Prada and Prejudice (Dating Mr Darcy - Book 1) (29 page)

Hannah jumped down and came around to face him. “What are you doing? How dare you talk to Jago like that—”

“It’s OK, Hannah,” Jago cut in, wanting only to leave. “He’s right, I should go.” He cast Alastair a hostile glare. “I’ll call you later.” He let out the clutch and pulled away with a jerk and a puff of blue smoke.

“Couldn’t get away fast enough, could he?” Alastair observed with satisfaction. “That should tell you something.”

She rounded on him, fists bunched at her sides. “Jago lost his job today! His mum’s on the dole, she needs his pay! You’d know that if you’d ever given him a chance.”

“He’ll find another job. If business picks up, he’ll likely be re-hired in the autumn.”

Hannah’s eyes widened. “It was you, wasn’t it?
You
had something to do with getting him sacked! Because you don’t like him, and you don’t want me seeing him—”

He didn’t confirm or deny it. “You’re not to see Jago Sullivan again, Hannah. I forbid it.”

“You know, dad,” Hannah said evenly, “I hate you right now. But worse than that, I don’t even
like
you.” She turned on her heel and stalked back up the path to the front door.

Natalie parked in front of her flat that evening, then picked up her mobile and scrolled to her sister’s number.

“Caro? Where are you? You didn’t show up at my birthday ‘do’.”

“I’m at the fitter’s. I found a wedding gown at John Lewis and I’ve been here all afternoon.”

“Oh, good. Grandfather and mum were worried when you didn’t show. You might have called.”

“I know, sorry. I’ll call now, and grovel.”

“You’d better do a lot of grovelling.” Natalie glanced at her watch. “I’ve got groceries. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Wait! How’s the re-launch going? And how’s Rhys? Are you two an item?”

Were they? Natalie still wasn’t sure. Since the night they’d spent together, they’d not discussed their relationship, if that’s what it even was; nor had they exchanged more than a few hurried kisses. There simply wasn’t time.

“The marquees arrive next week, the Portaloos are coming on Friday, and a thousand things have gone wrong. In other words,” she finished, “it’s business as usual.”

“What about you and Rhys?” her sister prodded.

Nat bit her lip. “Hello? Caro? Sorry, you’re breaking up…” she said, and pressed ‘End Call’.

It rang almost immediately. Resigned, Natalie answered it.

“Breaking up, my arse,” Caroline snapped. “Spill, Nat. Have you slept with him, then?”

“That’s none of your business!” Natalie said, indignant.

“So you
have
slept with him.” She radiated smugness. “I knew it! I’m glad, Nat. If he makes you happy, and he’s not Dominic, that’s two points in his favour, and I’m all for it.”

“Thanks for your approval,” Natalie retorted, although she was secretly pleased. “Bye, Caro.” She shut off her mobile and tossed it in one of the carrier bags.

As she let herself in, she smelled the acrid stench of a cigarette. She wrinkled her nose.

“Dominic,” she called out irritably as she groped for the light switch, “that’s it, I’m changing the locks. You had an extra key made, didn’t you? I told you, I don’t want you popping round unannounced like this any more—”

“Hello, Natalie.”

Ian Clarkson was sprawled on her sofa, a cigarette in hand. A rucksack was on the floor. A half-drunk cup of tea and an ashtray littered with butts sat on the coffee table in front of him. It was the ashtray she kept for Dominic…the one tucked on the top shelf of her kitchen cupboard.

“How did you get in?” she demanded, her voice unsteady.

He leaned forward to crush out his cigarette. “Your landlord let me in. I told him I was your brother, down from Oxford for the weekend. Very obliging of him, don’t you think?” He smiled. “You see how easy it is.”

“Get out.”

“I hope you don’t treat all your guests so rudely, Nat.” He paused. “Alexa’s thrown me out, alas. I’ve nowhere to go.” He sat back and rested his arm out along the top of the sofa. “Fancy a flatmate?”

“You can’t stay here!” Natalie exclaimed, panicked. “If you don’t leave at once, I’ll call the police. I’ll file a harassment complaint at work, and you’ll lose your job. Is that what you want?”

He laughed. “Calm down, Nat. Keep your knickers on…at least for now. I’m not staying.”

“How long have you been here?”

He shrugged. “Not long. I see you went shopping.” He indicated the carrier bags she’d dropped by the door. “I do hope you haven’t said anything to anyone about me.” His eyes met hers as he stood.

“Of course I haven’t.” She turned away, her pulse racing, to retrieve the bags and put them in the kitchen.

