Prada And Prejudice

Natalie’s mobile lay on a shelf, buzzing madly away.

“Oh, dear.” She snatched the phone up and hurried back to the front door, but Natalie and Rhys were gone.

She looked at the caller’s name. Rhys Gordon. Should she answer? She didn’t like to think of Natalie driving home at this hour without her mobile. Suppose her car broke down?

“Mr. Gordon? Yes, it’s Celia Dashwood. No, she left her mobile in the pantry.” She paused. “Would you mind? Silly of me, but it’s late, and she’s without it. Thank you so much. Yes, call and let me know she got home safely. Goodnight.”

“I can’t believe it.” Natalie thumped her fist on the steering wheel in frustration. Halfway home, the car just…stopped. She eased the Peugeot off the road, and stared at the gauges to assess the situation.

Oh. Crikey. She was out of petrol.

She groaned. The petrol gauge’s needle was in the red, pointed firmly at ‘empty’.

“My mobile,” Natalie muttered, and grabbed her purse. She’d call mum. Where is it? she wondered as she scrabbled through her handbag, I know it’s in here somewhere—

Suddenly she remembered. Rhys and his infuriating, persistent calls…she’d thrown her mobile on a shelf in the pantry. She closed her eyes. Bloody hell! Would this endless, endless day never end?

She couldn’t stay here. It wasn’t that late, and she was more than halfway home, but it was too far to walk. She eyed the dark street uneasily. There was a petrol station nearby, wasn’t there?

Natalie bit her lip. She’d lock up her car and walk. Even if the station was closed, they’d have a phone box, and she could ring mum to come and fetch her. She couldn’t stay here.

Resolutely, she got out and locked the door. She gripped her handbag and began to walk quickly down the street. She heard the echo of her high-heeled footsteps, and the distant swish of cars on the A4.

Somewhere behind her, growing closer, a motorcycle approached. She walked a bit faster. The low growl of the engine grew louder, and she glanced over her shoulder to see the motorbike slowing down, until it drew up alongside her.

Natalie looked back nervously but kept walking. She couldn’t see the rider’s face; a visored helmet obscured it.

Her legs turned to jelly. Should she run? Scream? Dial 999? No, scratch that, she couldn’t call for help – she didn’t have her bloody mobile. Stupid, stupid—

“Natalie?”

She came to a stop, her heart beating wildly. “Rh-Rhys?”

He lifted the visor. “I saw your car abandoned back there,” he said, concerned. “What happened?”

Relief washed over her. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m really glad to see you!” she said fervently. “I ran out of petrol… I didn’t have my mobile—”

“So I heard,” he said, his words grim. “Get on, I’ll take you home. You can tell me about it on the way.”

Sheepishly she took the helmet he held out. “This is getting to be a habit, you rescuing me. How did you know to come looking?”

“After I left, I rang to see that you got back safely. Imagine my surprise when your mum answered.” He glared at her. “She found your phone in the pantry.”

She dropped her gaze, embarrassed. “Well, I didn’t want to talk to you earlier, did I?” She knew what was coming next – the bloody lecture.

And the thing was, she reflected, this time she absolutely deserved it.

He opened his mouth to ask her what the hell she’d been thinking, putting herself in such danger, did she know what might have happened? But he caught sight of her face, pale and exhausted, and let out a short breath.

“Never mind. I’m just glad you’re all right. Now put on that helmet, and let’s get you home.”

Chapter 10

The sound of the door buzzer echoed through the flat the next morning. Natalie lifted one side of her eye mask to see sunshine streaming in through her bedroom curtains.

“Coming,” she croaked as she rolled out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom. She peered into the mirror. Crikey – could definitely be better.

She splashed water on her face and tugged at the wrinkled Blondie T-shirt she’d slept in – second night in a row, must do laundry – and went to the door. The buzzer sounded again.

“Hold on!” she muttered, annoyed. Tarquin was impatient. And early. Natalie already regretted asking him to go clothes shopping with her. Much nicer to have a nice lie-in, then a late lunch, perhaps pop in to Chanel for a look around…

She pressed the speaker button. “Come up.” She barely had time to drag a comb through her hair and brush her teeth when Tarquin knocked on the door.

“You won’t believe it, Tark,” Natalie said as she swung the flat door open, “but I forgot about going shopping today—”

“You, forget about shopping? Impossible.”

It took a moment to process the fact that it wasn’t Tark who stood in her doorway, but Rhys Gordon.

