Читать книгу The Accidental Mistress - Sophie Weston - Страница 8

IT WAS one of those crisp clear late summer mornings that said autumn was coming. Isabel Dare, doing her stretches just inside the park gates, drew deep, luxuriating breaths. Peace, she thought.

Alone. Room to breathe. Silence to think, except for the birds twittering in the trees. For the first time in weeks, months, there was no one walking her off the pavement as if she didn’t exist. No stifling underground train with a stranger’s elbow in her side and her nose pressed into someone else’s back. No beep announcing the next text message.

Just not a natural London person, I guess, she told herself wryly.

The next text message would be, like all the others, from Adam. She knew what it would say. ‘Date 3 whn?’

The problem was, she didn’t know the answer.

‘Third date coming up, huh?’ Jemima had said last night, just before she dropped her overnight flight bag and crashed. ‘Hope he has more luck than the last five. I like Adam.’

Well, Izzy liked him, too. She just wasn’t sure she wanted him to move in any closer. And the third date was—well, big.

Bigger even than she’d realised, thought Izzy wryly now. She and Jemima called it the Sex Date. They always had; it was a sister thing. So Izzy was taken aback to find that everyone else seemed to be calling it the Sex Date, too. Including Adam Sadler.

He was getting increasingly impatient, too. To be honest, Izzy couldn’t blame him. The trouble was, it wasn’t just London that was getting her down. Adam—and the five guys before him—were a big part of it, too. She enjoyed dating; she liked having a good time. But she didn’t want to go through the third date barrier with any of them. Not any more.

She took herself to task. Well, maybe make that not with anyone yet. Things could change. Meanwhile—

Izzy shook her head. ‘Hard-Hearted Hannah,’ she said with a grin. ‘They’ll just have to live with it.’

She began to jog quietly along the grass beside the Tarmac path. It was only just six-thirty, but already the sky was hazy with the promise of heat. It would be a perfect day for walking in the woods. Or canoeing. Or just lazing by the river under the shade of a willow, watching the insects hover and thinking of nothing. Alone.

‘Not an option,’ she said aloud, squashing regret.

Today was her cousin Pepper’s big day. Today saw the opening of Out of the Attic, Pepper’s new retail concept. Pepper had put her heart and soul into this, her breakout venture on her own, and Izzy had worked with her on it for months. This was a day of presentations and schmoozing and parties. No time for willows.

Izzy sighed—but she laughed as well.

The trouble was, she thought, Pepper really cared about shopping. Whereas Izzy didn’t, not if she were honest. Still, that didn’t matter. Pepper had given her a job when she’d been so badly shaken she’d thought that she was unemployable and always would be.

Not that Pepper knew that. Nobody did. Izzy had taken good care of that. Izzy fought her demons in private. Always had.

She increased her pace.

The low morning sun struck rainbows off of the dew-wet leaves. Birds sang. A heron cruised idly over the mill-pond surface of the lake. It was not really hunting, just checking out the scene, she thought with a grin.

The exercise was beginning to take effect. Izzy’s blood pumped and her skin tingled. Oh, this felt good. This would make up for the hours to come. Hours of monitoring what she said to make sure she stayed on message; of circulating in air thick with warring perfumes; of feeling that she was drowning in people.

When she’d first moved to London she’d run in the park every day. Always early, very early, when it was virtually deserted.

‘But isn’t that terribly dangerous?’ New Yorker Pepper had said, blenching, the first time she met Izzy in the hallway in her shorts and running shoes.

Izzy laughed. ‘I run fast and I kick hard.’

‘She does,’ agreed Jemima with a grin. Jemima had been there all the time then. Hadn’t got her big job; wasn’t travelling twenty-four days a month; still listened.

But Pepper was unconvinced. ‘But what if a man came at you with a gun?’

Inwardly Izzy tensed. But outwardly she stayed unconcerned. She shrugged. ‘Run if you can. If you can’t—negotiate!’

Jemima, still in silky kimono with a coffee in her hand, shook her head at her cousin.

‘That’s what she always says, Pepper. Izzy has been all round the world you know. Every time she comes back without a scratch. So she must be right.’

Pepper was unconvinced. ‘But the risk!’

Izzy was unlacing her shoes, but at that she turned her head and said with quite unnecessary force, ‘Life is all about risks.’ She eased the shoes off, sat on the polished parquet and looked up at the other two. ‘Run away from one and you just rush slap into another. So you can either sit in a locked room and shiver. Or take the risks. And learn to deal with the consequences.’ Her voice was hard.

Pepper, who was in the middle of the biggest risk of her life, blinked. Then she laughed and flung up her hands. ‘When you put it like that, I can’t argue.’

So today Izzy ran in the empty park; revelled in the physical stretching of her capacities; savoured the diamond-bright dew and the lazy heron—and stayed on the alert.

Pepper did not need to warn her about the dangers of men with guns. Izzy had first-hand experience to draw on. Though that, too, was part of her secret. Nobody knew it. Not even Jemima.

Maybe one day I’ll tell them, she thought. Pepper and Jemima—even Adam.

