Читать книгу The Dating Mr Darcy Trilogy - Katie Oliver - Страница 39
ОглавлениеDinner was finished and the dishes put away when Alastair came home that evening. Cherie folded the dishtowel atop the Aga and went into the foyer.
“Hello, darling, your dinner’s in the warmer. I’ll get it—”
“Don’t bother. I’ve eaten.” His words were clipped. “Where’s Hannah?”
“She went with Jo to a movie.”
“Good,” he said, as he laid his briefcase and keys on the hallway table. “Tell me – what did you do today?”
Something in his tone alerted Cherie that this was more than just an idle question. “Nothing much… Neil returned a shirt to Harrod’s. He asked me along. It was a bit spur of the moment, you know how these things are.”
“Does the man never work?”
“He’s a consultant for an engineering firm. He works from home two days a week.”
“I had lunch today at Thomas Cubitt.” He saw the quick, wary glance she cast his way. “I was with Rhys. I saw you come in with Neil.”
“Alastair—”
“Don’t bother to tell me it was nothing,” he warned her. “I’m not an idiot. Have the two of you slept together yet?”
“No!” she cried. Guilt at how close she’d come to doing just that – and, more tellingly, how much she’d wanted to do it – made her defensive. “Do you think we’d be brazen enough to go round the corner from Dashwood and James for lunch, where anyone might see us, if we were really having an affair?”
“I don’t know. Would you? Perhaps it’s like that Edgar Allen Poe story, where the letter’s hidden in plain view, yet no one sees it.” He looked at her. “I never saw it, until today.”
“Alastair,” she said, her voice trembling, “this is ridiculous! If I’m to be accused of sleeping with Neil, no matter that I haven’t, then perhaps I should sleep with him.”
“Perhaps you should.” He turned away and walked to the staircase.
Panic crossed her face. “Where are you going?”
He paused on the bottom step. “I’m going upstairs to change. Then I’m pouring myself a double scotch. After that, I’m moving my things into the guest bedroom.”
“Alastair, for God’s sake—”
“I’m not leaving, Cherie, if that’s what’s worrying you, or if that’s what you’re hoping. I’ve done nothing wrong. If anyone’s to leave, it’ll be you.”
“You’ve done nothing wrong?” she echoed, suddenly furious. “All you do is work, cancel dinners, miss important family events, and turn me down for sex time and again, because you’re always too bloody tired—”
“Because I’m too fucking busy trying to save the stores from bankruptcy!” he shouted. “Too busy trying to pay for this house, and the house in the country, and the school fees for Hannah’s education!”
There was a shocked silence.
“My God, Cherie, have you any idea of the stress I’ve been under? Every day I deal with endless demands from Rhys, losses and overheads and falling profits; my daughter barely speaks to me, and my wife jumps into bed with the first man who comes along, because I’m too busy killing myself working to keep her properly entertained!”
Neither of them heard Hannah come in the front door.
“Mum? Dad?” she said, her eyes wide with uncertainty, one hand on the doorknob. “What’s going on? Why are you shouting?”
Cherie cast Alastair a look of pure fury. “It’s nothing, darling, just an argument.” She forced a smile. “Go upstairs. I’ll be up in a few minutes.”
“So you can make me cocoa and tuck me up and read me a story about Jemima Puddle-Duck?” Hannah snapped. “I’m not a kid any more! Something’s wrong. I heard you shouting! Why won’t you just tell me the truth?”
“Hannah—”
But Hannah brushed past them both and stormed up the stairs to her room.
The television commercial featuring Dominic Heath aired four weeks later.
“Thanks to all of you,” Rhys Gordon told the store employees assembled in the conference room. “And thanks to Natalie and Gemma for coping with Dominic’s meltdown during the shoot. Good job, everyone.”
As the others left, Rhys asked Natalie to remain behind. “Are Phillip’s new designs ready for the re-launch? We haven’t much time, less than a month now. We can’t afford any delays.”
“Yes. The clothes are gorgeous, better than his original designs. He’s bringing samples today. Production starts soon.”
“Good. What about promotional materials?”
“Dominic’s record company’s giving access to download his new single – free, of course. We’re including store coupons and cosmetic samples in the swag bag as well.”
“What about invitations, publicity?”
“We’ve ads in the papers and social media. The after-party’s on a first-come, first-served basis. Oh, and there’s a big, splashy ad on our website.”
“Speaking of which, the site’s vastly improved,” Rhys observed as he gathered up his things. “Ian’s team really turned it around.”
Natalie’s smile faded. “Good. If there’s nothing else—”
“Actually, there is… Natalie, has Ian bothered you lately?” Rhys asked abruptly.
She looked at him, surprised. “No.” Almost a month had passed since she’d heard from Ian. Every day she lived in fear that he’d make good on his threat, and she’d see her father’s name splashed across every tabloid in London. But there’d been no phone calls, no press…nothing.
“Good. I’ve kept him busy.” He fixed his dark blue eyes on hers. “Gemma told me he’s harassed you at work. I had a word with him.”
She bristled. “She had no right to tell you that.”