Rhys bloody Gordon! He looked at her as if he’d never seen a girl in a T-shirt and…well, to be honest…not much else.

She crossed her arms self-consciously against her bra-less chest. “Rhys! What are you doing here?”

“I’ve had your car filled with petrol and brought round. I tried to call,” he added, “but your mobile’s turned off and your telephone’s been disconnected.”

Although he didn’t say it, she knew he longed to criticise her for these latest infractions.

But all he said was, “Sorry if I woke you. I know it’s a bit early, but I’m on my way in to work.”

She leaned against the doorjamb. “I really appreciate your help last night,” she said, and meant it. “I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t come along.”

“Check your petrol gauge now and then. And don’t hide your phone in the bloody pantry. I’m just glad I was able to help.”

She opened the door a bit wider and stood aside. “At least come in and let me give you a cup of tea — or coffee? —before you go. I owe you that much.”

He nodded. “I wouldn’t say no to a coffee. Thanks.”

“Let me grab a pair of jeans first. I’ll be right back.”

“I can’t stay long,” he called out after her. “The bloke from the petrol station followed me in your car; I’ve got to take him back.”

“Is he perched on the back of your motorbike?”

“No, I’ve got the Jag.”

Natalie emerged from the bedroom five minutes later wearing jeans and a T-shirt, with her hair sorted and a slick of lipstick on her mouth. “I’ll get that coffee. Won’t take me a second, it’s only instant.”

She switched the kettle on and spooned Nescafe into two mismatched mugs. “Sorry I don’t have real coffee. I need to do a shop but I haven’t had time.”

“Oh, you cook?”

“You needn’t sound so surprised,” she said, indignant. “Yes, I cook. I make a great spaghetti Bolognese. And my Victoria sponge is better than mum’s.”

The kettle whistled. She poured hot water into their cups and handed one to Rhys.

“Thanks. Stop by my office later and we’ll go over those numbers.”

“I can’t. I’m going shopping with Tark this morning.” At his puzzled look she added, “Tarquin Magnus Campbell. He’s heir to the fourth earl of Draemar and he’s my dearest friend. He and Wren are getting married in Scotland next month, so of course I need a dress…and a wedding gift.”

Rhys narrowed his eyes. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“What do you mean?” she demanded.

“If you need clothes, it means you plan to spend money. That’s never a good thing.”

“Ha bloody ha. Perhaps I might stop by your office after lunch? You could show me the figures then.”

He nodded. “I’ll see you later, then.”

The buzzer sounded again. “That’s Tarquin,” Natalie announced. She walked over and pressed the button. “Come up.”

“I should go,” Rhys said. “Thanks for the coffee.” He added pointedly, “Try to buy something on sale. And if your car ever breaks down again, promise me you’ll lock the doors and stay put.”

Natalie’s gaze collided with his. He really did have the most penetrating blue eyes. “You know,” she blurted, “you’re almost nice when you want to be.”

He raised his brow. “Only almost? I’ll have to work on that.”

Several rapid-fire knocks sounded on the door.

Natalie let out an exasperated breath. “It’s like Waterloo Station in here this morning! Excuse me.”

She left Rhys in the kitchen and hurried down the hallway to open the door, then froze. “Dominic!” She pulled the door shut behind her and stepped into the hall. “What the hell are you doing here?” she hissed.

Dominic leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb. He reeked of stale Gitanes and whiskey. “We need to talk, Nat.”

“You’re drunk, Dom. And we’ve nothing to talk about. You’re with Keeley now.”

“I’m not, not really! It’s all for publicity. There’s no reason we can’t still see each other. I miss you, Nat.” He leaned forward unsteadily to kiss her.

Natalie backed away in disgust. “You want me as your bit on the side, you mean.”

“Come on, Nat, it’s not like that. Besides,” he pointed out, “the tabs all say you and Gordon are having a go—”

The door swung open. “Is everything all right?” Rhys asked. He fixed his piercing gaze on Dominic.

Dominic turned back to Natalie with an accusatory glare. “What’s ‘e doing here?”

Natalie glanced at Rhys. “I ran out of petrol last night, and Rhys—”

“—I brought her home, mate,” Rhys finished, and lifted his coffee mug to Dominic in mock salute.

Nat leaned forward, playing along, and stood on her toes to kiss Rhys on the cheek. He smelled enticingly of soap and aftershave. “You were a star last night. Thanks again.”

He handed her his half-empty mug. “You’re welcome. Now I’ve got to go. I’ll see you this afternoon?”

