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.
He didn’t look up from his ledgers and spreadsheets. Gemma noticed that the black-framed eyeglasses he wore, hideous on anyone else, looked downright sexy. “Yes, Gemma, what is it?”
“You’d better have a look at this.”
He glanced briefly at the invoice she held out to him. “Yes, it’s a bill. Add it to the pile and send it to accounts payable.”
“Look at the amount.”
He frowned and looked at it more closely. The invoice listed one Missoni tank dress, £919.27; one Roberto Cavalli sheath dress, £372.32; and one Waterford Regency crystal chandelier, shipped to Draemar Castle, County Clare, Scotland, net cost—
Rhys paused, and dropped his pen. “Good God. Eleven thousand pounds…for a chandelier?” He closed his eyes.
Natalie. This had to be her doing. No wonder she hadn’t shown up on Saturday afternoon to look at the store’s financial spreadsheets; she’d been too busy shopping for designer dresses and overpriced chandeliers.
“Gemma,” he called out grimly, “get me Sir Richard on the phone. I need to speak with him straight away.”
Who would’ve thought London had so many bridal salons?
Caroline Dashwood stopped to slip off her shoe and rub her foot. She’d tried on and rejected a dozen wedding