“I’m glad she did,” he said sharply. “You should have told me. You can still file a complaint, you know.”
“I don’t want any trouble. He’s left me alone.”
“All right, I’ll drop it – for now.” He glanced at her. “What are you doing on Sunday? Fancy spending the day with me?”
“Doing what, exactly? Buying more furniture? You don’t have nearly enough, you know.”
He lifted his brow. “What else does a man need but a sofa, a table, and a bed?”
“Beer, I suppose, and a flat-screen TV?”
“Too right,” he agreed with a grin. “So? What do you say?”
“Well,” she said doubtfully, “I normally do laundry, but I suppose it could wait. What did you have in mind?”
“We could both do with a break, we’ve worked really hard on the re-launch. I thought we’d do a bit of rural sightseeing. And that’s all I intend to say on the matter.”
“Can’t you at least tell me where we’re going? How should I dress for this mysterious outing?”
“Wear long sleeves and jeans, and proper shoes – no stripper heels, please. Save those for later.”
Natalie blinked. “Rhys—!”
He came closer. “Don’t look so shocked, Miss Dashwood. I know you want to finish what we started just as much as I do.”
She blushed.
He grinned and turned away to pick up his things. “I’ll pick you up at nine.”
“Long sleeves and jeans—? But it’s nearly June!” she protested. “Can’t you tell me a bit more?”
“You’ll see on Sunday.” He smiled briefly and turned to go. “Now get back to work.”
“The Dissolute campaign has great buzz,” Simon Templeton, advertising director of the Templeton advertising agency, informed Klaus on Friday afternoon. “Everyone loves Dominic. Feedback’s been positive, despite the Wedding-gate fiasco.”
“Sometimes, notoriety is good.”
An assistant brought Klaus an espresso. So far, the only information Dominic had produced concerning Phillip Pryce’s line of clothing for Dashwood and James was a couple of sketches and a photo of a dress from last season’s Rochas collection.
Von Richter scowled. Did Dominic Heath really believe him to be such a fool?
Since the rock star had produced nothing useful on Phillip, he’d have to find another way to sabotage Dashwood and James.
“Is the espresso not to your liking, Herr von Richter?” Simon Templeton inquired as displeasure flickered on the German designer’s face. “I can assure you, it’s made from the finest Sumatran fair trade beans.”
“Fair trade,” Klaus said derisively. “That’s just an excuse to charge more money, nein?”
“Well, no. It ensures fair wages and treatment of the workers—”
Klaus snorted. “Workers should be glad to have any job and take what wages they get. It’s preferable to starving in the streets, no?”
Simon kept his expression neutral. “Surely you don’t advocate the use of sweatshops, Herr von Richter?”
“No, of course not. Bad for business, you know.”
“The media would tear you apart,” Simon agreed. “There’s no tolerance for that sort of thing these days.”
“No,” Klaus agreed thoughtfully. “No tolerance at all.”
“Well, if there’s nothing else-?” Simon began.
Klaus stood up abruptly. “No, there is nothing else. I’ll be in touch.” He turned away to retrieve his mobile and called down to his driver. “I have an interview with BritTEEN magazine at two. And stop at the newsagents on the way.”
The minute the staff meeting ended, Holly James left the BritTEEN offices and dashed downstairs to the corner newsagents. Every day she bought a pack of Polos and a Diet Coke from Rajid, the owner’s son. Even on a completely crap day – today being no exception – he was always good for a laugh.
She waved to Rajid and went to the newsstand. As she flipped through the latest issue of Vogue, Klaus von Richter strode in, grabbed a newspaper, and flung it on the counter.
He wore the imperious air of an Important Person like an accessory.
Holly joined the queue and fished out her mobile. No messages. Out of boredom – the queue was longish – she decided to video Klaus for her sister. Klaus tossed a package of Mentos atop the Telegraph and handed his Amex Black to Rajid.
“May I see a photo ID, sir?” Rajid inquired politely.
Klaus gave him a withering stare. “You are joking.”
Rajid shook his head. “It is store policy, sir.”
“I’m buying two pounds’ worth of items.”
“I am sorry.” Rajid was sympathetic but implacable. “Store policy.”
“Listen to me, you idiot,” Klaus snapped, “I’m Klaus von Richter, the creative director of Maison Laroche.”
“A thousand apologies, sir,” Rajid said firmly, “but I must see your identification. That is the rule.”
By now, the queue had grown to half a dozen people, all in a hurry to purchase their newspapers and cough drops and Galaxy bars. “I don’t care about rules, you stupid boy!” Klaus hissed, and leaned over to grab a fistful of Rajid’s shirt. “Rules do not apply to me. Run my card now, or there’ll be trouble.”
“Release my son.” Rajid’s father, an older but far more implacable Sikh, joined his son. “Release him, or I promise I will have you charged with assault.”
Klaus thrust Rajid away with a curse and a shocking string of racial epithets. “Keep your newspaper and your Mentos,” he spat. He swept everything off the counter to the floor, then stormed out of the newsagents…
…unaware that Holly James had captured the entire ugly exchange on video.
