Sins

His brain was refusing to wake up, creaking into action like an asthmatic old car, wheezing and protesting at every demand made on its clapped-out engine. Clapped out–that was exactly how he felt. No way was he going to make Vogue’s office for half-past twelve, never mind twelve. He sat up in bed, dropping his head into his hands and squeezing his eyes tightly closed against the thudding pain in his head.

He really should not have drunk that suspect bottle of wine last night after his bacon sandwich. He had been thirsty, though, and in the mood to celebrate, and the wine had been there.

The thin ray of reluctant sunshine edging its way past the faded curtains made him wince, as it lanced his aching eyes and then dappled his naked torso honey gold. His olive-toned skin tanned easily, and as soon as the weather warmed up he’d be off down to Brighton to get himself a tan and check out the girls in their swimsuits.

Quarter to one, gone that now. Hell. Vogue’s fashion editor would have his guts for garters, and his balls off as well. No way was he going to make the appointment. But he could still make the boat train, if he went direct to the station.

His earlier malaise forgotten, he was galvanised into action, getting out of bed to reach for the jeans he had left lying on the floor, and pulling on a sweater before heading barefoot for the door and the public telephone in the hallway to the flats. He’d ring Vogue and tell them that due to unforeseen circumstances he’d meet up with them on the platform.

He grinned to himself before starting to whistle under his breath. It would be OK. It always was for Oliver Charters.

Chapter Twelve

Ella grimaced beneath the weight of the bags her boss had given her to carry. She had travelled from the office to the station in a taxi with the three models and the makeup artist, and had somehow or other ended up having to help the makeup artist carry her things as well as her own and her boss’s.

The platform was a chaotic mix of travellers and those who had come to see them off, heads turning to stare at the models in their ‘departure outfits’, ready to be photographed embarking onto the train, providing the photographer ever actually turned up.

The fashion editor had given vent to her feelings about his absence with a string of profanities that had turned the air in the offices as blue as her blood, and her assistants had been dispatched to try to drum up a stand-in.

Now that they were on the platform Ella looked round anxiously for her own boss, exhaling faintly with relief when she saw her. Their brief was to source information for an article about the way the social scene in Venice was changing, as the old guard of fashionable visitors, such as Coco Chanel and her peers, gave way to the likes of Princess Grace of Monaco and Greek shipping millionaires, as well as the perennial British upper classes, continental aristocrats and pretty society girls.

Ella was travelling in sensible clothes, wearing a tweed coat over her plain jumper and skirt, but in deference to the specialness of the occasion she had crammed a small hat with a pretty veil down on top of her now windblown curls. She was satisfyingly aware for the first time that only this week, when she lay down in bed, she could actually feel her ribs. Losing weight had become an exciting challenge now that she knew how it was done. She’d lost over a stone and she could dare herself to lose as many pounds as she wished.

To Ella’s relief, at the same time as she spied the features editor, a porter finally arrived to relieve her of her case, leaving her free to hurry to her boss’s side, keeping a firm grip on her handbag and the portable typewriter which she’d been told must never leave her possession.

Ollie surveyed the seething mêlée on the platform with a grimace. He hated Vogue shoots, but there were certain benefits, like the money and a chance to flirt with the models, and, if he was lucky and they were willing, do more than merely flirt.

He hadn’t had time to shave, merely managing a quick shower from which his overlong hair was still slightly damp, like the white T-shirt he had pulled on without bothering to dry himself properly, before stepping back into his jeans.

His well-worn leather jacket would keep the spring wind at bay, and he had managed to find clean underwear, socks and a T-shirt to throw into his camera bag before gathering up all his equipment and hot-footing it to the station.

The fashion editor greeted him with a baleful look and a threat never to employ him again, but he shrugged off her anger with a mocking smile, confident that once she saw his photographs she would forget all about his lateness.

He studied the models with an experienced assessing eye–not so much as models, more as potential bed mates. He rather thought he favoured the redhead. She’d got that look about her that suggested she’d know all the right moves. As he turned away his attention was caught by the sight of Ella making her way towards her boss, and his smile widened.

They’d had a couple of run-ins at the office since the night he’d seen her in the taxi and he’d begun to enjoy tormenting her, all the more so because she never quite managed to conceal her dislike of him.

Shouldering his bag, he made his way purposefully towards her, blocking off her access to her boss by placing himself in front of her

‘Afternoon, princess.’

Oh, no, the photographer was Oliver Charters! Ella’s heart sank. She detested the cocky East Ender. He was arrogant and full of himself when he had no right to be, acting as though he was something special, ignoring the rules that other people–people like her–automatically obeyed, causing mayhem whenever he came into the office, flirting with the models, and generally acting as though the world revolved around him.

As for that ridiculous name he had given her…Her face started to burn in anger.

‘I have told you before not to call me that,’ she reminded him through gritted teeth.

‘It suits you,’ Ollie told her unrepentantly.

A gap appeared to one side of him and, seizing her chance to escape, Ella quickly sidestepped him, the sound of his mocking laughter following her as she finally managed to reach her boss.