But the thought of handsome Adam Sadler made her shake her head. No, it was impossible to tell him. Adam was a banker. He thought the most dangerous thing that could happen was the US economy going into recession. Whereas Izzy knew that danger came at you in combat gear with crazy eyes and—

She swallowed. It all seemed so far away from London and her busy life these days. Sometimes it even felt as if it had happened to someone else—a story she’d read in one of the Sunday magazines. Or as if she had split into two people on that bus on the jungle track. One Izzy had come home and flung herself into the family enterprise and was doing just fine.

Only the other Izzy was still lost. And Adam Sadler, with his Lotus and his Rolex and his membership of a ferociously expensive City gym, was not the man to help her find herself. Even if she wanted him to.

Well, she’d better stay lost today, thought Izzy, revving up for the final push. Today there were more important things to think about. Today was going to take a lot of handling. Today was serious.

And there were definitely problems on the horizon. Last night Pepper had been showing signs of climbing the walls. And Jemima was jet-lagged out of her brains. But somehow or other they had to pull it all together for the launch. Because today was crunch time.

Izzy flung back her head, the loose red hair flying. ‘And the crunch is what I do,’ she said firmly. ‘Crisis a speciality. The others can freak all they want. I’ll bring home the bacon.’

And she lengthened her stride, put her head down, and went through the pain barrier.

When she got back to the apartment Pepper was sitting huddled over the kitchen table surrounded by three cups of barely touched coffee and clutching a sheet of paper covered with sticky notes. She looked up when Izzy came in. But she did not really see her, thought Izzy. Her cousin’s eyes were wild.

‘“A whole new experience”,’ she was muttering. “‘A whole new experience”. Hello, Izzy. “A whole new shopping experience”.’

‘Stop it,’ said Izzy, taking the sheet of paper away from her. ‘We went through all this last night.’

Until two in the morning, actually. The woman could hardly have slept at all.

Pepper’s smile was perfunctory. ‘But I had this idea in bed…’

‘Sleep would have been better,’ said Izzy. She took the coffee cups away, too, and threw their congealing contents down the sink.

‘No. Listen. The statistics—’

Izzy looked round from the sink in disbelief. ‘You aren’t going to hit a bunch of fashion journalists with statistics?’

‘They’re significant,’ said Pepper earnestly.

Izzy shook her head. ‘You’re on a caffeine burn,’ she said kindly. ‘Cogs not engaging. Statistics are strictly for back-up stuff in the press pack. You have to keep your speech short and intriguing.’

‘But—’

‘I’m going to make you some toast,’ announced Izzy. ‘And eggs. With warm milk. Or hot chocolate. Or champagne. You will have something to eat and drink that isn’t caffeine. And you will please stop gibbering. Out of the Attic is a fantastic idea and this launch is going to be awesome. Right?’

Pepper gave her a better smile this time. ‘You’re very good to me, Izzy. I’m glad I’ve got a cousin like you.’

Izzy grinned at her. ‘Likewise, oh retail genius. Now, go and have your shower while I rout Jemima out of her pit.’

Jemima had swirled the duvet round her like a Swiss roll and was about as welcoming as a grizzly disturbed in its winter quarters.

‘Go ‘way.’

‘Nope.’

‘You’re a nightmare. Push off, Nightmare.’

Ruthlessly Izzy flung open the curtains. Golden sun blazed in. Jemima screamed and pulled the pillow over her face.

‘I hate you,’ she said, muffled but passionate. She was clearly a lot more awake than she wanted to be.

‘Sure you do,’ said Izzy with a grin. ‘Get up.’

‘I only just got to sleep.’

‘Tough. You have work to do.’

Jemima let out a wail. ‘Tell me something new.’

‘And a cousin to support.’

There was a pause. Then the pillow was pushed aside a fraction. One eye and a lot of tousled hair appeared.

‘Izzy?’ said Jemima, as she’d used to do when Izzy woke her on school days.

‘That’s the one,’ said Izzy cheerfully. She added cunningly, ‘If you get up now, I’ll do eggy bread for breakfast.’

There was a moment’s complete silence. Then Jemima groaned and heaved the pillow aside. She sat up.

‘Okay. It’s not a nightmare,’ she said, resigned. ‘You’re here and you won’t go away until I do what you want. What do you want?’

Izzy brought a list out of her pocket and handed it to her.

Jemima stared at it, then looked up at her in disbelief. ‘You can’t be serious.’

‘Starting,’ said Izzy, preparing to leave, ‘with Pepper’s make-up. She’ll be ready for you in about ten minutes.’

‘Oh.’ Jemima sagged back among the remaining pillows. ‘All right.’ Her voice began to slur again. ‘I’ll be out in ten minutes.’

‘Sure you will,’ said Izzy sweetly. And took the duvet with her.

She ignored the roar of outrage that followed her into the corridor. And sure enough, heavy-eyed and spitting, Jemima was in the kitchen with full make-up kit and a hugely magnifying mirror inside five minutes. She spurned the eggy bread with dignity, but she swallowed two cups of coffee and then peered at herself in the mirror.

‘Eye bags,’ she said, like a surgeon giving a diagnosis. She snapped her fingers. ‘Ice.’

Izzy got a bag of ice cubes from the freezer and watched, fascinated, as Jemima applied them to her puffy eyes.

‘Old model-girl trick,’ she said between her teeth. ‘Being the face of Belinda has taught me a lot of those.’