Natalie nodded. “I’ll be there.”

Rhys left, and Dominic’s scowl deepened. He looked like he was about to spontaneously combust. He swayed slightly on his feet and demanded, “What’s going on? I’ve seen the tabloids. You’re not shagging that plonker, are you?”

A distracted smile curved Natalie’s lips. “Not yet.” Her smile vanished as she added crossly, “What do you care, anyway? You broke up with me, or have you forgotten?”

“Look, Nat,” he protested, “he’s 28, practically old enough to be your…your uncle! Besides, I still love you—”

“Oh, piss off, Dominic. Go sleep it off. And then go…smash a guitar, or something.” She left him in the hall, scowling, and shut the door smartly in his face.

Dominic didn’t take Natalie’s advice. Instead he found himself, two hours and a half a bottle of Chivas Regal later, slumped next to Keeley in the front row of Klaus von Richter’s spring preview fashion show.

How in bloody hell had that happened?

He crossed his arms against his chest and slouched back in the folding metal chair. He’d refused to go. But Keeley glared at him and hissed, “Remind me again why I agreed to this engagement, Dominic. Perhaps I should call it off.”

So here he was, crammed in with a gazillion fashionistas, all crossing their stiletto-heeled legs and shouting into their mobiles in rapid-fire French, English, and Italian.

“Why am I here?” he grumbled to Keeley as his right eye was nearly taken out by the wildly gesticulating editor of Italian Vogue sitting next to him.

“Because I need clothes for our honeymoon,” she snapped, “and because Maison Laroche’s show is the absolute best. People would kill for front row seats. Klaus’ clothes are genius.”

Dominic snorted. “Don’t know why any of this lot bothers going to fashion shows. All they wear is black.”

But as the lights dimmed and the show began, Dominic leaned forward, intrigued despite himself. Clouds of fog, pulsing techno music, and long-legged models striding out on the catwalk combined to create a throbbing spectacle of light, sound, and beauty. The clothes were all right, he supposed…

…but the models were bloody amazing.

Keeley poked him sharply in the ribs. “You can roll your tongue back in your mouth anytime,” she hissed in his ear.

When the show ended – all too soon, in Dominic’s opinion – Keeley grabbed him by the arm and dragged him backstage to meet the iconic fashion designer. Klaus von Richter was bald, and he wore black, from the cashmere scarf flung around his neck to his black-booted feet. What was it with fashion people and black? Dominic wondered.

“Klaus!” Keeley gushed. “The show was fantastic.” She air-kissed him on both cheeks.

He took her hand in his black fingerless gloves and lifted it to his lips. “Merci, my dear,” he said in German-accented English. “What can I possibly create that is beautiful enough for you to wear, eh?”

Keeley smiled. “Everything you create is beautiful, Klaus. I love the black velvet strapless dress – stunning…”

Although Klaus nodded distractedly, his eyes lasered in on Dominic. “You,” he purred, “you are Keeley’s fiancé, non?”

“Yeah,” Dominic muttered. The way this German bloke stared at him – like a half-starved alley cat eyeing up a dish of Devonshire cream – made him more than a bit uncomfortable.

Klaus reached out and grabbed Dominic’s jaw in his hand, tilted his head this way and that, and pronounced, “You haf excellent bone structure. You haf modelled before?”

Dominic scowled and jerked his head free. “No! I’m a rock singer, not a bloody model.”

“You will model for me, for Maison Laroche,” Klaus announced. It wasn’t a question; it was a command.

“I don’t do that modelling shit.”

“But you will, for me. You’re perfect.” Klaus narrowed his eyes and walked slowly around Dominic, one hand on his chin. “You haf exactly the look I want. However, your clothes—” he eyed Dominic’s faded Levis and Motörhead T-shirt “—must go. We will dress you in von Richter, no?”

“No!” Dominic snapped.

Klaus snapped his fingers at one of his assistants. “Bring the sample suit to my dressing room. Jetzt!” He turned back to Keeley and Dominic. “Come back with me, and we will talk.”

“Come on,” Keeley hissed, tugging on Dominic’s arm as he balked. “Are you mental? Do you know what an honour this is?”

“Honour, my arse,” Dominic hissed back. “He’s a nut job!”

The designer came straight to the point once they were seated in his dressing room. “I haf created my first men’s fragrance. I want Dominic to be the face of Dissolute. He has exactly the look I want – insolent, aristocratic, a touch dissipated. Perfect for the print ads…like a modern-day Dorian Gray, no?”

