”

“That’s not the point, is it? I’m your fiancée, not your banker!”

“We’ll be married soon,” he pointed out. “So what’s yours is mine, and what’s mine is—” he waved his hand “—whatever.”

She snorted. “Bit of a bad deal, that, since all you have are debts. You go through money like a coke addict through blow. Look, Dominic, just be more frugal. Sell one of your Porsches, and you’ve got the cash you need. Problem sorted.”

Dominic scowled. Plainly there was to be no financial aid forthcoming from the Keeley front. Fucking hell.

Late that afternoon, Cherie James heard the front door open and slam shut. She looked up from the courgette she was slicing for dinner and called out, “Hannah? Come here, please.”

There was an aggrieved sigh from the front hallway. “I’ve got masses of homework, mum—”

“Mr. Compton called,” Cherie said when Hannah appeared in the kitchen doorway. “You were late to class this morning, and yesterday as well.”

“So? I’m acing his bloody assignments—”

“Why were you late, Hannah? You left with your father in plenty of time this morning.”

“I stopped to talk to someone before class, that’s all. It’s not a big deal—”

“It is a big deal. Mr. Compton said you’ve been hanging around with Chloe Robinson.”

“What of it?”

Cherie felt her patience begin to slip. “Hannah, Chloe’s been in and out of trouble since school began. Last year she was expelled! She’s not the ideal person to spend time with.”

“Oh, so now you’re choosing my friends for me?” Hannah demanded. “You don’t even know Chloe—”

“I know she cuts class. Your attitude since you’ve been seeing her speaks for itself.” Cherie pressed her lips together. “If you’re late to class again, you’ll be grounded until school ends.”

“That’s so unfair!” Hannah erupted. “You treat me like a child! All of you – dad, Mr. Compton – even Duncan!”

“You and Duncan aren’t fighting, are you?”

“No, mum, we’re not fighting. We broke up! He dumped me. Are you happy now?” Hannah turned and stormed away up the stairs, and slammed the bedroom door behind her.

Cherie sighed and picked up her knife, and cut the courgette into matchsticks. Life would be easier, she reflected grimly, if Alastair were home more often. He coped with Hannah’s dramas much better than she did. Hannah was so prickly these days…

The phone rang. Probably Alastair, calling to say he’d be late again. “Hello,” she said shortly.

“Cherie? Is it a bad time?” Duncan’s father asked.

“Neil! No, of course not. I was just…brooding.”

“I hope nothing’s wrong.”

“No, just feeling a bit sorry for myself.” She paused and added, “It’s too bad about the divorce, by the way. How are you and Sarah managing?”

“Taking it day by day,” he replied. “I’ve let a flat in Fulham. Duncan’s adjusted to the changes without too much drama. I see as much of him as I can.”

“It’s difficult, I imagine. Living with a teenager isn’t easy under the best of circumstances.” Cherie sighed. “I’ve just had a row with Hannah. She and Duncan have broken it off.”

“Yes, that’s why I’m calling, actually.”

“I see.” She laid her knife aside. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing serious, just something I thought you ought to know.” He hesitated. “Sunday night, while you and Alastair were celebrating your anniversary, Hannah had Duncan over.”

Cherie sighed. “I don’t like the sound of this already.”

“Nothing happened. You know Duncan’s keen on his music career, so when things began to go a bit too far, he told Hannah they should wait. She was upset, and asked him to leave.”

“I see.” And suddenly, she did see. Hannah had offered herself, probably for the first time ever, and been – however tactfully – rejected. She sighed. “I’m very glad Duncan didn’t take advantage. Most boys would have done.”

“Yes, it’s usually the other way round, isn’t it?”

“You’re lucky, you know. Girls are much harder than boys to deal with at this age. I’m sure Duncan’s never given you or Sarah a moment’s trouble.”

“Oh, he has his moments. But he’s always been focused on his music, from the time he was small. It’s kept him out of trouble for the most part.”

“Hannah can’t seem to stay out of trouble, lately.”

“She’s a teenager. You’ll get through it.”

The front door opened and Alastair called out, “I’m home! Where is everyone?”

Cherie cradled the phone against her ear and picked up her knife once again. “Thanks for calling, Neil. And thanks for the advice. I’m sure you’re right.” She rang off just as her husband entered the kitchen.

“Here you are.” He kissed her. “What advice was that?”

“Oh, nothing,” she said lightly. “Perhaps we should let Hannah work at the store this summer. What do you think?”

“I don’t see why not. Is she in trouble?”

“She’s been late to class, twice. Ever since she broke up with Duncan, she’s been impossible.”

