Rhys picked up his burger. “You’ve so much potential with Dashwood and James, so much history, yet you don’t seem to care. You haven’t kept up with the times, either of you.
“And yes,” he added, “before you say it, I know you hired me to fix things. But at the end of the day, Alastair, it’s your company, and Sir Richard’s. Not mine.” He shrugged. “Perhaps you both deserve to lose the stores.”
“Perhaps we do,” Alastair agreed, and picked up his fork. “My marriage is in trouble at the moment. My daughter, Hannah…she’s a teenager, with all the drama and stress that entails. I’m not making excuses, mind; but it’s difficult for my wife to manage things alone just now.”
Rhys lifted his glass. “I’m sure it isn’t easy, raising a family.” There was an edge to his voice. “Requires a great deal of sacrifice, I should think.”
“It’s a constant balancing act,” Alastair agreed. “What about you? Have you family in London?” he asked.
“No. I was born in Edinburgh and left my mam and half-brother behind to come here when I was seventeen. It’s nothing you can’t Google,” he added dryly. “No need to ply me with overpriced burgers and stout.”
Alastair smiled slightly. “No, I suppose not. I’m only curious. Is your mother still in Edinburgh?”
“Yes.” He offered no additional information.
Rhys pushed aside his plate and glanced at his watch. “Time I went. Check, please,” he called out to the bartender.
Alastair took out his wallet. “I’ve got it. Thank you for joining me.”
“Thanks for lunch.” Rhys stood and clapped a hand briefly on Alastair’s shoulder.
Just then, Rhys saw Alastair’s wife Cherie come in, accompanied by a handsome, sandy-haired man. His hand rested on Cherie’s back. A waiter led them into the restaurant area and seated them by a corner window.
She was attractive, Rhys noted, her dark hair short and stylishly cut, her smile warm and wide. He’d never guess her youngest daughter was about to go off to university.
Curious, he glanced at Alastair to gauge his reaction.
Alastair stared at the two of them, a muscle working in his jaw. Rhys felt a stab of sympathy. It couldn’t be easy for Alastair to see his wife and her lover, flaunting their affair – if that’s what it was – in the middle of a restaurant crowded with his coworkers…
Ah well, Rhys mused as he followed Alastair out of the restaurant, extramarital affairs almost always ended badly – as he well knew. But as the French said, tant pis.
Tough luck, that.
Halfway through lunch at her desk, Gemma’s phone rang. She held the receiver away from her ear as an angry flood of words assaulted her. “No need to shout!” she snapped. “Wait – Dominic wants what?” She lifted her finger to get Natalie’s attention and pressed the speakerphone on.
Over the squawk of guitars and ear-wrenching microphone feedback, the director yelled, “The little tit showed up on set with an attitude, and now he’s refusing to perform unless Miss Dashwood shows up.”
“But Natalie can’t come to the studio just because Dominic is having a meltdown—”
“She’d bloody well better,” the director said grimly, “or this’ll go down as the most expensive television commercial ever NOT made!” And he slammed down the phone.
Gemma rang off and looked at Natalie. “Sorry, but it sounds like you’re going out to the studio today.”
Natalie clutched her head in her hands. “I don’t have time for Dominic and his drama today!”
“I’ve an idea.” Gemma tapped a pencil against her lips. “Rhys is gone for the day, and I’m caught up. I’ll go with you. I wouldn’t mind seeing Dominic in action.”
Natalie gave a derisive snort as she stood and grabbed her bag. “Just imagine a two-year-old having a tantrum on the floor, and you’ve seen Dominic in action.”
They piled into Gemma’s Skoda and headed for Soho. They found the studio twenty minutes later, on a side street at the end of an alley.
“Thank God!” the director exclaimed as they arrived. He indicated the brightly lit soundstage set up with drums, amplifiers, guitar stands and microphones with a jerk of his head. “It’s the second day of shooting, and we haven’t nearly enough usable footage yet. I hope you can make the little sod see reason, because I can’t.”
Dominic strummed a loud, discordant chord on his guitar. “There’s more reverb in this place than my bloody bathroom!” he snarled, and kicked an amp cabinet. “How can we be expected to make music, much less film a commercial—”
He broke off as he saw Natalie and Gemma. “Nat! You’re here.”
“Yeah, I’m here,” she said crossly. “You’re costing us a fortune. What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong? We could record in a garbage skip or inside a loo and sound better than we do in this echoing shithole, that’s what’s wrong.” He scowled. “I’m not putting out a crap commercial. It’s got to sound good, or what’s the point?”
Gemma raised one perfectly groomed brow. “What do you suggest?”
“How should I know!” he snapped. “Probably sound better in the alley than it does in here.” He regarded her through narrowed eyes. “Who are you, anyway?”
“Gemma Astley.” She crossed her arms against her chest and glared back at him. “Not that it’s your business, but I’m Rhys Gordon’s personal assistant.”
“Why aren’t you assisting him, then?” he snapped. “I didn’t know this was an open set, now they’re letting any random bird just walk in off the bloody street.”
“And I didn’t know you were such a noxious little twat.”
Before the conversation could deteriorate further, Natalie stepped between them and pulled Dominic aside. “I’ll speak to the director, see if we can sort out the permits and move you and the boys outside. OK?”
He nodded, his expression still surly as he glared at Gemma. “Bitch,” he muttered.
Gemma smirked. “Bit of advice, Dominic. Unless you fancy looking like a second-rate Alice Cooper in your video, you’d best get your eyeliner fixed while they’re moving your gear.”
He bridled. Natalie pulled him away before he could respond, and cast Gemma a quelling glare. “Come on, Dominic, let’s talk to the director about moving your kit, then we’ll get your eyeliner fixed.”
“Stroppy cow!” he muttered, still scowling at Gemma. “She’s toxic, just like that Gordon bloke.”
Natalie threaded her way through the cameras and lights, dragging Dominic in her wake. “Come on, let’s get this commercial made.”
“Nat, wait.” He stopped and ran a hand through his hair. “It’s not just the sound that’s got me crazy…it’s you.” He scowled down at his Converse trainers. “I miss you.”
“Dominic,” Nat said impatiently, “we’ve been through this! We don’t work together, we never have—”
“I dumped Victoria,” he interrupted. “That ought to count for something. It shouldn’t have happened, but after half a fifth of Chivas, the next thing I knew we were in the broom closet, shagging for England—”
“If this is meant to make me feel better, it’s not working,” Natalie snapped. She took a deep breath. “Listen, your ad for Dissolute is all anyone’s talking about. And your new single’s at number three.” She paused. “You need to focus on your career