Dominic had no idea what the old queen was banging on about. “I don’t know shit about modelling, and I don’t know Dorian Gray, neither. I can’t do it, anyway. I’m starting a new tour next month. Then I’ll be in the studio. Sorry, mate.”

“We’ll work around your schedule.” Klaus flipped open an enamelled case and withdrew a tiny pinch of snuff, then thrust it delicately up first one nostril, then the other. “You will pose for print ads in the fashion magazines, and film a television commercial. Nothing more will be required of you.”

“Nah, sorry, can’t do it,” Dominic said firmly. “My fans would say I’d sold out.” He paused as one of the models came in to get a cigarette and blatantly eyed him up. He smiled. Hm…perhaps he should reconsider. How bad could it be, if doing this gig for Klaus meant he could hang out with girls like that?

Klaus saw the mingled lust and indecision in Dominic’s eyes, and moved in for the kill. “You’ll be well paid.” He leaned forward almost coquettishly, and whispered a sum in Dominic’s ear.

“Blimey.” Dominic blinked. With the amount of dosh Klaus had offered him, he could pay off his debts, buy that new Maserati Ghibli he’d had his eye on, and still have enough left over to buy a ‘57 Strat…

“So?” Klaus said finally, with a touch of impatience. “What do you say? You will sign with Maison Laroche to be the new face of Dissolute?”

Keeley looked over at Dominic, her eyes shining, and nodded imperceptibly.

Dominic let out a short breath. He hated to sell out. But he really needed the dosh that von Richter was offering him.

Sod selling out. Sod his fans. Filthy lucre won the day.

“OK,” Dominic said finally, and stood. “Send me the contract and I’ll have my lawyer take a look.”

“Excellent.” Klaus clasped him firmly on the shoulder. “We haf a deal. You’ve made a very wise decision.”

Dominic made no reply. Why did he suddenly feel as if he’d made a deal, all right…

…a deal with the devil?

Chapter 11

“I can’t decide between the Missoni or the Cavalli,” Natalie said with a frown as she emerged from the dressing room with two dresses draped over her arm. “They’re both gorgeous.”

“Well, at least you’ve narrowed it down to two,” Tarquin said with resignation. He’d spent the past hour slumped in a chair as Natalie tried on dress after dress.

“I have to find the perfect outfit for your wedding.”

“What about this?” Tarquin suggested hopefully. He plucked a dress from a nearby rack that cost much less than either of Natalie’s choices.

“I’m not buying off the rack for your wedding, Tark. I need something worthy of the occasion.”

“The newspapers say that Dashwood and James aren’t doing well, Nat,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Perhaps you should be a bit more – erm, frugal.”

“Frugal?” Natalie echoed. “I know you Scots are famous for thrift, but I refuse to scrimp when it comes to your wedding!”

“Perhaps you should get them both,” Tarquin said finally, defeated.

She beamed. “Brilliant!” She dropped an impulsive kiss on the top of Tark’s head on her way back to the dressing room. “I’m almost done.”

As she changed back into her clothes, Natalie considered possible wedding gifts. She wanted to give Wren and Tark something special – Waterford crystal, perhaps, or one of those hideous metal sculptures Tark fancied – something suitable for his Scottish castle…

…something to show how much his friendship meant to her.

“I have to get you a wedding gift,” Natalie told him a few minutes later when she emerged from the dressing room. “We’ll shop once I pay for this lot.”

Alarmed, Tarquin rose and followed her to the front desk. “I don’t need a present, Nat! Besides, Dashwood and James are in real financial trouble,” he added in a low voice. “Rhys Gordon’s only called in if things are very bad.”

“How did you know grandfather hired Rhys?”

“It’s in all the business pages.” Tarquin reddened slightly and added, “I hate to bring it up, but the tabloids are also saying that you and Mr. Gordon are –erm…”

“—having an affair?” Natalie pressed her lips together. She refused to be embarrassed. Why should she be? She’d done nothing wrong. “We’re not. It’s only for publicity.”

“Well, that’s a relief! He’s bloody awful, isn’t he?”

“Oh, he’s not so bad,” Natalie said airily. “At any rate,” she added as she handed her credit card to the sales clerk, “Dashwood and James have been around since 1854. We’ll pull through this little slump. There’s nothing to worry about.”

As they left, Tarquin came to a stop. “Nat, about the wedding gift,” he said. “You’ve already spent a small fortune on clothing—”

“You sound like an accountant, Tark. Or worse, like Rhys,” she added darkly. “I’m getting you a wedding gift, and there’s an end to it.” She smiled. “And I know just the thing.”

