Читать книгу The Dating Mr Darcy Trilogy - Katie Oliver - Страница 38

Chapter 30

“We can save substantially if we allow more vendors to provide merchandising services,” Rhys stated at Monday morning’s financial meeting.

“Then why don’t we?” Sir Richard asked.

“To do so would necessitate redundancies. It’s been my intent to create jobs, not eliminate them.”

Alastair frowned. “Of course we don’t want anyone to lose their job, but at the same time, costs must be cut. We’re all agreed on that.”

“What do you suggest?” Rhys asked.

“Well, since we’ve cut our stock, I recommend we cut the stockroom staff as well, at least until the autumn/winter season begins,” Alastair said, and laid his pen aside. “If business improves, we’ll re-hire.” He glanced at Rhys. “Jago Sullivan and Frank Bamber are the two most recent hires.”

Rhys made a note. “Very well. I’ll consider your suggestion.” He glanced at Natalie, who was running the slide show presentation. “Let’s see the next slide, please, Miss Dashwood.”

As she nodded and clicked the mouse, his thoughts wandered back to the first, incendiary kiss they’d shared. He’d kissed his share of women over the years, no question; but Natalie Dashwood was different…distractingly, tantalisingly different.

Too bad they’d been interrupted…

He realised the staff were watching him expectantly, waiting for his breakdown of the latest sales figures.

As Rhys turned back to the screen and explained the three-colour pie chart, Alastair listened and nodded and took dutiful notes. But his thoughts were elsewhere.

Hannah would be livid when she found out he’d recommended Jago for redundancy, even temporarily.

But he wanted Jago Sullivan out of Hannah’s orbit, at least for the summer. He’d deal with his daughter’s wrath later. His attention returned to Gordon.

And as his eyes met Rhys’s, Alastair suddenly realised that he knew someone else with those same intense blue eyes, someone who, like Rhys, hailed from Edinburgh.

Fiona Walsh.

Alastair frowned. There was no denying the physical resemblance she and Rhys shared – both tall, with dark blond hair, and those striking blue eyes. Could Rhys possibly be Fiona’s son? Of course his last name was different, but his former secretary had undoubtedly married since then, and taken her husband’s name.

It certainly explained why she’d left Dashwood and James so suddenly. Fiona had been a bit free with her favours; it was one of the reasons she and Alastair had parted. She’d been involved with a couple of other store employees. Alastair wondered idly if she’d been pregnant, and if so, which of the poor sods was Rhys’s father.

“Alastair?” Rhys flipped on the lights, signalling the end of the meeting. “Come to my office, and we’ll discuss the particulars of your suggestion to cut the stockroom staff.”

“Of course.” Alastair stood as well, gathered up his notes, and followed Rhys out of the conference room.

When she returned to her office, Natalie called Phillip Pryce to postpone their meeting.

She left a message and hung up. One thing sorted, only two million more to go. Now, all she needed to do was put the money Dom had given her back into the cash box, and no one would be the wiser…

“Oh, Nat, there you are,” Gemma said as she strode up to her desk. “There was barely enough money in petty cash to pay for the breakfast delivery for Sir Richard’s meeting this morning.”

Natalie’s heart accelerated.

“Rhys was not pleased,” Gemma added, and crossed her arms against her chest. “Did you pay for something and forget to deduct it from the tracking spreadsheet?”

Nat pretended to consider the question. “Oh, yes – I just remembered! I paid for a – a delivery, the other day.”

“A delivery? A fifty-quid delivery? What was it?”

Yes, Miss Dashwood, what was it? Natalie thought wildly. “I don’t remember, exactly. It was large. A crate. And it was cash on delivery.”

Gemma narrowed her eyes. “Who was this large crate for?”

Her mobile rang. Thank God. “Sorry,” she told Gemma, “I’m expecting an important call.” She turned away and said, “Natalie Dashwood here—”

“You shouldn’t have called last night,” Ian bit off. “You don’t dictate the terms of this arrangement.”

“Oh, hello!” she said brightly as she stood and left her desk – and Gemma – behind. “How are you?”

“Don’t ever phone me at home again. Do you understand?”

She slipped into the bathroom and locked herself in a stall. “I want proof from you before this goes any further.”

