Читать книгу The Dating Mr Darcy Trilogy - Katie Oliver - Страница 27
ОглавлениеAs they lingered over a delicious dinner of chilled courgette soup and butterflied mackerel at The Harwood Arms on Fulham Road, Natalie let out a sigh of contentment.
“That’s the best meal I’ve ever had,” she told Rhys.
“I’m glad you liked it.” He reached for the bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé and topped up her glass. “I always try to come here when I’m in London.”
“Where else have you lived?” she asked. “Besides Edinburgh.”
He shrugged. “I worked in New York for a couple of years. Then Amsterdam, Brussels, Verona…”
She pouted. “That’s not fair! I’ve lived here all my life, and I’ve only ever been to Scotland, to visit Tark.”
“Ah, yes. Owner of the Scottish castle and the £11,000 chandelier.” Rhys leaned back. “What was it like for you, growing up?”
Natalie shrugged. “Fine, I suppose. We lived in Warwickshire, and the house always needed roof repairs or a plumber. There was always damp, and limescale on the taps and toilets. The water came out brown and smelt like rotted eggs.”
Rhys raised a brow. “Sounds disgusting.”
“It was. Dad once hung out a sign on the gate: ‘Limescale Peeling’. Her smile faded. “It was his little joke.” She paused. “He killed himself. When I was ten.”
“Yes, I remember it was in all of the papers. I’m sorry.”
“Mum found him. He’d taken an overdose of sleeping tablets. Halcion. Half the bottle was gone.” She toyed with the stem of her wine glass. “People think it’s an easy way to die, but it’s not. It’s…horrible.”
Rhys was silent.
Natalie lifted her glass and took a long sip. “The hell of it was,” she said finally, “we never knew why he did it.”
“There were no business problems? No signs of depression?”
She was silent, remembering.
“Why do those men from the newspapers take pictures of us, mummy?” she’d asked, when a firestorm of flashbulbs erupted as their car emerged through the gates and turned onto the road one morning.
Her mother, attention focused on the road ahead and her mouth set in a grim line, replied, “It’s nothing to worry about, darling. Your father owns a very famous department store.”
“But other people own famous department stores,” Natalie persisted, “and they don’t have their picture in the newspaper. And they’re taking pictures of us, not daddy—”
“Never mind,” Lady Dashwood said sharply. “Do sit back and be quiet, Natalie, or you and your sister will be late for school.”
“Natalie?” Rhys prodded gently.
She shook her head. “No. My father seemed fine, if a bit preoccupied sometimes. He worked long hours. The stores were doing really well then. So well, in fact, that after the repairs were made to the house, he let Caro have a horse. He got her a black mare, Sheba.” She smiled briefly. “I was insanely jealous.”
“Crazy for horses, were you?”
“Like most ten-year-old girls.” Natalie hesitated. “The day before he died, he and I had a falling out. He said I couldn’t have a horse until I was older. I was furious, told him I hated him, that he was the worst father in England. In the world.” Her throat tightened.
“Natalie,” Rhys said, his face creased in concern, “please, don’t upset yourself—”
“I told him I wished he were dead.” She raised her eyes to his. “And the next day, he was. My words – those horrible, childish, awful words – God, you can’t imagine how many times I’ve wished I could take them back. But of course, I can’t.”
He covered her hand in his. “You were a child,” he said softly. “You can’t possibly blame yourself.”
“But I did. For the longest time, I thought he’d killed himself because of me. Of course he didn’t; but I still wonder, sometimes, if what I said to him wasn’t the tipping point.”
“It wasn’t your fault.” His voice was low but firm. He leaned forward. “You may never know why he killed himself. But whatever it was, it had nothing to do with you.”
She gave him a tremulous smile. “I think you missed your calling. You should’ve been a psychotherapist.”
“In that case,” he said as he signalled for the waiter, “I prescribe a crème brûlée, or perhaps cake. A good pudding can set anything right.”
When they emerged from the restaurant an hour – and one shared slice of chocolate torte – later, a gaggle of reporters and the unwelcome flash of cameras greeted them.
“Bloody hell,” Rhys muttered. He took Natalie’s arm and drew her closer. “Someone must’ve seen us and tipped the press off. Let’s talk to them for a moment.”
“Can’t we just make a dash to the car and ignore them?” she whispered as she surveyed the handful of reporters.
“Lesson number three,” he murmured. “Always make nice with the press when you can. Chin up, darling. We’re on.”
Rhys skillfully deflected half a dozen rapid-fire questions, making jokes and answering queries without revealing anything of consequence. He told them that he and Natalie were working together to re-launch the Dashwood and James department stores, and promised the British public would love the results.
“Natalie, you stated that you and Dominic Heath are finished. How do you feel about that?” a female reporter asked.
“Relieved,” Natalie replied, and they all laughed. “Of course, I wish Dominic the best of luck. But I’ve moved on.”
Rhys held up his hand to stop the flow of questions. “Thank you all. Goodnight.”
“Rhys,” Natalie said in admiration as they drove away, “you were brilliant. They loved you.”
He snorted. “Trust me, the press is fickle. We’ll see in the morning, when the story hits the tabloids.”