She did not sound as if it was a lesson she was entirely happy about. Izzy was whipping eggs for Pepper’s breakfast, but at that she looked up sharply. Jemima had not only stopped listening, she realised with a pang, she had stopped confiding, too.

‘Everything okay, Jay Jay?’

‘Just great. I live in five-star hotels and when I wake up in the morning I don’t know which continent I’m in.’

Izzy’s eyebrows rose. ‘Is that good or bad?’

‘It’s a living,’ said Jemima without expression.

Izzy was beginning to get worried. When Jemima had been selected by cosmetics house Belinda to be the face of their new campaign, all the papers had said this put her in the superstar league. It was the height of every model’s ambition, they’d said. But this did not sound like a woman enjoying well-deserved success. This sounded like a woman with problems.

But now was not the time to talk about it.

‘Let’s go for a pizza this evening, when the razzmatazz is all over,’ Izzy said.

Jemima gave a harsh laugh. ‘Who has time for pizza? I go straight from the presentation to the airport.’

‘You mean you won’t even be coming back here to pick up a bag?’ Izzy was shocked.

Jemima shook her head.

Izzy was filled with compunction. ‘I’m sorry I took the duvet off you this morning.’

‘If you hadn’t, I’d have slept for a week,’ said Jemima. ‘You don’t want to know how mad my life is.’

But before she could say any more Pepper emerged in a bathrobe. She had another sheaf of printed tables in her hand.

‘Jemima, Izzy—what do you think? I could just run through…’

More pressing concerns took over.

‘No statistics,’ they yelled in unison.

‘You,’ said the woman from the PR agency, ‘are a genius. I didn’t think it could be done.’ She had spiky, lurid green hair and a clipboard and she was terrifyingly professional.

Izzy was on a roll. She was good at crisis management, and this morning she was getting plenty of opportunity. Now she stopped tacking a piece of chintz across a nook full of wires and looked up. She tucked a stray lock of red hair back under her gypsy headscarf. ‘What?’

‘Getting the Beast of Belinda here before ten o’clock in the morning. She looks like a dream, all right. But that woman bites.’

Izzy was affronted. ‘I’m sorry?’

But the clipboard had already zipped to the other side of the big glass-walled reception room.

The in-house cameraman stopped adjusting his focus on the small stage and looked down at Izzy. ‘Molly means thank you for keeping Jemima sweet. She hasn’t actually sunk her teeth into anyone yet.’

Izzy blinked. ‘Beast of Belinda?’ she echoed.

He pulled a wry face. ‘Jemima Dare. Face of Belinda Cosmetics. Newest of the supermodels. And doesn’t she know it!’

And my sister, thought Izzy. Probably not a good moment to mention it, though. Normally she would go to war with her sister’s enemies at the drop of a hat. But twelve minutes before they opened the door on the launch of Out of the Attic was bad timing by anyone’s standards.

She flicked the chintz into expert folds and stapled it in place. ‘You know Jemima Dare?’ she said with deceptive mildness.

‘I’ve worked with her.’

‘Phew, yes,’ said the cameraman’s assistant, with feeling. ‘Serious pain in the ass, that one.’

Izzy held onto her temper with an effort. ‘How interesting,’ she said between her teeth.

She hammered an errant nail into place with force, flicked a dustsheet over the whole construction and stood up.

‘Done?’ said the woman with the clipboard, zipping back as if she were on rollerblades. ‘Can we let the punters in yet?’

Izzy cast a narrow-eyed look round the big reception room. It did not look like the launch of anything. It looked as if it was in the throes of refurbishment. Pots of paint stood around, amid step ladders and mysterious outcrops of furniture under dust sheets. The pictures on the walls were draped in sheeting and the big central chandelier was at the end of the room, leaning drunkenly against a trestle table. The carpet had gone. The London fashion crowd were in for a shock.

‘Yup. Ready to rock.’

The green-haired woman grinned. ‘I was right. Genius. Culp and Christopher would be a happy agency if all our clients were practical like you.’

‘Practical is what I do,’ agreed Izzy.

‘Sure is.’ The woman consulted her clipboard. ‘I’ve got the girls in position to hand out the goody bags. So we’ll open up the moment you give me the sign.’

She powered over to the big doors to the conference hall.

Izzy nodded and checked that her earpiece was in place. Then she pressed the connect button and spoke into her collar mike. ‘Testing. Testing. The partygoers are at the gates. Are we ready? Speak to me, people…Tony? Geoff?’

They were there. She ran through the roll call of her other helpers one by one. All in place, raring to go. Then at last she came to her cousin Pepper.

She was not worried about her décor, or the timing of her effects, but she was worried about Pepper. Should you be that nervous before the launch of a ground-breaking new business?

‘Pepper? How’s it going?’

There was an audible gulp. ‘Fine,’ quavered Pepper.

Izzy turned to face the wall, so that there was no chance of a passer by hearing her. She switched to one-to-one transmission and said into her mike, very softly, ‘Come on Big Shot. Entrepreneurs don’t panic. You can do this thing.’

There was a slightly watery chuckle. ‘You got evidence of that?’

‘You blagged the money men. After that, how hard can a bunch of journalists be?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘What’s more,’ interrupted Izzy ruthlessly, ‘you convinced me and you convinced Jemima. She knows all about clothes and I hate the things. So there you are. Every sector covered.’

