Katie Oliver - Prada And Prejudice

“That’s not fair,” Natalie protested. “I worked. I did! Well, for a bit…but I wanted to be with Dominic instead.”

“Ah, yes. Dominic .” Distaste was plain upon his face.

“I thought…I was sure I was in love with him.”

“Yes. So you followed him on tour, putting your own life on hold, and let him treat you like – pardon my vulgarity – shit.” He held up a hand as she protested. “Ever since you met him, you’ve drifted along like an unmoored ship. I allowed it, because I thought eventually you’d settle down…to something, or someone. But you haven’t. And now, this.”

“I can explain—”

“Can you indeed? Can you explain how Rhys Gordon ‘engineered’ this photo of you, pressing yourself against him with your arms round his neck?”

Natalie blushed. “I was drunk, and furious at Dominic. But nothing happened. Rhys took me home, and left.”

“Then you’re very lucky. I’m not so far past it that I don’t remember what young men can be like, especially when it comes to taking advantage of a situation. How fortunate for you that Mr. Gordon behaved like a gentleman.”

Natalie hung her head.

“Your mother called me earlier. Reporters and photographers are camped out in front of her house, ringing her telephone—”

“I know. She left me four messages.”

“Did it never occur to you to call her back?”

“I couldn’t! I had a lunch meeting with Rhys and couldn’t check my messages until this afternoon.”

Sir Richard regarded her, his expression unreadable. “I hate to say it, Natalie, but things can’t continue on as they are. You must either find employment, or settle down with a more suitable young man. I won’t allow you to throw your life away in this irresponsible manner any longer.”

She looked at him in alarm. “What do you mean?”

“You must learn to make your own way. You’ve been provided with an excellent education and every privilege a young woman could want. Natalie, I love you dearly. But I will not tolerate – or finance – your bohemian lifestyle any longer.”

“But…how will I pay the rent on my flat without my quarterly allowance? Or put petrol in my car?”

“You’ll find a job, I expect, like the rest of the world.” He paused. “You might even find that you like being useful.”

Stiffly, Natalie stood and retrieved her handbag. It was unbearable to hear grandfather echoing Rhys’s own words. “I came here because I thought you’d understand. Instead, you’re telling me you’re cutting me off unless I find a job, or a husband. Have I got the gist of it?”

“I dislike having to say these things as much as you dislike hearing them. But they must be said.”

“I feel completely blindsided,” Natalie whispered, and her throat tightened. “Dominic’s dumped me, Caro’s getting married…everyone’s getting on with their lives, doing things, building careers. Moving on…and leaving me b-behind.”

Sir Richard drew her into his arms and stroked her hair as she wept. “None of that, now. You have a lot to offer, Natalie, and it’s only yourself that’s holding you back. I know your father’s suicide gutted you. It was a terrible thing. He was my only son, you know.” He patted her back as she hiccupped out a sob. “But life – and business, unfortunately – continues. We must soldier on.”

Natalie forced a watery smile and lifted her head. “You sound like the Queen.”

“Dashwood and James are in serious trouble. We owe money – taxes, a great deal of them – and I need help to straighten out the mess. Rhys is right to implement his changes. I don’t like them any more than you do.” He sighed, and he suddenly looked like what he was, a tired old man. “But he’s our only hope.”

Then we’re in serious trouble , she thought grimly, but didn’t say it. “He asked for my help today.”

“Did he? Good. I’ll speak to him about hiring you on and putting you in that small office next to his.” He picked up the telephone. “Now, I’m ending this tabloid nonsense. I won’t have you or your mother bothered by reporters.”

Natalie kissed his papery cheek. “Thanks, grandfather. I love you masses.”

“I love you too, you cheeky girl. Run along, now.”

She paused at the study door. “I’ll need new clothes if I’m to look like a proper businesswoman, won’t I?”

He regarded her sternly. “Natalie, I’ve already allowed you to get your ‘Peony’ handbag—”

“Poppy,” she corrected him. “It’s a ‘Poppy’ handbag.”

“—but I must reiterate that we cannot afford these sorts of expenditures any longer. I’m sure you can find something suitable to wear from within your own overstuffed closet.”

She sighed. “Oh, very well. I suppose I might unearth something, even if it’s last season… It’s just so dreary, practising all this economy. I’m not used to it.”

“I know it’s difficult. But if we do our part, and live more frugally, and if Rhys Gordon makes good on his promise to turn things around, things will improve.”

“I hope you’re right.” Scepticism coloured her voice. “But you have far more faith in Mr. Gordon than I do.” She smiled and waggled her fingers. “Goodnight, grandfather.”

“Goodnight, my dear. Don’t forget your mother’s birthday luncheon in the tearoom on Monday. Eleven o’clock sharp. And don’t be late!” he called out after her.

When she’d gone, Sir Richard took a pill out of his pillbox, his hand trembling slightly, and swallowed it with a grimace. Blood pressure pills…angina pills…pills to help him sleep and pills to keep him alert. It was a dreadful thing, to have to take so many damned pills.

But as he pressed the box closed, a smile curved his lips. He would sleep well tonight, with or without his pills.

Natalie would be sorted, at last. That was one worry he could cross off his list.

Chapter 8

“Keeley,” Dominic ventured as he tossed the last carrier bag from the day’s shopping on her sofa, “how about loaning me some cash? To tide me over until the tour starts.”

“How much?”

He flung himself on the sofa. “Oh, I dunno. A couple of hundred?”

“Two hundred quid?” She shrugged and reached for her handbag. “OK.”

Dominic let out a snort. “Two hundred quid? You must be joking.” He thrust a cigarette in his mouth. “No, I meant two hundred thousand. Although I suppose,” he mused thoughtfully as he reached in his pocket for a lighter, “I could just about manage on a hundred.”

“You’re the one who must be joking!” Keeley snapped. “And put that bloody cigarette out! I told you, no smoking in here.”

With a muttered apology, he took the cigarette out, unlit, and tossed it aside. He looked at her, one brow raised expectantly. “So, what do you say?”

“Dominic, we’ve been engaged for three weeks and you want me to hand over two hundred thousand pounds, just like that?”

“Well, Porsches and ’57 Strats are expensive,” he said defensively. “And it’s not like you can’t spare it.”

“That’s not the point, is it? I’m your fiancée, not your banker!”

“We’ll be married soon,” he pointed out. “So what’s yours is mine, and what’s mine is—” he waved his hand “—whatever.”

She snorted. “Bit of a bad deal, that, since all you have are debts. You go through money like a coke addict through blow. Look, Dominic, just be more frugal. Sell one of your Porsches, and you’ve got the cash you need. Problem sorted.”

Dominic scowled. Plainly there was to be no financial aid forthcoming from the Keeley front. Fucking hell.

Late that afternoon, Cherie James heard the front door open and slam shut. She looked up from the courgette she was slicing for dinner and called out, “Hannah? Come here, please.”