“I didn’t realise they’d broken up.” Alastair lifted his brow. “Shame, he’s a nice young man. If you like, I’ll speak to Sir Richard tomorrow and arrange something.”

“Yes, please do. Dinner’s almost ready. Go wash up, and tell Hannah to come down.”

As he disappeared upstairs, Cherie rinsed her hands and wondered why she hadn’t told Alastair about Hannah’s failed attempt to lose her virginity, or Neil’s phone call.

Surely there was no need to trouble her husband with a litany of Hannah’s misdeeds. He had enough on his plate with the company’s finances in turmoil; he didn’t need to fret over his daughter’s budding sexuality as well.

And there was no reason for her to feel guilty for having a chat with Duncan’s father, she told herself firmly.

No reason at all.

“Why didn’t you return my messages?” Natalie’s mother reproved her at dinner that evening.

“I couldn’t, I was at lunch with Rhys Gordon. He wanted to discuss the store and the problems we’re facing.”

Celia Dashwood’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not having sex with that man, are you?”

Natalie nearly choked on her water. “Mum, honestly! No, I’m not. We don’t even like each other.”

“It looks as though you like each other well enough, judging from those photos in the tabloids.”

Natalie nudged at a bit of chicken with her fork. “It’s only publicity. And those pictures…they were taken out of context. They were innocent.”

“Innocent?” her mother echoed, and raised her brow. “Is that what you call it? You were pressed against that man in full view of the world, twined round him like a garden hose!”

Natalie dropped her fork to her plate with a clatter. “Mum, please! I can’t bear any more. It’s mortifying.”

“Oh, very well. Tell me about Rhys Gordon,” her mother said, her face alight with curiosity as she took a sip of wine. “Is he as difficult as they say?”

Natalie felt a renewed wave of humiliation as she remembered his comments to the man on the phone. “He’s worse.” She could still hear Rhys’s words, could see him leaning back in his high-backed chair, could hear his throaty chuckle as he discussed her with his friend.

Probably quite a hellcat in bed, not that you’ll ever find out, mate…

“He’s ruthless and crude and sneaky,” she went on. “I despise him.”

“My word, you make him sound dreadful, like Machiavelli,” Lady Dashwood said mildly.

“Picture Machiavelli on a motorbike, and you’re there.”

“I’m sorry I missed the board meeting, I wanted to meet him.” She glanced out the window. “At least those reporters are gone.” She stood up. “I’ll go and fetch our pudding.”

Natalie stood. “I’ll get it.” She’d do anything to escape her mother’s questions about Rhys.

As she entered the pantry and grabbed a serving spoon from the drawer, her mobile rang. She frowned. She didn’t recognise the number. She hoped it wasn’t a reporter… “Hullo?”

“Natalie? It’s Rhys.”

She froze, spoon in hand. “What do you want?”

He paused. “I called to see if everything’s all right. You never came back. Gemma said you were upset.”

“I’m fine,” she said, her words chilly. “You needn’t worry.”

“Why did you leave so suddenly?”

“Something came up. Sorry, I have to go.” She pressed ‘end call’ and set it to vibrate.

Almost immediately it began to buzz like an angry bee. Rhys again! Stubborn, pushy, awful man… Furious, Natalie tossed the mobile on one of the pantry shelves.

…there’s no affair, just media speculation. Not that I’m complaining, mind. It’s great publicity for Dashwood and James…

“Natalie,” her mother called out, “are you bringing the trifle?”

“Yes, sorry.” She picked up the bowl and hurried back into the dining room.

As they settled down to dessert, Natalie fumed. Rhys must’ve got her mobile number from Gemma, the interfering cow. She scowled and pushed the trifle around on her plate, creating aimless chocolate swirls on the china.

“Darling,” her mother said in exasperation as she laid her fork aside, “what’s wrong? You barely touched your dinner; now you’re playing with your trifle! Don’t you like it?”

She smiled wanly. “I love it. I just…had a difficult day.” She pushed her plate away. “I think I’ll go home and turn in early—”

The throaty roar of a motorcycle engine pulling up outside interrupted her.

Before Natalie could do more than exchange a startled glance with her mother, the doorbell rang. Then someone pounded on the door.

“Who in heaven’s name is that, and at this hour?” Celia Dashwood harrumphed. “If it’s another reporter—”

“I’ll get it,” Natalie said, her words grim. She rose and tossed her napkin down. “It’s probably Machiavelli.”

“What—?”

Nat strode to the door and flung it open. Rhys Gordon, his hand raised to knock again, stood on the doorstep. Anger suffused his face.

“I’m not leaving this doorstep,” Rhys told her with grim determination, “until you tell me what the hell’s going on.”