This time the chuckle was a lot more robust. ‘So it is. Thanks, Izzy.’

‘My pleasure.’ She switched back to broadcast. ‘Okay, everyone. Showtime!’

She gave the thumbs-up to the woman with the clipboard. The tall doors were flung back. The waiting audience clattered in—and stopped dead at the decorators’ disarray.

Izzy could have danced with glee. Great! This was a launch they wouldn’t forget.

She said into the mike, ‘Geoff, city sounds please.’

At once a tape full of combustion engines and sirens and voices filled the room. The audience, London sophisticates to a woman, were even more intrigued. They began to move round the room, looking at the shrouded shapes questioningly.

‘Right,’ said Izzy. ‘Got them. Pepper, you’re on. Tony, start the light show now.’

The harsh lighting began to dim and a patch of rosy warmth appeared on the shambolic stage. It was empty. It should not have been empty.

Izzy’s heart sank. She must not let it show, though. ‘Pepper?’ she prompted into her mike, sounding as casual as she could manage.

And a blessed, blessed voice said in her ear, ‘We’re here, Izzy. We’re just going on.’

It was Jemima. It should not have been Jemima. Jemima should have followed Pepper onto the stage for dramatic effect.

Technically, she was only there to model a couple of outfits and mingle with the guests. ‘I’ll do the robot in the gear,’ she had said, right from the start. ‘But I haven’t got time to learn a script.’ Yet here she was, stepping into the breach, just as Izzy would have done in her place.

Huh! Beast of Belinda indeed, thought Izzy, bursting with pride. This was no pain in the ass. This was a fully paid-up member of the Girls Stick Together Club.

She said into the mike, ‘Go for it, Jay Jay.’

Jemima walked out onto the platform like a queen. Well, a queen taking a day off to paint the nursery, maybe, thought Izzy ruefully. As they had planned in various transatlantic e-mails, Jemima was wearing paint-stained dungarees. There were flecks of paint and ink over her hands and forearms. And her legendary hair was caught up in a tangly ponytail. The audience stopped chattering to their neighbours and frankly stared.

‘Life,’ said Jemima, standing close to the sound system and reading Izzy’s script from the palm of her hand without anyone noticing, ‘is a mess. Too fast. Too dirty. Too many disappointments.’ She paused.

‘Not,’ said a soft husky voice, out of sight, ‘always.’

From behind an edifice covered in dustsheets, a large, beautiful woman came out into the middle of the stage. She had a mass of gleaming red hair, she was dressed in a silk coat of peacock colours, and she was smiling. Pepper had come a long way since the sisters had taken her bathrobe and statistics away from her this morning.

It looked as if she had got over her momentary panic, too. Thank you, Jay Jay. But still Izzy crossed her fingers, just in case.

The audience gasped. This was not what they were expecting at all. This was no model. This was Pepper Calhoun herself. Entrepreneur, innovator and, just possibly, retail genius.

The light changed again, turned gold. The whole room was bathed in the soft glow of a summer evening. Birds cheeped. Insects buzzed. A stream chattered faintly in the distance. Ripples of light like water began to flicker across the shrouded shapes. Even the nosiest journalist dropped the corner of the dustsheet in simple awe.

‘Hi, there,’ said Pepper, in her soft American accent.

To Izzy’s relief she was as cool and friendly as if she had opened the door to a bunch of friends. Just as Izzy had coached her for a week. She sounded as if she did not have a nerve in her body and had never even heard of retail statistics.

‘Good to see you,’ she went on. ‘Glad you can be here with us today.’

So she was right back on Izzy’s carefully crafted script. Cautiously, Izzy uncrossed her fingers. Looking good, she thought. Looking more than good.

Pepper smiled sleepily around the room. She seemed to catch the eye of every single person of that select group there.

That was Izzy’s idea, too. They had practised it in the flat, over and over again, until Pepper had been reeling and Izzy had been gloomily certain it would never work. Now she held her breath.

Jemima stretched her arms out in front of her, as if she were easing her shoulders after a hard painting session. Only Izzy noticed that she was turning her hand so she could read from the back of it.

‘Couldn’t get the show on in time, eh, Pepper?’ she said as lightly as if she had only just thought of it. ‘What went wrong?’

The glittering green and blue figure on the stage beside her smiled.

‘Sometimes,’ she said, ‘you just have to trust your imagination.’

That was the signal.

‘Geoff, Tony, ladies…’ murmured Izzy into her mike, more for herself than her well rehearsed team.

‘Let your fancy fly,’ said Pepper, laughing.

And the lights went out, right on cue.

There was a rush of cool air. Thank God they’d mastered the air-conditioning in time, thought Izzy. Half an hour ago she would not have put money on it.

The tape changed to strange, unearthly music. The darkened ceiling suddenly gleamed with a million stars. There was a concerted gasp from the audience.

Yes! thought Izzy. She let herself breathe again.

There was another gasp as the dustsheets rose like flock of huge birds before flopping to the floor like paper. Silent-footed, the junior helpers folded and rolled the sheets, getting them rapidly out of sight. Izzy waved them away. But they had rehearsed this. They didn’t need any more direction. They had all identified their nearest exit. Now they melted through the various doors while the audience was still staring entranced at the starscape.