“You’ll have your proof, the next time we meet. And then I’ll have what I want. And we both know what that is. A partnership with Dashwood and James…and with you.”

She gripped the phone as fear washed over her. “It’ll never happen, you know that! Why are you doing this?”

“I needn’t justify myself to you.” He paused. “I didn’t appreciate being raked over the coals by your hot-tempered boss this morning, by the way. You haven’t told him about me, have you?”

“No! What are you talking about?”

“Rhys lectured me on sexual harassment in the workplace, of all things, then warned me to stay away from you.”

“I’ve never said a word to Rhys—”

“Yes, well, perhaps you did and perhaps you didn’t. For your sake, I hope you didn’t. If you did—” He stopped. “Well, let’s just say you’ll read all about your father very soon, along with the rest of England. Oh, and sorry to say, I can’t make our lunch date today. Rhys has moved our meeting up to one o’clock, the prick.”

“Ian, please don’t drag my father’s name through the mud. You’ll cause no end of pain for my mother, and for me. I’m begging you, if you have even a shred of decency—”

He laughed. “That’s just it, Natalie. I don’t.”

And the line went dead.

The stockroom was crowded with pallets of merchandise. New shipments would arrive on Tuesday; everything had to be inventoried and moved to the floor by then.

“Want to get lunch?” Hannah asked Jago at eleven. He usually brought a sandwich or a Pot Noodle and ate in his van.

“Sure. Let’s go.”

At Dim Sum Palace, they ate in companionable silence, exchanging amused glances as the chef screamed in Mandarin at someone in the kitchen.

“What are you doing on Sunday?” Hannah asked.

Jago took a bite of his spring roll. “I’m busy,” he answered after a moment. “I got stuff to do.”

“What stuff? I thought you said Sunday’s your day off.”

“It is,” he said evasively. “But I…promised a mate I’d help him move. Probably take most of the day.”

“Oh, well, OK. No big deal.”

Although Hannah was silent as they stood and gathered up the emptied cartons of ginger beef and Mu Shu Pork, she knew – just knew – that Jago was lying.

“So what are you doing on Sunday, really?” she asked as they walked back to work.

He looked at her in annoyance. “I told you, I’m helping a mate move—”

“That’s bollocks, and you know it.”

Jago stopped and faced her. “Look, I can’t hang out Sunday. I’m sorry. We can do something next Sunday, yeah?”

“Forget it,” she said coolly. “I’m busy then.”

He snorted. “Busy? Doing what, spending your dad’s money? You’re full of shit, Hannah. Sometimes you don’t get what you want. Get over it.”

Hannah stared at him, taken aback. Before she could form a reply, he shook his head in disgust, turned on his heel, and walked away.

It was done. Jago and Frank would be sacked at the end of the week. Alastair stood to leave Rhys’s office. “Mr. Gordon, are you free for lunch? I’d like a word.”

Rhys took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. “Bloody hell, this stuff gets worse every day.” He set the cup aside. “I’ve a meeting with Clarkson at one, so I need to be back by then.”

They went to a gastro pub nearby and found a table in the bar. After placing their orders – a cheddar burger and stout for Rhys, white wine and a salad for Alastair – Rhys leaned forward. “What did you want to discuss?”

Alastair paused as the waiter put a cocktail napkin down in front of each of them. “Trimming the stockroom staff should save a fair bit of money over the summer, don’t you agree?”

“Yes. It’s a workable solution, so long as Duffy has enough employees to do the job.” Rhys leaned back. “Now, tell me – what’s the real reason we’re here?”

The waiter returned to deposit their drinks and departed. Alastair took a sip of his wine. “You’re direct, Mr. Gordon. I shall be direct as well. You don’t like me,” he said bluntly. “Why is that, I wonder?”

Rhys leaned forward. “I’m frustrated with the way you and Sir Richard have managed things. Together you own this wonderful, landmark department store, yet you’ve both let it slide for far too long.”

Their food arrived. Alastair was silent as the plate of salad was set before him. There was little he could say in his defence. Rhys was right.

Rhys picked up his burger. “You’ve so much potential with Dashwood and James, so much history, yet you don’t seem to care. You haven’t kept up with the times, either of you.