“I did some digging on your boy Rhys,” he remarked as he followed her into the kitchen. “Quite a career he’s had.”

Natalie withdrew tins of tomatoes from one bag with shaking hands and thrust them onto a shelf. “What do you mean?”

Ian stood behind her. “He leveraged several buyouts and headed a couple of hostile takeovers, early on. Nothing illegal, mind, but he’s come close. If I were you, I’d ask myself what his intentions for the stores really are.”

“Rhys’s improved our bottom line. We’re turning a profit again, and he’s done it in a remarkably short time.”

“But what happens when he leaves? Did you ever ask yourself that? And he will leave, once the re-launch is over.”

“What do you mean?” she asked shortly as she put milk in the fridge. “We’ll go on as we are.”

He shook his head. “Without Rhys, everything will go back to shit. Sir Richard will die eventually, the old bastard, and who’ll take over then?” He smirked. “Alastair can’t run things alone, he hasn’t the balls. That’s why I need to take the helm, and soon. Otherwise, Rhys will come back and offer to buy you out, Natalie, and at a rock-bottom price. By then things will be so bad you’ll be desperate to sell. If it’s occurred to me,” he finished, “you can be sure it’s occurred to Rhys.”

Natalie slammed the fridge door. “I won’t listen to any more of this. Please leave.”

“Do you honestly think Rhys cares about you? You’re just a means to an end, a convenient way to work himself into your grandfather’s company…while he works his way into your knickers.”

“You’re disgusting. Get out, Ian.”

He returned to the sitting room and picked up his rucksack. “I’ll see you on Saturday night at the Savoy.” He took sip of his tea and made a face. “Ugh, it’s gone cold. By the way – you’re low on sugar. I hope you bought more. It wouldn’t do to run out, as I’ll want something sweet with my tea, next time.”

With a low laugh, he brushed his lips against her cheek, shouldered his bag, and left.

Chapter 38

Ian had barely left when the buzzer went downstairs.

Bloody hell, what now?
“Yes?” Nat snapped as she pressed the intercom button.

“S’me, Nat,” Dominic Heath mumbled into the intercom in a slurred voice, “and I’m screwed. Really, massively—” he belched “—fucked. My secret’s out, it’s all over the tabs.”

Natalie leaned her forehead against the speaker and closed her eyes. Dominic was drunk – what a perfect way to top off an absolutely crap day. “Come up,” she said resignedly, and pressed the button to let him in.

A few minutes later he was slumped against her doorjamb. He was in desperate need of a shower and a cup of coffee.

She did not invite him in. “What’s happened?”

“The whole world knows who I am, that’s what’s happened.” He hiccupped. “I’m the top story in all the tabs. Fucking Klaus, it’s all that bald-headed German bastard’s fault.”

Holding the door wider, she sighed. “Come in. I’ll make coffee. Crikey, but you’re pissed.”

He staggered inside. “Didn’t interrupt anything, did I? You’re not with that arsehole Gordon, are you?” He peered around her shoulder, as if she’d hidden Rhys in a closet, or stashed him underneath the coffee table.

“No.” Natalie glared at him. “You can’t stay here, Dominic. I have work in the morning, and lots to do. It’s the last week before the re-launch. And you’ve got rehearsals tomorrow. You can’t be drunk. I’ll put on a pot of coffee—”

“Nat.” He swayed unsteadily on his feet. “I don’t want any bloody coffee, I want—” he winked “—you.”

Natalie pushed him away. “Dominic, you’re drunk, and you reek. In the shower,” she ordered, and took his arm. “Now.”

His face lit up. “Best offer I’ve had all night.”

“Alone,” she added grimly.

“You know what, Nat?” he confided, and slung his arm around her shoulder. “So many girls want me, sometimes I can’t keep up. And Vicks…she was insatiable. Had to pop a Viagra just to keep her happy, you know?”

“No, I don’t. And I don’t
want
to know.” She led him to the bathroom and handed him soap, a towel, and a spare toothbrush. “Scrub up. In the meantime, I’ll make that coffee.” She closed the door on his protests and went into the kitchen.

Honestly, would Dom’s dramas never end? As kids growing up in Warwickshire, they’d been in each other’s pockets; then they fell in love, or a close approximation, and spent two years sharing a tour bus and the crazy, exhilarating, unpredictable life of a rock star.

But that was over, and they’d moved on. Yet here Dom was again, drunk and despondent because his life was in a mess.