Izzy was the last to go. She held the door to the kitchen open the tiniest crack so she could see the effect of her production. She was not disappointed. When the lights came up, there was a long indrawn breath of wonder from a hundred throats.

The reception room had magically turned into a big attic, full of sunlight. Wooden trunks of clothes stood invitingly open. Comfortable shabby chairs were set beside old fashioned clothes horses from which every colour of garment hung. There were cushions and books and pot-pourri, and the friendly smell of coffee and fresh bread. The guests looked around, enchanted, as if they could not believe their eyes.

Izzy let the door swing shut. She looked round the stainless steel work surfaces of the empty kitchen as if she didn’t quite know how she had got there.

‘We did it.’ She sounded dazed, even to her own ears.

‘You did it,’ said Geoff.

They shared a high five.

On the monitoring system they heard Pepper saying serenely, ‘Welcome to Out of the Attic. A whole new shopping experience.’ On the black and white screen above their heads, she spread her hands. ‘Enjoy.’

They did. They wandered round as if they had just discovered a treasure chest. Women who lived all their professional lives in designer black threw scarlet and gold shawls around themselves and looked wistfully in the mirror. Hard-bitten fashion professionals ran their hands sensuously over velvet and angora and sighed.

Izzy slid rapidly along to the Ladies’ Room to change out of her working decorator gear. Now that the theatrical tricks were over she had to turn herself back into Pepper’s efficient assistant and work the room. She was already hauling the dark tee shirt over her head as she walked in.

Jemima was at a basin, scrubbing the ink prompts off her hands. She looked up when the door opened and grinned at Izzy in the mirror.

‘That was a blast. Proud of yourself?’

‘I suppose I am, quite,’ Izzy admitted.

Jemima flicked water at her. ‘Make that lots. You’ve got them eating out of Pepper’s hand.’

Izzy wriggled out of her jeans. ‘You did your share. What happened up there? Pepper freak out?’

Jemima shrugged. ‘Said she couldn’t remember her words and you’d told her not to go into detail too early.’ She shook her head. ‘She may be a retail genius, but she sure doesn’t talk the talk.’

‘She does with a little help from her friends,’ said Izzy. ‘You handled that brilliantly.’

She splashed cold water under her arms and the back of her neck.

Jemima watched as she towelled off and pulled on sheer dark tights. ‘I couldn’t make head or tail of Pepper’s gibbering. So I went back to the first speech you wrote and said, “You do this bit; I’ll do that.”’

‘Worked like a dream.’ Izzy’s voice was muffled as she pulled a slim charcoal-grey dress over her head. ‘Looked good, too. Very cool. How did you get her to do it?’

‘I told her she owed you.’ Jemima was whipping her maltreated hair into place with expert rapidity.

‘Owed me?’

‘Yup.’

‘Owed me? But this is her project, her idea. I wouldn’t even have a job if it weren’t for Pepper and Out of the Attic.’

‘Correction. You’d have another job.’

‘Maybe. But—’

‘No maybe about it,’ broke in Jemima. She stopped fiddling with her hair and sent Izzy a minatory look. ‘Don’t put yourself down. You can turn your hand to anything.’

‘So can the odd job man in our block.’

Jemima ignored that. ‘And you’re always the best, too.’

Izzy smiled in spite of herself. ‘You’re prejudiced.’ She cast a cursory look in the mirror and fluffed her hair out.

‘Let me do that,’ said Jemima impatiently.

She pressed Izzy into one of the small gilt chairs and took up a brush. Her own tangled ponytail had been an artful creation, whereas Izzy’s tangles were the result of too little attention and a hectic three hours spent scrambling among the installations.

‘I am going to give you a present of a day at a decent salon,’ Jemima said, attacking the tangles ruthlessly. ‘When did you last have your hair done properly?’

Izzy chuckled. ‘The last time you gave me a present of a day at a salon.’

Jemima smacked her lightly with the brush. ‘How you have the gall to lecture Pepper, I’ll never know.’

‘That’s different. That’s business. It matters how Pepper looks.’

‘It matters how everyone looks,’ said Jemima, shocked to the core.

‘Believe me, it doesn’t.’

Jemima paused in her work. She met her sister’s eyes in the mirror.

‘You mean when you were hiking round the world you had more important things to think about than your split ends?’ she interpreted.

Izzy was shocked. ‘Am I that smug?’

‘You’re that weird,’ corrected Jemima. She extracted the last tangle and pursed her lips. ‘Plait,’ she decided. ‘No option. Don’t fidget, I gotta concentrate.’

‘I’m not weird,’ said Izzy, offended.

‘Yes, you are. Don’t give me that nonsense about not caring about clothes. You love clothes. But you’re always finding stuff for other people. I used to think it was just me. But since Pepper arrived you’re always coming home with things to suit her, too. Never you.’

Izzy shrugged. ‘Well, you two are on display all the time. I’m a backroom girl.’

Jemima was whipping threads of thick red hair into a plait. They kept springing free.

‘Oh, this is hopeless. I need gel. Don’t move.’ She rootled through her bag, saying over her shoulder, ‘You go to parties. Most people like to look good at a party.’

Izzy clicked her tongue. ‘I go to parties to meet people. Not to be looked at.’

‘Thank you,’ said Jemima dryly.