“And yes,” he added, “before you say it, I know you hired me to fix things. But at the end of the day, Alastair, it’s your company, and Sir Richard’s. Not mine.” He shrugged. “Perhaps you both deserve to lose the stores.”

“Perhaps we do,” Alastair agreed, and picked up his fork. “My marriage is in trouble at the moment. My daughter, Hannah…she’s a teenager, with all the drama and stress that entails. I’m not making excuses, mind; but it’s difficult for my wife to manage things alone just now.”

Rhys lifted his glass. “I’m sure it isn’t easy, raising a family.” There was an edge to his voice. “Requires a great deal of sacrifice, I should think.”

“It’s a constant balancing act,” Alastair agreed. “What about you? Have you family in London?” he asked.

“No. I was born in Edinburgh and left my mam and half-brother behind to come here when I was seventeen. It’s nothing you can’t Google,” he added dryly. “No need to ply me with overpriced burgers and stout.”

Alastair smiled slightly. “No, I suppose not. I’m only curious. Is your mother still in Edinburgh?”

“Yes.” He offered no additional information.

Rhys pushed aside his plate and glanced at his watch. “Time I went. Check, please,” he called out to the bartender.

Alastair took out his wallet. “I’ve got it. Thank you for joining me.”

“Thanks for lunch.” Rhys stood and clapped a hand briefly on Alastair’s shoulder.

Just then, Rhys saw Alastair’s wife Cherie come in, accompanied by a handsome, sandy-haired man. His hand rested on Cherie’s back. A waiter led them into the restaurant area and seated them by a corner window.

She was attractive, Rhys noted, her dark hair short and stylishly cut, her smile warm and wide. He’d never guess her youngest daughter was about to go off to university.

Curious, he glanced at Alastair to gauge his reaction.

Alastair stared at the two of them, a muscle working in his jaw. Rhys felt a stab of sympathy. It couldn’t be easy for Alastair to see his wife and her lover, flaunting their affair – if that’s what it was – in the middle of a restaurant crowded with his coworkers…

Ah well, Rhys mused as he followed Alastair out of the restaurant, extramarital affairs almost always ended badly – as he well knew. But as the French said, tant pis.

Tough luck, that.

Halfway through lunch at her desk, Gemma’s phone rang. She held the receiver away from her ear as an angry flood of words assaulted her. “No need to shout!” she snapped. “Wait – Dominic wants what?” She lifted her finger to get Natalie’s attention and pressed the speakerphone on.

Over the squawk of guitars and ear-wrenching microphone feedback, the director yelled, “The little tit showed up on set with an attitude, and now he’s refusing to perform unless Miss Dashwood shows up.”

“But Natalie can’t come to the studio just because Dominic is having a meltdown—”

“She’d bloody well better,” the director said grimly, “or this’ll go down as the most expensive television commercial ever NOT made!” And he slammed down the phone.

Gemma rang off and looked at Natalie. “Sorry, but it sounds like you’re going out to the studio today.”

Natalie clutched her head in her hands. “I don’t have time for Dominic and his drama today!”

“I’ve an idea.” Gemma tapped a pencil against her lips. “Rhys is gone for the day, and I’m caught up. I’ll go with you. I wouldn’t mind seeing Dominic in action.”

Natalie gave a derisive snort as she stood and grabbed her bag. “Just imagine a two-year-old having a tantrum on the floor, and you’ve seen Dominic in action.”

They piled into Gemma’s Skoda and headed for Soho. They found the studio twenty minutes later, on a side street at the end of an alley.

“Thank God!” the director exclaimed as they arrived. He indicated the brightly lit soundstage set up with drums, amplifiers, guitar stands and microphones with a jerk of his head. “It’s the second day of shooting, and we haven’t nearly enough usable footage yet. I hope you can make the little sod see reason, because I can’t.”

Dominic strummed a loud, discordant chord on his guitar. “There’s more reverb in this place than my bloody bathroom!” he snarled, and kicked an amp cabinet. “How can we be expected to make music, much less film a commercial—”

He broke off as he saw Natalie and Gemma. “Nat! You’re here.”