Laden with carrier bags, Natalie strode along the crowded pavement as Tarquin trailed behind, her earlier promise to meet with Rhys Gordon completely forgotten.

“Hannah!” Cherie called out from her dressing table on Saturday evening. “Your father and I are going to dinner tonight. We won’t be too late, should be home by eleven or so.”

No reply from Hannah’s room.

“I’ve left you a casserole in the warming oven. I’ll take it out before we leave.” Cherie applied lipstick and blotted her lips on a tissue.

There was still no reply.

Cherie sighed. She’d survived Holly’s mood swings and teen angst; now it was Hannah’s turn. Overnight, her normally sunny child had turned into a moody, disaffected stranger.

Their house had become a war zone of slammed doors and meals that ended in shouting and recriminations. Cherie knew Hannah’s moods had everything to do with Duncan Hadley.

The phone rang. “Hello,” Cherie said, and cradled the receiver against her ear as she picked up her pearl earring.

“Hello, darling.”

“Alastair! Are you on your way? Or shall I meet you at the restaurant?”

There was an ominous pause. “Neither, I’m afraid. I just got out of a late meeting with Rhys, and he wants me to rework the markdown budget. I’ll probably be working most of the day tomorrow as well.”

Cherie focused on the eardrop dangling between her fingers. “Can’t you work on it tomorrow? Surely it can wait.”

“I’m sorry, darling, but it can’t. Everything has to be reconciled for our finance meeting on Monday. I’m just as disappointed as you.”

“I doubt that,” Cherie said acidly.

“Look, why don’t you go, and take Hannah,” Alastair suggested. “Don’t let the reservation go to waste.”

“Hannah wants nothing to do with me at the moment.” She laid the earring aside. “Which you’d know, if you were ever here. And the whole point of this evening was to have dinner with my husband. Not my daughter.”

“I know. I’ve let you down. Again.” He sounded tired, and defeated. “Rhys is letting Henry go, did I tell you? Poor old chap.”

“Henry? How awful,” Cherie echoed, her disappointment forgotten. “He must be devastated. Mr. Gordon is heartless.”

“He’s only doing what Sir Richard and I should have done already. Henry should’ve retired years ago. It’s madness right now, with Rhys making so many changes. It won’t always be this way.”

“No.” Cherie sighed. “I suppose not. Well, there’s no point letting the reservation go. I’ll ring Sarah and ask her.”

“Duncan’s mum? Good idea,” Alastair agreed. “I’m sure she’d welcome a night out. Going through a divorce isn’t easy.”

“No. I’ll talk to you later, then. Goodnight.”

Cherie rang off and called Sarah. She hesitated when Neil answered. “Hullo,” she said. “Cherie here.”

“Cherie! How are you?”

“Fine,” she said. “Alastair’s just backed out of our dinner reservation. I thought Sarah might like to go instead.”

He paused. “I’m sure she would…but she’s gone to Bath for the weekend. I’m staying with Duncan until she returns next week. So Alastair backed out tonight, did he?”

“Yes, he’s working late again. Things are chaotic at the store at the moment.” She glanced at the clock. “If I’m to keep our reservation, I need to go. I won’t keep you.”

“You’re not keeping me from anything but an evening in front of the TV. Where are you off to?”

“Chez Rouge, a new French restaurant in Soho.” She paused and added, “Have you had dinner yet?”

“No. On the menu tonight at Chez Hadley is leftover roast and frozen Yorkshire pudding.”

“Why don’t you come along?” she said impulsively. “I’ve never liked sitting alone in a restaurant. I feel as though everyone’s staring at me, wondering who that sad woman is.”

“Oh, I doubt that. I’m sure they find you intriguing…a woman of mystery.” He paused. “Of course you know that if we dine together, tomorrow it’ll be all over Cavendish Avenue that we’re an item. Sure you want to risk it?”

Cherie didn’t hesitate. “I’m quite sure,” she said, and added, “Shall I meet you there?”

“No need. I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes.”

“OK. See you then.” With a smile, Cherie hung up the phone and retrieved the pearl eardrop once again.

Perhaps this evening wouldn’t be a total waste after all.

The bill arrived on Wednesday, innocuously enough, in a thick cream envelope. Gemma Astley slit the flap, ready to add it to the pile of invoices for Rhys’s approval. As she scanned the page, her eyes widened. She hurried in to Rhys’s office.