care about you, Nat,” he said staunchly. “We go back a long way, you and me. We were mates before we ever…well, you know. I just don’t want to see you get hurt by that Scottish plonker, that’s all.”
“Rhys is all right, Dom. Really.” Her indignation faded. “So you needn’t worry.” She turned to go, then paused. “By the way, I’ve a favour to ask. A huge favour.”
“Sure. Whatever you need. Unless it involves Gordon,” he added with a scowl. “Then all bets are off.”
Briefly Nat explained about the re-launch and their need for a few big names to draw customers in. “And no one’s more famous than you,” she pointed out. “Except, perhaps, Keeley.”
“What is it you want me to, exactly? Put on a show in the middle of the menswear department?”
“No, of course not! We’ll film a commercial, with you kitted out in clothing from the store, and we’ll do a print ad. There’s to be a fashion show, and a concert – starring you.”
Just then, Rhys appeared on the restaurant’s steps. He cast Dominic a glacial glare. “Are you coming, Natalie?”
“I’ll be right there.” She turned back to Dominic. “So, are you in, Dom? Will you do it?”
Dominic cast a dark look in Rhys’ direction. “I’ll do it,” he said, and added more loudly, “for you, Nat. Not for him.”
She squealed and threw her arms around him. “Thanks so much, Dom – you’re a star! Truly, you won’t be sorry. It’ll be great publicity for you and for the stores.”
“Yeah, right, whatever. Just text me the date and I’ll clear it with Max.”
Max, Natalie knew, was his long-suffering agent. “I’ll send you the details tomorrow,” she promised.
“Natalie?” Rhys snapped. “If you don’t come in soon, they’ll be serving bloody breakfast.”
“Sorry.” She gave Dominic an apologetic smile and turned to go. “Thanks again, Dom,” she said over her shoulder.
“Yeah, no problem. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he called after her ominously, and jerked his head in Gordon’s direction.
As she went up the stairs into the restaurant, Natalie couldn’t help wondering if Dominic was, perhaps, right. Did Rhys fancy her? And more to the point – how would she feel about it if he did?
Patrons crowded the bar at the Bull and Feather on Friday night as Natalie arrived at the pub after work. She went in search of a table, narrowly avoiding a baptism in stout from an over-friendly drunk.
“Are you OK? That was close.”
Natalie looked up to see Holly James, Alastair’s eldest daughter, standing at a nearby table. “Holly! I’m fine, no thanks to that great ginger-haired lout over there.” She glared at the man who’d nearly ruined her new ‘Poppy’ handbag. “What are you doing here?”
“I came with a mate from work. She’s here somewhere. Want to join us? There’s plenty of room.”
“If you don’t mind hanging with us old folk,” Natalie joked as she slid into a seat. “Thanks.”
“What do you lot want?” Holly James called out as Nat’s sister Caro, trailed by Tarquin and Wren, arrived.
“A pint. And crisps! I’m starving.” Natalie hadn’t eaten since her lunch with Rhys, and she’d only nibbled at a salad.
“Same for me,” Tarquin said.
“Water with lemon for me,” Wren, Tarquin’s fiancée, said. “I’m on detox this week. No alcohol.”
As they sat down, Tarquin asked, “How’s your new job, Nat?”
“I’ve been insanely busy. Rhys runs me off my feet.”
“What’s he like?” Caro asked. “According to the newpapers, he’s more exacting than Gordon Ramsay.”
But Natalie didn’t answer. She’d just spotted Rhys, leaning against the bar talking to a long-legged brunette. A dove-grey coat was draped over her arm, and a black sheath emphasised her curves; but her towering Perspex heels cheapened the look. She laughed at something Rhys said.
Nat’s eyes narrowed. What was Rhys doing here, chatting up that half-baked Carla Bruni wannabe? She was plainly out of place in the Bull. The girls here wore high-street clothes, not Céline or Chanel…and they didn’t wear Perspex heels.
She was probably a call girl, Natalie decided, meeting her client – Rhys – to make arrangements for a night of hot monkey sex together—
“Earth to Nat,” Caro prodded as Natalie sank down into a chair. “I said, what’s your new boss like?”
Natalie couldn’t take her eyes away from the bar. “Rhys? He’s full of…surprises.” She stood up as not-Carla laid her slim, no-wedding-ring hand on Rhys’s sleeve. “Excuse me.”
As she wove her way through the crowd and arrived at the bar, Natalie feigned surprise. “Rhys! I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Natalie.” He didn’t look particularly pleased. “I didn’t expect to see you, either.”
“Obviously.” She cast a pointed glance at the brunette and waited for Rhys to introduce them. He didn’t.
“Nina,” she said in a soft French accent as she offered Natalie her hand. “We were just discussing business.”
Right, then, even worse. She was a French call girl!
“Business,” Natalie echoed, plainly unconvinced. “Are you a lawyer, then,” she prodded the girl, “or an advertising executive?” Surely there was a reasonable explanation.
“Nina isn’t a lawyer, or an advertising executive,” Rhys said, and popped a crisp in his mouth. “She’s a stripper.”
Natalie’s eyes widened. That explained the tacky shoes, then. She couldn’t seem to formulate a proper response. Was there a proper response?
“I’ve just hired her for my best mate’s stag party next Friday night,” Rhys told her. “We’re hammering out the details.” At her look of outrage, he added, “You did ask.”
“Yes,” Natalie said tightly, “and I wish I hadn’t.”
Rhys smiled. “Remember what I said about making assumptions?” he murmured in her ear. Aloud he said, “Nina does a striptease act. Very tasteful, so I’m told.”
“I didn’t realise a striptease act could be tasteful,” Natalie said with as much dignity as she could muster. “Well, I’d best get back to my friends. Nina,” she added with a frosty nod of her head, and stalked away.
“What was that about?” her sister asked when she returned.
“Nothing. I saw Rhys, and I stopped to say hello.” Desperate to change the subject, she added, “He and I met with Klaus von Richter yesterday.”
Wren leaned forward, intrigued. “Klaus von Richter, the fashion designer? How did that go?”
“Not well.” Natalie paused as Holly returned with drinks and packets of crisps. “Rhys asked him if we might carry his clothing line in the flagship store. He turned us down flat.”
“The nerve!” Caro exclaimed. “Why?”
“He said Dashwood and James is second rate.” Natalie took a long sip of her pint. “He couldn’t be arsed to even consider letting us carry his precious couture line.”
“Klaus is a prat,” Holly agreed as she sat down next to Natalie. “Thinks he’s Yves St. Laurent and Karl Lagerfeld rolled into one.”
“Well,