“Yeah, I’m here,” she said crossly. “You’re costing us a fortune. What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong? We could record in a garbage skip or inside a loo and sound better than we do in this echoing shithole, that’s what’s wrong.” He scowled. “I’m not putting out a crap commercial. It’s got to sound good, or what’s the point?”

Gemma raised one perfectly groomed brow. “What do you suggest?”

“How should I know!” he snapped. “Probably sound better in the alley than it does in here.” He regarded her through narrowed eyes. “Who are you, anyway?”

“Gemma Astley.” She crossed her arms against her chest and glared back at him. “Not that it’s your business, but I’m Rhys Gordon’s personal assistant.”

“Why aren’t you assisting him, then?” he snapped. “I didn’t know this was an open set, now they’re letting any random bird just walk in off the bloody street.”

“And I didn’t know you were such a noxious little twat.”

Before the conversation could deteriorate further, Natalie stepped between them and pulled Dominic aside. “I’ll speak to the director, see if we can sort out the permits and move you and the boys outside. OK?”

He nodded, his expression still surly as he glared at Gemma. “Bitch,” he muttered.

Gemma smirked. “Bit of advice, Dominic. Unless you fancy looking like a second-rate Alice Cooper in your video, you’d best get your eyeliner fixed while they’re moving your gear.”

He bridled. Natalie pulled him away before he could respond, and cast Gemma a quelling glare. “Come on, Dominic, let’s talk to the director about moving your kit, then we’ll get your eyeliner fixed.”

“Stroppy cow!” he muttered, still scowling at Gemma. “She’s toxic, just like that Gordon bloke.”

Natalie threaded her way through the cameras and lights, dragging Dominic in her wake. “Come on, let’s get this commercial made.”

“Nat, wait.” He stopped and ran a hand through his hair. “It’s not just the sound that’s got me crazy…it’s you.” He scowled down at his Converse trainers. “I miss you.”

“Dominic,” Nat said impatiently, “we’ve been through this! We don’t work together, we never have—”

“I dumped Victoria,” he interrupted. “That ought to count for something. It shouldn’t have happened, but after half a fifth of Chivas, the next thing I knew we were in the broom closet, shagging for England—”

“If this is meant to make me feel better, it’s not working,” Natalie snapped. She took a deep breath. “Listen, your ad for Dissolute is all anyone’s talking about. And your new single’s at number three.” She paused. “You need to focus on your career and forget about me.”

She almost told him about Rhys. Natalie couldn’t stop thinking about him, or the amazing kiss they’d so recently shared. Her thoughts drifted to Rhys Gordon at the oddest times…in a meeting, doing a Downward Dog in her Yoga class…

…or filling out a petty cash tracking spreadsheet.

“I’ll never forget you, Nat.” Dominic gave her a sulky glance. “But I’ll do the bloody commercial – if you promise to stay on and watch.”

“We had to beg Maison Laroche to be allowed to use you in our advert, so yes, I’m staying. And so are you. Now quit being a pain in the arse and make this commercial.”

With barricades erected at the entrance to the alley, the gear and equipment was moved outside. Sound technicians worked to minimise background noise as lights and camera tripods were adjusted. Dominic and the band picked up their instruments and rehearsed the new song. Everyone agreed the sound was much improved, and even Dominic was satisfied.

“He’s good,” Gemma shouted to Natalie as she watched Dominic slashing out guitar chords and singing into the microphone. “Too bad he’s such an arsehole.”

The music had attracted a crowd, small at first, but growing in size by the moment. Dominic and his band fed off the energy from the crowd, and their performance was electric. In the end the police arrived to disperse the crowds, and a handful of tabloid photographers showed up to snap photos.

“I’d say,” Natalie said as she and Gemma drove back to Knightsbridge late that afternoon, “it was a successful shoot.”

“The rough cut looked great,” Gemma agreed. “Dominic was amazing.” She shifted gears. “Shame he’s such a fuck-all.”

Natalie glanced at her. “He’s dumped Victoria, you know.”

Gemma gave her a withering glance. “And why, exactly, would I care?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I just thought I’d mention it.”

“Well, I don’t give a toss. I’ve no interest in Dominic bloody Heath.”

Natalie said nothing more, but she saw a tiny glimmer of a smile on Gemma’s lips.