If she’d known that he was going to be the photographer she would have refused to come, Ella told herself, following her boss onto the train.

The Fashion Department had a carriage to themselves to accommodate the models, the makeup artist and the trunk full of clothes, along with Ollie and the fashion editor herself, whilst Ella and the other junior members of staff were sharing a carriage with other travellers. Ella had ended up scrunched up in her seat, penned in by a hugely fat businessman next to her. Still, at least she was away from that obnoxious photographer.

As the English countryside flashed by, Ella tried to enjoy the scenery but couldn’t help thinking about Oliver Charters. That wretched man was like a constant irritant, rubbing her nerves raw and making her feel on edge. Her head ached and she was finding it hard to sit still, even though she had barely slept, as angry thoughts about him flew round inside her head.

Emerald frowned irritably. The only reason she had attended this dull luncheon party was because she had heard that the duke was coming, and now he obviously wasn’t.

‘Well, it looks like you’ve made a conquest,’ one of the other girls murmured in Emerald’s ear, indicating who she meant. Lavinia Halstead was already as good as engaged to her second cousin in a match that had been encouraged by their parents almost from the moment of their births, and because of that she had the air of someone who was above all the anxiety of finding a suitable beau before the end of the season.

The young man in question was indeed staring at Emerald in a very admiring way. He was also, she recognised, extremely good-looking, with a head of thick black curls and intense dark eyes. She hadn’t seen him before. She would certainly have remembered him if she had. He was wearing a well-cut lounge suit, and the light from the chandeliers glinted on the heavy gold ring he was wearing on his right hand. She made a small moue of distaste. It was very off for men to wear jewellery, unless, of course, that jewellery was a symbol of status–a ducal ring, for instance, bearing a family crest. Still, he was awfully good-looking. And he was making no attempt to conceal his interest in her, watching her with almost feverish intensity.

‘Who is he, do you know?’ she asked Lavinia casually.

‘Oh, yes, he was at school with my brother.’

The Halsteads were a devout Catholic family, whose sons were always schooled at a Jesuit-run Catholic boarding school in Cumbria.

‘He doesn’t look English,’ Emerald stated, giving him another assessing glance. That olive-toned skin combined with those thick dark curls could never belong to anyone English, nor could that hotly demanding and passionate look he was giving. It was rather delicious to have such a good-looking boy gazing at her with such obvious out-of-control longing, rather like being bathed in the heat of Mediterranean sunshine.

‘No, Alessandro is Laurantese.’

‘Laurantese? What on earth does that mean?’ Emerald demanded suspiciously, half suspecting that Lavinia was deliberately teasing her.

‘It means that Alessandro is from Lauranto,’ Lavinia informed her in a reproving, almost schoolmistress-like voice. ‘Lauranto is a small principality, like Monaco or Liechtenstein, on the coast between Italy and France, the Côte d’Azur. In fact, Alessandro isn’t merely from Lauranto, his family actually rule it–Alessandro is the Crown Prince.’

Emerald looked again at her admirer. A crown prince!

Whilst Lavinia had been talking, Gwendolyn, in that typically sneaky way of hers, had managed to detach herself from the girl she had been with to come over and listen in on their conversation.

‘Foreign princes aren’t proper princes,’ she announced disparagingly. ‘Not like our own royal family.’

‘Of course they are proper princes,’ Emerald told her sharply. ‘How can they not be? A prince is a prince, after all.’

‘Now that he’s seen me talking to you, he’s bound to expect me to introduce him to you,’ Lavinia told Emerald. ‘I should warn you that he is fearfully, well, foreign, if you know what I mean, and very intense. He only joined Michael’s school in their last year. He’d been educated privately at home before that. His mother is terrified that something might happen to him, he being her only child. His father was killed in a hunting accident just after he was born and, according to what Alessandro has told Michael, his mother thinks that his father’s death might not have been an accident and that it could have been part of a plot by Mussolini to annex Lauranto. His mother can’t wait for him to get married and start producing lots of heirs and spares to fill the royal nurseries.’

Lyddy Munroe had joined then now, and after Lavinia had excused herself to go and rejoin her mother, who was signalling to her, Lyddy turned to Emerald and said excitedly, ‘Imagine marrying a prince, and having your very own country, just like Grace Kelly marrying Prince Rainier.’

‘You’d never catch me marrying a foreigner,’ Gwendolyn told them sniffily.

‘No, I dare say you wouldn’t,’ Emerald agreed unkindly. ‘After all, you’d have to find one willing to marry you first.’

Gwendolyn’s face went beetroot red whilst Lyddy looked uncomfortable and confused.

Gwendolyn had had it coming to her, Emerald thought with satisfaction. She never lost a chance to needle her about her boast that she would marry a title better than her mother’s, and she was just waiting for her to fail so that she could crow over her. But she wasn’t going to fail, Emerald assured herself, darting a teasing look in the prince’s direction before turning her back on him. Gwendolyn was right about one thing: marrying a foreign prince did not have the same cachet as marrying a member of one’s own royal family. However, there was no harm in her holding her new admirer in reserve, and using him to make the Duke of Kent jealous.

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