Izzy slewed round. ‘I didn’t mean—’

‘Don’t move.’ Jemima found the gel. ‘And, yes, you did mean it,’ she said. ‘And I’m tired of it. At some point you decided that I was the pretty one. So you delegated caring about clothes and makeup and stuff to me. Boring.’

‘I—’

But Jemima was combing the gel through her hair with busy fingers and refused to be interrupted.

‘You’re not on some broken-down Latin American bus any more. You live in London. You have a job. Out of the Attic sells clothes, for heaven’s sake. Wake up and start looking in the mirror. You’re beautiful.’

This time the hair slid sweetly into its elaborate plait.

‘There!’ Jemima stepped back. ‘Bit darker than we started off with, but not bad. Not bad at all.’

Izzy looked at herself. Her hair was still ordinary red. Not Jemima’s lustrous firelight tones, not Pepper’s curling Titian—plain, common or garden, brickdust-red. But the plait and the fashionable gel made her look alert and faintly dangerous—and at least she was dark auburn for the moment. She grinned.

‘Well done.’

‘Not finished.’

Before Izzy could complain, Jemima was waving pots and brushes around. They had done this since they were small. Izzy sat very still, resigned.

‘Apes groom each other, too, you know,’ she said chattily.

‘Shut up.’ Jemima’s eyes narrowed to slits. Then she swooped, lipliner in hand.

It took less than two minutes. Jemima, after all, was a professional model. When she straightened, Izzy had cheekbones. She looked at herself in the mirror, half-bemused, half-uneasy.

‘Thank you,’ she said, trying to feel grateful.

‘Make-up lessons,’ said Jemima, committing it to memory. And, with apparent irrelevance, ‘You taking Adam to the party, then?’

‘No.’

Jemima nodded. She did not look surprised. ‘Another one falls at the Third Date fence,’ she said sadly. ‘What is it with you?’

Izzy knew how to deal with a nosy younger sister. ‘The party is work. You know we don’t mix work and play.’

‘You play?’ said Jemima, mock incredulous.

‘Watch it, brat!’

‘Social skills course and make-up lessons,’ said Jemima, grinning.

Izzy stood up and gave Jemima a quick hug. ‘Don’t waste your money,’ she advised.

Jemima bit her lip.

‘Don’t worry about it. I prefer being the sister who bites.’

‘I don’t care about that,’ Jemima said impatiently. ‘It’s this giving up on clothes and third dates that worries me.’

Izzy grinned. ‘I’m just not the pretty one. Get used to it.’

Jemima was packing away her stuff. She glared.

‘You’re crazy. You ought to be gorgeous. You’re three times as much fun as I am. You dance like a maniac. Guys line up and half the time you don’t even see them. And you look as if you don’t own a mirror. And,’ yelled Jemima, suddenly losing it, ‘I feel—as if—it’s my fault.’

‘Hey. Calm down.’ Izzy was disconcerted and a bit annoyed. ‘It’s nothing to do with you if I look like a rag bag.’

Jemima stopped yelling. But under the exquisite make up her face was drawn and her eyes tired. ‘Yes, it bloody is,’ she said. ‘And we both know it.’

Their eyes met. For a moment there was silence in the luxurious cloakroom. Then Jemima gave a quick, spiky shrug and started to stuff all her tubes and pots and brushes back into the designer tote bag.

‘Oh, what’s the point?’ she said wearily. ‘Come on. We’ve got a cousin’s business to promote.’

She stuffed the bag under the coat rack and went back to the conference room without a backward look.

Izzy followed more slowly. There was a faint frown between her brows. It was not like her sister to fly off the handle. Maybe all the time-zone hopping was getting to her.

‘You and I,’ she muttered, ‘have got to have a long talk. And soon.’

But Jemima did not hear. Or did not want to hear. And once in the conference room, like the professional she was, Jemima went instantly into posing beautifully for assorted photographers, her usual vibrant self again.

She had changed into what Pepper hoped would be the Attic’s signature outfit: soft full trousers and a shirt with sleeves that an eighteenth-century duellist would have killed for. Jemima’s chosen colours were chocolate and amber. They made the glorious hair look alive, as if it had caught lamplight and fire in its depths.

Even Izzy, used to her sister’s beauty, was startled.

‘She really is gorgeous, isn’t she?’ she said, almost to herself.

The clipboard queen was passing. ‘Gorgeous,’ she said indifferently. She stuffed the board under her arm and held out a hand. ‘Molly di Peretti from Culp and Christopher. Too much of a rush to do introductions earlier. But I wanted to say how much I admire what you did here today.’

‘Thank you,’ said Izzy, but absently. She was still looking at Jemima. That outburst was so out of character! What was going on behind the professionally flirtatious manner?

But Molly di Peretti was more interested in the concept of the launch. ‘This is just so original. You know, when Pepper told me what you were planning, I told her it was too weird?’

‘Oh?’ From a distance she could see that Jemima was clearly on edge. Her hands were never still and she kept touching her face, her hair.

“‘The hacks want champagne and lots of it,” I said. “Coffee and chat won’t cut the mustard.” That was your idea, right?’

‘Yes,’ said Izzy absently.

Jemima wasn’t happy. Other people might not notice, but Izzy had protected her from her first day in the playground. She could see that, however much her sister smiled, she was just desperate to get away.

‘Well, I was wrong,’ said Molly, oblivious. ‘It’s brilliant. Everyone is going to remember this launch.’