Oh, well
, Natalie thought grudgingly,
you don’t turn your back on a friend. And Dominic is still my oldest friend.

When the coffee was ready, she poured a cup and added two sugars and plenty of milk, just the way he liked it. She paused to listen. The shower had stopped.

Natalie knocked. “Coffee’s ready.”

He opened the door. A towel was wrapped around his hips, and his hair stood up in a wet quiff, like a punk rooster.

“Are you hungry?” she asked him as she handed him the cup. “I’ll make an omelette if you like.”

He shook his head and wrapped his hands round the cup. “Just coffee, thanks.” He scowled. “And don’t go telling anyone about the Viagra thing. That’s just between us.”

In the kitchen, she put biscuits on a plate and set them on the table. “Now tell me what’s happened. We agreed that you’d give Klaus Phillip’s discarded sketches, and those photos we took of last season’s dresses in my closet.”

“I did! But he threw them back and said he wasn’t a fool, that he knew the difference between Rochas and Pryce. Whatever that means. Sound like a pair of solicitors to me.” He picked up a biscuit and dunked it disconsolately in his coffee.

“It means,” Nat said grimly, “that Klaus is too clever to be fooled so easily. He
is
the fashion director for Maison Laroche, after all. Or he
was
.” Guilt stabbed her. “Oh, Dominic… I’m sorry. This is partly my fault.”

“My fans are saying I’m a fake, a hypocrite…”

“Not all of them think so, surely—”

He snorted. “Then tell me why ‘I Got Mine’ slipped from three to thirty-nine on the charts practically overnight? The band’s pissed at me for not telling them the truth, and Mick’s threatening to quit.”

“He won’t,” Natalie reassured him.

“Well, whether he does or not, it doesn’t matter,” Dominic said glumly. “Either way, my career’s over. It can’t get any worse than this. Right, I take that back. It’ll get much worse once my father gets wind of all this.”

“Your father,” Natalie agreed, “will be livid.”

“I promised I’d never drag the family name into my music career. Now look.” He put his head in his hands.

“It’ll work out,” Natalie promised, with more conviction than she felt. “In the meantime,” she said, “you can stay the night. You’re in no shape to drive…or to walk, for that matter,” she added as she went to the airing cupboard.

Dominic raised his head hopefully. “You mean you and me—?”

“No,” Nat said firmly, “I mean you and the sofa.” She withdrew a blanket and sheet and thrust them at him. “It’s only for tonight, mind.”

“But I can’t stay at the hotel any longer. The paparazzi found me out. I need a new place to hide.”

“Sorry, but you can’t hide here. Here’s a waste bin,” she added, and set it by the sofa. “I don’t want your sick on my carpet. Good night.”

“‘Night,” he echoed, his expression contrite. “Thanks, Nat, you’re a star—”

“Just go to sleep, Dominic. We’ll figure out what to do tomorrow.” Natalie went in her bedroom and shut the door, and made a point of turning the lock.

Despite her irritation at Dominic and her worries about Ian and the re-launch, she fell almost instantly into an immediate and exhausted sleep.

Dominic sat cross-legged on Nat’s sofa and sipped his coffee. He made a face. Nasty stuff…it needed a double shot of whiskey.

He picked up the TV remote and listlessly surfed the channels. His brain was still reeling, but at least he was alert, thanks to the caffeine.

Hold up – what was that? He paused to watch a breaking BBC news story, something about Phillip Pryce, the designer that Klaus was so interested in. Dominic turned up the sound.

“—clothing for the Dashwood and James line is manufactured in Nepal by workers making less than two pounds a day,” the female BBC correspondent stated. “As you can see, working conditions here in the factory are appalling.” The camera panned to show a filthy workroom crowded with sewing machines manned by thin, exhausted-looking workers.

“Shit,” Dominic breathed.

The correspondent held up a striped top. “Under Phillip Pryce’s label, this item sells in Dashwood and James department stores for £35. Yet the women who sew this garment make 20 pence apiece. According to statistics from the International Labour Organization, the shift of work to Asia and the resultant proliferation of sweatshops is a growing global phenomenon—”

Dazed, Dominic switched off the TV. As he debated whether to wake Nat to tell her, the buzzer sounded. Who the hell was that, wanting to be let up at – he squinted at the clock in the kitchen – eleven o’clock on a Wednesday night?

A towel wrapped tightly around his hips, Dominic pressed the intercom button. “Yeah?”

There was a pause. “Dominic?” Rhys Gordon said.

“Yeah, that’s me. What do you want, Gordon?”