The Dating Mr Darcy Trilogy: Prada and Prejudice / Love and Liability / Mansfield Lark

“The rough cut looked great,” Gemma agreed. “Dominic was amazing.” She shifted gears. “Shame he’s such a fuck-all.”

Natalie glanced at her. “He’s dumped Victoria, you know.”

Gemma gave her a withering glance. “And why, exactly, would I care?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I just thought I’d mention it.”

“Well, I don’t give a toss. I’ve no interest in Dominic bloody Heath.”

Natalie said nothing more, but she saw a tiny glimmer of a smile on Gemma’s lips.

Chapter 31 (#ulink_e3a00606-1416-5d42-aafd-fa5a19389ff5)

Dinner was finished and the dishes put away when Alastair came home that evening. Cherie folded the dishtowel atop the Aga and went into the foyer.

“Hello, darling, your dinner’s in the warmer. I’ll get it—”

“Don’t bother. I’ve eaten.” His words were clipped. “Where’s Hannah?”

“She went with Jo to a movie.”

“Good,” he said, as he laid his briefcase and keys on the hallway table. “Tell me – what did you do today?”

Something in his tone alerted Cherie that this was more than just an idle question. “Nothing much… Neil returned a shirt to Harrod’s. He asked me along. It was a bit spur of the moment, you know how these things are.”

“Does the man never work?”

“He’s a consultant for an engineering firm. He works from home two days a week.”

“I had lunch today at Thomas Cubitt.” He saw the quick, wary glance she cast his way. “I was with Rhys. I saw you come in with Neil.”

“Alastair—”

“Don’t bother to tell me it was nothing,” he warned her. “I’m not an idiot. Have the two of you slept together yet?”

“No!” she cried. Guilt at how close she’d come to doing just that – and, more tellingly, how much she’d wanted to do it – made her defensive. “Do you think we’d be brazen enough to go round the corner from Dashwood and James for lunch, where anyone might see us, if we were really having an affair?”

“I don’t know. Would you? Perhaps it’s like that Edgar Allen Poe story, where the letter’s hidden in plain view, yet no one sees it.” He looked at her. “I never saw it, until today.”

“Alastair,” she said, her voice trembling, “this is ridiculous! If I’m to be accused of sleeping with Neil, no matter that I haven’t, then perhaps I should sleep with him.”

“Perhaps you should.” He turned away and walked to the staircase.

Panic crossed her face. “Where are you going?”

He paused on the bottom step. “I’m going upstairs to change. Then I’m pouring myself a double scotch. After that, I’m moving my things into the guest bedroom.”

“Alastair, for God’s sake—”

“I’m not leaving, Cherie, if that’s what’s worrying you, or if that’s what you’re hoping. I’ve done nothing wrong. If anyone’s to leave, it’ll be you.”

“You’ve done nothing wrong?” she echoed, suddenly furious. “All you do is work, cancel dinners, miss important family events, and turn me down for sex time and again, because you’re always too bloody tired—”

“Because I’m too fucking busy trying to save the stores from bankruptcy!” he shouted. “Too busy trying to pay for this house, and the house in the country, and the school fees for Hannah’s education!”

There was a shocked silence.

“My God, Cherie, have you any idea of the stress I’ve been under? Every day I deal with endless demands from Rhys, losses and overheads and falling profits; my daughter barely speaks to me, and my wife jumps into bed with the first man who comes along, because I’m too busy killing myself working to keep her properly entertained!”

Neither of them heard Hannah come in the front door.

“Mum? Dad?” she said, her eyes wide with uncertainty, one hand on the doorknob. “What’s going on? Why are you shouting?”

Cherie cast Alastair a look of pure fury. “It’s nothing, darling, just an argument.” She forced a smile. “Go upstairs. I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

“So you can make me cocoa and tuck me up and read me a story about Jemima Puddle-Duck?” Hannah snapped. “I’m not a kid any more! Something’s wrong. I heard you shouting! Why won’t you just tell me the truth?”

“Hannah—”

But Hannah brushed past them both and stormed up the stairs to her room.

The television commercial featuring Dominic Heath aired four weeks later.

“Thanks to all of you,” Rhys Gordon told the store employees assembled in the conference room. “And thanks to Natalie and Gemma for coping with Dominic’s meltdown during the shoot. Good job, everyone.”

As the others left, Rhys asked Natalie to remain behind. “Are Phillip’s new designs ready for the re-launch? We haven’t much time, less than a month now. We can’t afford any delays.”

“Yes. The clothes are gorgeous, better than his original designs. He’s bringing samples today. Production starts soon.”

“Good. What about promotional materials?”

“Dominic’s record company’s giving access to download his new single – free, of course. We’re including store coupons and cosmetic samples in the swag bag as well.”

“What about invitations, publicity?”

“We’ve ads in the papers and social media. The after-party’s on a first-come, first-served basis. Oh, and there’s a big, splashy ad on our website.”

“Speaking of which, the site’s vastly improved,” Rhys observed as he gathered up his things. “Ian’s team really turned it around.”

Natalie’s smile faded. “Good. If there’s nothing else—”

“Actually, there is… Natalie, has Ian bothered you lately?” Rhys asked abruptly.

She looked at him, surprised. “No.” Almost a month had passed since she’d heard from Ian. Every day she lived in fear that he’d make good on his threat, and she’d see her father’s name splashed across every tabloid in London. But there’d been no phone calls, no press…nothing.

“Good. I’ve kept him busy.” He fixed his dark blue eyes on hers. “Gemma told me he’s harassed you at work. I had a word with him.”

She bristled. “She had no right to tell you that.”