Izzy pulled herself together. ‘That’s the name of the game,’ she said gaily.

‘Hmm. Not everyone can do it, though.’ Molly di Peretti thought a bit. ‘And you’re Pepper Calhoun’s assistant, right? You don’t organise events for a living?’

‘Good grief, no. I’m just the gofer.’

‘Hmm,’ she said again. ‘And how did you get together with Pepper?’

‘We’re cousins.’

The woman’s eyebrows climbed towards her green hairline. She looked across the room to where Jemima was laughing a little too loudly at something one of the photographers had said. ‘Ah. So you must be related to the gorgeous Jemima as well?’

‘She’s my sister.’ Izzy’s voice was neutral. She waited for Molly di Peretti to remember that she had called Jemima the Beast of Belinda. She was not vindictive but she would enjoy seeing the brisk sophisticate wince.

But Molly di Peretti was not wincing. She was looking intrigued. ‘Lots of talent in your family.’ She put her head on one side. ‘We might just be able to use that.’

Izzy was trying to gauge how the launch party was going, but at that she stopped looking round the room for a moment and paid attention.

‘Use it? How?’

‘Woman power,’ said Molly, clearly writing the press release in her head. ‘Siblings unite to give the fashion establishment a run for its money. Redheads Rule! There’s lots of possibilities.’

Izzy snorted. ‘Oh, yeah? And what are you going to call it? The Brains, the Beauty and the Other One?’ she said with sudden savagery.

Molly flung up a hand in mock surrender. ‘Hey. No sweat. It was just an idea.’

Izzy was taken aback by her own vehemence. She said in a calmer voice, ‘Sorry. It’s just not my scene.’

‘Yeah. I can see that,’ Molly said slowly.

‘Anyway, why would you want to start another story? Isn’t this one going to be big enough? Especially with the party tonight?’

‘Yup. I wanted to talk to you about that. I may have another guest.’

‘Fine.’ Izzy shrugged. ‘I’ll put her on the list. Name?’

Molly rested her chin on her clipboard. ‘Dominic Templeton-Burke,’ she said. And waited for a reaction.

She did not get one. ‘Sounds like another chinless wonder,’ said Izzy, making a note. ‘Hope he’s pretty.’

Molly’s lips twitched. ‘Oh, he is. In fact—’

‘Great. Now, tell me that you were joking about the three-woman line-up and I’ll be a happy bunny.’

Molly hesitated. ‘PR is more than one splash, you know. After the launch we’ll keep on drip-drip-dripping away. We have to place a story here, a photograph there.’

‘But the story doesn’t have to be woman power, does it?’ said Izzy with foreboding.

‘Not if you don’t want, of course.’ Molly di Peretti did not try to hide her disappointment. ‘But that’s the message Pepper keeps pounding out.’ She sighed. ‘In fact, I’d better go circulate among the hacks. Make sure it’s getting through.’

She moved on with a friendly smile.

Izzy watched her go. She could have kicked herself. Not well handled. Maybe I’m losing my touch with a crisis, she told herself, trying to make a joke of it.

Oh, well, back to work. Check with the boss, check with the team, keep the wheels rolling. If she could find any of them in the suddenly active crowd, of course.

But actually it was easy. The crowd was thickest round her cousin, and they were all listening with attention. Some were even scribbling.

Pepper was on a roll. She might freeze with nerves on a stage, but in a small group, on her own subject, she was unstoppable.

‘These are real clothes for real women,’ she was saying earnestly. ‘We’ve got some wonderful designers working for us. No more tarty tat for stick insects or black, black, black. Out of the Attic is going to be a fun place to come. And you take the fun home with you when you buy one of our outfits.’ She twirled the jade and turquoise skirts of her silk coat with manifest delight.

At least one journalist beamed in sympathy. Someone took a photograph.

Izzy bit back a smile. Only this morning in the car coming here, she had said, ‘Don’t put that in the speech. Keep it for the one-to-one chats. It will make a great quote.’

Pepper met her eyes across the group in a conspiratorial grin. ‘Isn’t that right, Izzy?’

‘Take home the fun? Works for me,’ agreed Izzy easily.

The journalists turned. They clocked that she was a member of staff. At once, Izzy saw, they bypassed her face, looking straight at the dress. She would have to get used to that, she thought wryly.

‘One of the new designs?’ someone asked.

Fluently, Izzy gave them name, designer and catalogue number. They wrote that down, too.

‘Let me show you the campaign trunk,’ Izzy said, leading them to one of the clusters of furniture. ‘We really love this. We found the original in a junk shop and had it copied. See those drawers? That’s where we keep accessories. We want the customers to discover them, like secrets.’

The journalists started to pull out the drawers, exclaiming with pleasure at the lavender bags and delicate twisty belts they found there.

‘How am I doing?’ Izzy said out of the corner of her mouth to Pepper.

‘Born saleswoman,’ returned Pepper, with a wink. ‘Keep on working the room. We’re flying!’

She was right. To a woman, the guests loved the idea of a store that invited customers to discover stuff in an attic. Some of them weren’t quite so sure about all the clothes themselves. But absolutely everyone loved Jemima’s golden shirt. And nobody said a word about the absence of champagne.

Izzy circulated conscientiously for an hour.

‘Have you had one of these smoked salmon things?’ Pepper asked, nibbling a canapé. ‘Boy, I needed that.’

Izzy shook her head. ‘Can’t risk it. I’ll mark the dress. Always been a messy feeder. We’ll have pizza later.’

Pepper laughed and let her go. Izzy went to check on her helpers. They had to be ready to clear the room the moment the last guest left. The hotel was on a tight timetable.

‘They’re having too much fun,’ said Geoff, munching on a Bath bun and peering in through the service doors. He offered her a bite.

Izzy shook her head. ‘I’ll get them out,’ she said with confidence.

‘How?’

‘If they want to go to the nightclub reception this evening, they have to pick up a ticket. From the table in the foyer. All I have to do is go in there and murmur in a few ears and there’ll be a stampede.’

He was amused. ‘You’re good at this, aren’t you?’

‘I seem to be,’ Izzy agreed, after a moment. She sounded surprised.

‘That’s not all you’re good at,’ he said, licking the sugar off the top of his bun. ‘That was a real coup de theatre you got going with the lights and the stars and all. You ever want to work in the theatre, you give me a call.’

She was embarrassed. ‘Oh, this was just a one-off. I wasn’t even sure it would work.’

‘It worked,’ he said without emphasis. ‘You’re a natural. You’ve got my number. Call me. Maybe next time I’ll be employing you, rather than the other way round. Oh, well, action stations.’

He finished his bun, gave her a friendly punch in the shoulder and went to round up his team.

Izzy went back to start the whispering campaign. It cleared the room. In ten minutes the only people who had not moved were Jemima and the woman from the PR company. Izzy waved in her team to start the dismantling operation and still they stayed locked in serious conversation. She sighed and went over to them.

‘…off my back,’ Jemima was saying with heat.

‘But you can do it. Today proves that.’ Molly di Peretti sounded impatient.

‘Today was family.’

‘Is that what you want? Are you saying that we have to take your sister onto the pay roll for you to honour your obligations?’

‘My sister wouldn’t look at you,’ flashed Jemima. ‘She’s got a great job.’

‘Then what will it take?’

‘Just get off my back.’ It was a wail.

Molly said crisply, ‘Jemima, no one else will tell you the truth, but I will. You’re walking a tightrope. Go on like this and you’ll fall off. Nobody’s indispensable.’

Hey! thought Izzy. She increased her pace. ‘Sorry to break this up, guys. But we have to be out of here in twenty minutes flat. Can you transfer your chat to the bar?’

She put a protective arm round her sister’s shoulders. They were as rigid as iron.

Jemima looked round. Her face was hard. She did not look as if she needed anyone’s protection.

‘Chat over,’ she said curtly.

Molly di Peretti shrugged. ‘I’ll see you in ten days then. If you make it, of course.’

Jemima’s expression darkened. ‘I’ll make it.’

Molly nodded. ‘I’ll go and round up the spare press packs.’

She went. Jemima glared after her.

‘What was that about?’ asked Izzy, gathering up some silky tops that had got scattered and bundling them into an open chest.

‘Nothing.’ Jemima folded a couple of scarves and slapped them down on top of the nearest cabin trunk. ‘I hate PR,’ she burst out. ‘Of all the pointless things. They make you do stuff you hate. And you’ve got to pretend it’s all terrific fun all the time. It’s worse than gym at bloody school.’

Izzy was startled. ‘Jemima—’ she began in concern.

But one of the boys was coming over with one of the tea trays on wheels that served as removal trolleys and they had to help him load the furniture.

‘We’ll talk about the principles of public relations later,’ Izzy promised.

Jemima gave a laugh that sounded more like a shriek. ‘One day when all this is over,’ she agreed.

But then the car was at the door to take her to the airport and there was no time to talk. ‘I’ll call you,’ she said, giving Izzy a swift, hard hug.

It stayed with her all the rest of the day. It had felt like desperation.

‘I hope she’s all right,’ said Izzy, almost to herself.

‘She’s fine,’ said Pepper, overhearing. ‘She’s the face of Belinda. She’s got a diary full of top jobs. And she’s through adolescent spots. What can go wrong?’

Izzy could not put her finger on it. ‘I—just have a feeling…’

‘Quit worrying,’ said Pepper, not without sympathy. ‘Okay, you’ve known her since she was minus nine months. But she’s all grown-up now, and she knows what she wants. Heck, it’s success that most people only dream about. She’s feeling great.’

Izzy thought of the conversation she had overheard. ‘I’m not sure that’s true.’

‘I am.’

A lifetime of being the heir to a multi-million-dollar retail empire had given Pepper total confidence in her judgement, Izzy thought. Not a shimmer of doubt there.

She said slowly, ‘But this success is very big, very sudden. I’m not sure Jemima really knows how to deal with it.’

‘Then she’ll learn.’ Pepper was impatient. ‘I did. You did. You’re the most together woman I know. You can deal with anything.’ She laughed suddenly. ‘In fact, if anyone did try to attack you in the park, I just bet you’d talk him right out of it. No contest.’ And she went back to work.

Caught unawares, Izzy felt her head go back as if her cousin had hit her. It was the first time in ages, and it took her right back to two years ago and a small border town in the Andes. Shaken, she watched Pepper walk away.

If only you knew, she thought. If only you knew.